Boys and Burlesque

by Ripley Proserpina

  I sat up. “You must have numbers,” I said. “Steven and I will want to look that over. And what about our involvement?”

  “You’ll have producer credit, as well as performer credit. Steven will get producer credit as well. We have a ten-year contract our lawyers have drawn up, at the end of which there will be the option to re-sign or go our separate ways. If you choose to go on your own, you’ll keep the producer credits but will be responsible for organizing your own tours. We will, however, consider working out a deal based on startup costs for you to take over one of the cabarets.”

  Holy shit. I hadn’t seen the fine print, but on its face, the deal was more than fair. Way more than fair.

  “Let’s talk about your injury,” Manuel said.

  The air was sucked out of my lungs, so it was Steven who spoke. “Okay.”

  “We need you for this to be successful,” he went on. “For the tour. None of this can happen if you can’t dance. Do you understand that? We’re counting on you being able to dance.”

  “But,” Angel interrupted, “you have time to heal. We don’t want you to rush. The doctors you’ve given us permission to speak to are all very positive, and your physical therapist can’t say enough of your work ethic.”

  “I understand.” It made sense. They needed Betty Belle to sell Belles of the Ball.

  Angela leaned forward. “I would love the opportunity to work with you. Belles of the Ball is an incredible show. I love your dancers. I love your choreography.”

  Her brown eyes were warm, and I found myself leaning forward in my chair. “Thank you.”

  Manuel passed a folder to Steven. “Have your lawyers take a look at it and let us know. We’re both very excited about the possibility of going into business together.”

  “Thank you.” Overwhelmed, I stood when they did and shook their hands. Steven accepted the folder and slid it into his briefcase when they left. He didn’t look at me as I put on my crutch, nor as we walked to the elevator and got to the street.

  Our car was waiting, but it wasn’t until we were inside that we turned to face each other.

  “Holy shit,” I said.

  Steven nodded, wiping his hand across his mouth. “Holy shit.” He opened the folder, eyes going wide. “Holiest of holy shits.”

  He picked up the paper and turned it around to show me the number on the front. “Our producer credit salaries.”

  “Steven.” I shook my head. “That can’t be right.”

  He nodded. “It’s right. I thought I misheard them. This is it. Betty. This is what we hoped for.”

  He was right. It was better than what we’d hoped for. Different. And better. I wanted to scream; I wanted to dance.

  I wanted to tell the boys. I yanked my purse into my lap and pulled out my phone.

  Betty: Had meeting. It was amazing! Meet me at my apartment! I sent it before I could stop myself. The only people besides Steven who would know how much this meant to me were the boys.

  Their responses were immediate. On our way.

  Squealing, I punched the air. “Steven!”

  He put his arm around my shoulders, dragged me against his side, and kissed the top of my head. “I know, Betty. I know.”

  Steven and I spent the rest of the ride trying to be cool and failing miserably. Every so often he’d nudge me. “Can you believe it?”

  I couldn’t. “What if—”

  “Don’t even finish that thought.” He snapped his fingers in my face. “You will dance again. It’s an injury, not a life sentence. You can do this.”

  I could do this. The faith he—and everyone else—had in me would just push me to make this a reality.

  The car slowed, turning to the underground garage. I went about getting my crutch ready. A couple more weeks and I’d be in a walking boot, and in a month, I’d be back on my foot.

  The boys were waiting by the elevator, Mike with them. Today we’d had Al and another guard, Nick.

  I opened the door, but before I could set a foot outside, the boys were there. “Congratulations!” Wes took me in his arms, holding me so tightly. It had been less than twenty-four hours since I’d seen them, but having them around me now, I couldn’t believe I’d gone that long.

  Wes drew back, kissing me gently, and I let him. I didn’t care that anyone else saw us, because I needed his kiss.

  “My turn.” Josh took my hand, pulling me toward him. In the distance, something slammed, like a garbage can had crashed into the concrete wall. I thought nothing of it, but Josh glanced up, frowning. “Let’s go inside.”

  Mike had his finger on the elevator button, so it was ready to go.

  There was another crash, different than the first, and Mike lunged for me. All at once, we were shoved toward the elevator. I tripped, but Josh was there, his arms going around me, cushioning my fall as metal hit metal and pieces of glass and concrete exploded around us.

  “Get inside,” Josh said, pushing me toward Mike. He was low, his hand outstretched. Glass shattered over my head, and the lights went out.

  “Josh!”

