Dirty Secrets

by Landish, Lauren

  She shakes her head like I don’t get it. “No, not like this,” she says, shaking her hand toward the wall of windows I currently have set to opaque so as not to allow the distractions of the club’s pre-opening activities to invade this moment between us. “I mean, a real dancer. Ever since I was a little girl, it was all I ever wanted. To be up on stage, dancing and performing, creating those moments for the audience and sharing in their experience. And I worked my ass off for it too, hours of class and practice everyday, stretching until I cried, working until my toes bled and then bandaging them and continuing. It was all I thought about, dreamed about. It was everything.”

  This is nothing unknown to me, but it is fresh from her lips, so I let her continue. “And what happened to divert you from that dream?”

  Allie raises an eyebrow, curious. “How do you know I didn’t just give it up, that I didn’t get so tired of the constant drive to be better that I just walked away?”

  I give her a narrowed-eyed look, showing her a little bit of what I know of her past. “Because if you decided you didn’t love it, you wouldn’t be teaching ballet to the next generation. You wouldn’t be performing in small community theater ballet productions. And you certainly wouldn’t light up like a star just from talking about it. But you do all those things. Even as you talk about how hard it was, I can tell you miss it. So, what happened? Something to do with that scar on your ankle?”

  She huffs out a woeful sigh, looking down at her leg, though her ankle is hidden by her jeans and boots. “Not quite. Or at least, not at first. The real problem was puberty.”

  I can’t help the bark of laughter that escapes at the unexpected answer. “What?”

  She smiles, though it’s small and sad. “Well, several things, but that was the real trigger. Ballerinas are small, thin, light wisps of women, and I was until I turned sixteen. Luckily, or maybe unluckily, I was a late bloomer, but when I blossomed, I did so in a big way.”

  She holds her hands out in front of her chest like she’s grasping huge melons, not the delectable full handfuls of breasts she actually possesses, which are in proportion to her curvy hips, giving her an hourglass shape.

  “Almost overnight, I went from straight and thin to curvy, and no matter what I did to fight it, Mother Nature had other plans for my body. And I fought hard for years . . . diets, chest compression with elastic bandages, hours spent figuring out how to angle my hips so that I was never square to the directors, trying to mask it. I had to give up so much as the guys stopped wanting to do partner work with me. I knew I couldn’t be the Prima, but I thought I could still at least be one of the cast, one of the ensemble.”

  I flush with anger. This precious being, not the center of attention? Insanity. Then again, the dance world has always been insane to me.

  “Eventually, it caught up to me. I hadn’t eaten anything significant in days. I’d been on a broth and celery cleanse before a performance, and I was weak but pushing through. I’d overstretched, but I’d been so pleased with my progress that I didn’t consider that my body couldn’t keep up. I did a move where I was supposed to land in a deep plié with my feet turned out, and I felt a pop. I collapsed to the stage and passed out from the pain.”

  My gut churns at her words, the story so very different from the dry words on paper I’d gotten in her background report. I can imagine a younger her, driven and hard-working, refusing to accept no for an answer from anyone, least of all herself.

  She is still determined, but it’s softened with a cynical acceptance that sometimes your best still isn’t good enough, and perhaps now I understand why.

  “And that was the ankle?”

  She nods, rolling her right foot unconsciously. “Two ligaments, some space-age NASA stuff I can’t pronounce . . . and that was the end of my Sugar Plum Fairy dreams.”

  Her voice is so heartbreaking, so sad, I want to gather her into my arms and reassure her that it doesn’t matter. At least to me, it doesn’t.

  “I’m so very sorry, Allison. That sounds awful. Truly.”

  I don’t try to temper the words with useless reassurances that she knows are untrue. I offer my true feeling of remorse that her dream was snatched from her.

  She waves her hand, dismissing even the bare-boned words. “Like they say, the show must go on. I did months of physical therapy to make sure my ankle was strong and healthy again, but the real work was in here.”

  She touches her fingertip to her temple, and I give her a questioning look. “Three months of inpatient treatment at an eating disorder clinic and then years of therapy after, but I came out healthy. Better than I’d been in years, maybe ever.”

  A lightbulb goes off in my head, and I realize what brought her to Petals in the first place. It wasn’t just dance.

  “Your medical bills. You’d said when you began that you were paying off medical bills. You took them on yourself.”

  She nods, wounded but proud. “Of course. I didn’t feel like my parents should have to pay for all that after paying top-dollar for my ballet for so many years. Dancing here has given me a way to pay off the hospital faster than I would’ve been able to with a desk job.”

  I nod, numbers whirling in my head, and though I know I could easily wipe her debt clean, I also know she would never allow it.

  “But with a feature gig contract here plus your classes and private events at Encore, you should make considerable progress, right?”

  She taps her nose and smiles as she points at me, grinning. “That’s the plan. Taking over the world next week.”

  Her casual sass is enchanting, an uncommon behavior from most people when they sit alone with me. I’m accustomed to nerves or machismo, wolf tickets and bragging, fear and ego, and sometimes flat-out manipulative desire.

  But Allie is none of those things. She’s simply herself, and I want to bask in her authenticity and soak up the wholesome goodness of her soul that some might dismiss because of her job but is so readily obvious to anyone who takes the time to actually speak with her. I also like that while she may be deeply unsure about the ethics of what I do, at least on the surface, she is relaxing around me, talking and sharing with ease as we chat like two regular people, though the reality is that only one of us is ‘normal’.

  “What about your family? Do they know how you’re paying the medical bills?”

  She rolls her eyes like an exasperated teenager who just got asked a stupid question.

  “Yes, and of course, they hate it. Which I understand, because who wants their kid to grow up to be a stripper? I definitely think they expected something a bit classier from me after all those hours at a ballet barre, but all things considered, they don’t give me much of a hard time.”

  The thought of her parents criticizing her at all frustrates me, but I can understand their conflict, both wanting her to fly and satisfy her obvious need for the stage, while at the same time wanting to protect her and keep her selfishly to themselves.

  “Class is not in what one chooses to do for a living, Allie,” I reassure her, seeing the question hiding behind her eyes. After all, I’ve seen almost everything her body has to display. Many men would disrespect the woman inside at that point. But then again, I am not many men. “It is how you carry yourself, the way you stay true to your own compass. And you have done that beautifully, through both adversity and privilege, with a refined elegance that has shone through. In the end, you will shine like the star I’ve seen from the first moment we met.”

  The silence that follows is deafening, her cheeks pink with pleasure as the words sink in. I give her the moment to truly hear them, hoping she can feel the genuineness of them.

  A knock on the door surprises me, which is a dangerous thing. I am always aware and alert of my surroundings, but while I’ve talked with Allie, listening to her story, I’ve been immersed completely in her.

  It could have been a threat, though they likely wouldn’t have knocked and would have to be ninjas to get past my outside security. Fortun
ately, it is merely our dinner delivery.

  We move over to the casual seating area of my office, and I unpack the bag of food, setting each dish on the coffee table. Allie foregoes the couch in favor of sitting on the floor. I stare at her for a moment and then follow her lead.

  I don’t know that I’ve ever sat on the floor to eat, not even as a child, unless it was at a Japanese restaurant. My family was always more formal, more about rules and expectations of propriety. But sitting here this way feels oddly intimate, and I find that I enjoy being this casual with Allie, sharing a meal in my office at Petals, a place I rarely relax.

  We’re sitting close, just the small piece of glass holding our food between us, but the food delivery gave us a bit of a break, letting each of us reset from the deep conversation and the confidences Allie shared with me.

  Dinner is delicious, with the anticipated lasagna and soup as mouth-watering and perfect as I could hope for. However, I pay little attention to the food, listening aptly instead as Allie gushes over her plans for Encore, going so far as to give me the breakdown of her business model for the pole dancing fitness classes.

  The excitement and joy at the new undertaking is obvious as she speaks, lighting her from within with a warm glow that only serves to somehow make her that much more stunning.

  “I mean, I know that fitness crazes come and go, but the big thing is striking when the iron’s hot. If I can get the women in there for the sexy classes, they’ll be happier and healthier. A bit of ‘I am woman, hear me roar,’ if you know what I mean. But most of all, I’m going to keep it fun for them, and then we’ll . . .”

  She’s like a fountain of energy, words, and ideas, and as she rambles on, I find myself inordinately relaxed by the buzz she creates with her speech, her presence, with just . . . her.

  Chapter 5

  Allie

  “Beautiful, Isabella! Now reach through the top of your head and down through your toes. Find your length . . . yes,” I encourage, seeing the already tall girl transform before my very eyes.

  She’d already been a well-trained dancer when she joined my classes, but her progress has been rather phenomenal, if I do say so myself. She’s at that awkward age where girls sometimes begin to try to hide away their inner light as their bodies become unfamiliar and seemingly strange. I’m bound and determined to make sure she lets her light shine like a beacon, so bright that others can’t help but acknowledge her.

  The music ends, and the whole group takes their curtseying bow, some graceful as swans and some still hatchlings finding their poise, but I applaud them, one and all.

  “Great job today, ladies. I’ll see you all on Wednesday, when we begin the next set of choreo. Make sure you do your home warmups in between now and then, and listen to the music.”

  There’s a chorus of ‘Thanks, Miss Allie!’ and ‘’Bye!’ from the gaggle of girls, and they leave in a mass of buns, duffel bags, and booties. It’s the flight of the tweeners, and I can’t help but grin as I watch them go.

  My next class is a bit easier, ‘Baby Ballet,’ which is mostly just jumping around and having fun to music with little kids between the ages of three and five. It’s physically fun but mentally easy, which is a good thing since my mind begins to lose focus and wander back to my ‘dinner’ with Dominick.

  He thought he was being so slick, but I know a date when I’m on it. There’s been tension between us for months, going back to even before the shooting. And since that awful night? Even more sparks.

  I think he honestly believes he is subtle, that I’m unaware of his eyes tracking me at the club. I know he’s had people watching me as well, and while I haven’t said anything to him about it, I do know that every time I go to Petals, I’m given a security detail on Secret Service levels going and coming out of the parking lot. He’s protective of all the girls, but with me, there’s just a little extra care.

  Dom doesn’t think I notice, but I do. I see everything. I watch him too . . . the way his broad shoulders sweep through the club and people move like parting seas before him, the way every word from his mouth is calculated and carefully considered, the dominant aura that surrounds him leaving no doubt of who’s in charge.

  I knew he was a boss long before I knew he was The Boss, and I was attracted to him then.

  I’d held back from any flirtation for the longest time out of respect for his rule, though we’d made eyes at each other so many times I thought I’d combust just from the heat of his gaze.

  It’s part of who he is. I had enough pretty guys with bodies carved from stone and perfect faces when I was in the dance world. Dominick’s handsome, yes, but it’s in a dark, brooding, intellectual way. His body’s not just strong but also stocky, his shoulders broad and thick, an intellectual savage, I would say.

  For months, we circled each other, always wondering which of us was going to take that first step toward something more. Spoiler alert—it was never going to be me. I’m crazy, but not that crazy. And I think he was already close to giving in and making a move, but our little dance took a very abrupt ninety-degree turn when the shit hit the fan a few months ago and my world was sent flying totally off-kilter.

  It forced me to recognize all the little signs that I overlooked, the hints that I didn’t bother to add up because I was too busy crushing on my hot, slightly older, dominant boss. But now that I’m forced to acknowledge just who Dominick truly is, he honestly scares me a little bit. The fact that he’s not of the Mob but actually is The Mob tears at me.

  He’s not someone to mess with, and I’m not sure I should involve myself with him. But with everything on the table, more or less, I can’t help but admit that the twinge of danger he has only adds to his charms, attracting me more even as my mind wars with the stupidity of it.

  He’s the walking, talking, sexy epitome of the bad boy you know you should stay away from but want desperately anyway, even knowing it’s going to end poorly. And even knowing the risk, I couldn’t help but say yes to our dinner-not-date, despite the pretty blatant and cheesy segue.

  Surprisingly, Dominick was easy to open up to about my past. I’d told him things I hadn’t said aloud in years, and even then, only to a therapist. Perhaps even more shocking was the lighter conversation while we ate. He’d listened attentively to my gushing plans for the business with Encore, never once making me think he was bored of my excitement or thought my plans were silly.

  If anything, he seemed quietly supportive, making insightful commentary and offering advice that actually helped my thoughts.

  He also hadn’t zeroed in on my eating after I’d dropped the eating disorder bombshell. It’s not exactly top-secret or something I’m ashamed of, and I have told friends and boyfriends before, but there’s always that adjustment period where they’re suddenly hyper-aware of everything I eat.

  Not Dominick. He was already hyper-aware of me, and that little factoid in my history didn’t add or detract from his attentiveness.

  But his willingness to move our orbiting interest in one another into a different path is both terrifying and thrilling. He’s not a man to get involved with casually or thoughtlessly, but I guess on some complicated level, I’ve already been entangled with him.

  Lord knows, I haven’t dated, or dined, with anyone else in ages. It’s not because I haven’t been asked. I can barely go a shift at Petals without some guy dropping a note with his phone number or something on stage along with his money. Some have even had the guts to approach me in person. I’ll give them credit, considering how protective Dominick’s security is over me.

  But I know where my heart lies and didn’t want to disrespect Dominick by giving the guys more than a polite refusal, even if Dom was keeping his distance. That time seems to be over now, I think, and though my stomach has been doing little backflips that have nothing to do with the delicious food we shared, my heart races.

  My thoughts are interrupted by a little voice at my side, and I look down to see Cindy, one of the five-year-olds, lo
oking anxious and doing the pee-pee dance at the same time.

  “Miss Allie? Isn’t class over? The big hand is past the one again?”

  I shake myself out of my reverie and glance at the clock, seeing that it’s 7:08, eight minutes after class was supposed to end.

  “Oh, thank you, Cindy. Yes, class dismissed. Thank you for the extra work tonight. Beautiful job, everyone.”

  They shuffle out, and luckily, I don’t see any upset moms from keeping them over time. I clean up the studio quickly, making sure all the lights are off. The only other classes tonight are advanced classes that Donna’s teaching to her students.

  I give Donna a wave as I pass by her studio, where she’s stretching out and preparing herself for teaching. Outside, the lot is well-lit, but there are still darker shadows where SUVs, trucks, or just the arrangement of poles mean the light doesn’t quite reach.

  I scan my surroundings like I’m supposed to, but I’m still surprised when I see Cindy’s dad, Mr. Duncan, sitting on the trunk of his car, his head in his hands. He watched his daughter’s class today, but . . . where is she?

  “Mr. Duncan? Sir, are you okay?” His head pops up, and I see him sweep a quick finger under each eye, making me think he’s crying or at least tearing up for some reason.

  He stutters a bit and hops off the trunk, clearing his throat. “Oh, Allie! Sorry, I thought I was alone.”

  “No problem. You okay?”

  He nods, but it seems more like he’s trying to convince himself than telling the truth.

  “Yeah . . . we’re going through some stuff, and watching Cathy drive off with Cindy, knowing they’re going home and I’m heading to one of those extended-stay studio hotels is rough. I just miss her.”

  Understanding dawns, and I feel my heart go out to him. I don’t know what the issue is between him and his wife, but the man’s obviously in pain. And those extended-stay places suck.