  He gave me a shove, and Mike’s hand wrapped around my wrist. He pulled me fast, dragging me over concrete into the elevator.

  My body reacted automatically. I fought him. “Josh!”

  Someone shut the elevator doors. The metallic ping echoed through the elevator as I gasped. “Open the doors.”

  Mike stood, thumb jammed on a button. I searched the faces of the people with me. Steven. Al. Nick. Mike. Landry. Brant.

  Al was on the phone, rattling off directions and something about a gun. I wobbled to my feet, using the door to brace myself. “Open the goddamn doors, Mike!” I pounded my fist against it, but he wouldn’t move his thumb, holding the doors closed. “Josh and Wes are out there!”

  “How long until the cops get here?” He ignored me, looking past me to Al. His face was pale, lips white.

  “Minutes,” Al answered.

  Fuck this. Throwing my body toward Mike, I tried to muscle him out of the way, but he easily overpowered me. With one hand around my waist, he spun me toward Landry. Lan caught me, holding me tight.

  “They’re out there.” Was it me who was sobbing? “Open the doors, Landry. Open the doors.”

  In response he just held me tighter. No one was listening to me. Everyone was fired. “Open the doors.” I repeated it over and over, praying that someone would listen.

  Sixty-Five

  Josh

  When the doors closed, the garage was bathed in darkness. I rolled, my training taking over automatically. I could hear Wes behind me, his breath pushing past his lungs, and then I heard nothing. His hand gripped my ankle, squeezing once. He was alive. Together, we belly crawled across the concrete toward the parked cars, noses toward the wall.

  Ping. Ping. Ping. Someone was shooting at the elevator. The bullets sparked off the metal doors, but I didn’t think they penetrated.

  Ping. Ping. Ping.

  She was safe.

  “Lan and Brant?” Wes’s voice was toneless in my ear.

  I turned. “Elevator.”

  Thank God. It was only us. Boots echoed through the garage. One set. I turned my head, locating the sound. It was coming from the same direction her car had. Whoever was shooting had probably followed her inside, sneaking under the door that opened to allow people to drive in.

  Something slammed in the direction of the elevator. Not from outside, though. Inside. I heard it, again and again, like someone was banging their fists on the doors.

  Wes started toward it, his body lurching toward the sound, but I stopped him, hand against his chest. “Wait.”

  Light suddenly flooded the space as the outside doors opened. Men swarmed inside, bulletproof vests on, guns drawn.

  If I stood, I’d get shot, so I ripped my shirt up, exposing my waist band and laid on the ground, hands outstretched.

  “Don’t move! Don’t move!”

  Head turned to Wes, I saw him in the same position. In secon
ds, we were handcuffed and jerked to our feet. Someone went in my pocket, pulling out my wallet, and I was dragged toward the light. “One shooter,” I told the cop dragging me toward the patrol cars. “Automatic weapon. Came from the direction of the outside automatic door.”

  “Garage clear!” another person yelled.

  The officer holding my cuffed hands didn’t answer, he just put me, headfirst, into a patrol car. I turned, staring at the building, waiting.

  Wes emerged a second later, a lot less compliant than I had been. He shouted at the officer, turning toward the garage. Wes was big, and the officer was struggling to keep him contained.

  He met my eyes, and I shook my head. Keep it together. His shoulders slumped, head drooping, like the fight had gone out of him, and they pulled him out of sight.

  I trained my gaze on the building. The most important person in the world was in there.

  And again, there was nothing I could do.

  Sixty-Six

  Betsy

  In the time it took for those doors to open, something inside me flipped off. I was underwater, drowning and unable to breathe.

  “The police are clearing the garage.” Mike’s voice filtered toward me, but I could barely comprehend what he was saying. “Are you hurt?”

  Landry pushed me back, just a little, and Brant appeared. His gaze raked my form, starting at my head and traveling down to my feet. Foot.

  “Scrapes.” His fingers were gentle on my forearms. I cataloged the tiny hurt, noting the burn that must have come from being dragged over the concrete. Brant stared at my head, picking away pieces of glass. “Little cuts. You’ll be okay.”

  The elevator jerked, moving. I shook my head. “No. We’re not going anywhere.” I’d given up fighting, but with the movement, I sprung. I smacked my fist against the “G” and “open door.”

  “Betsy, no!” Brant tried to stop me, but I was in the perfect place, right in front of the doors as they opened.

  I slid between them. Brant and Lan reached for me, Mike’s fingers almost got my wrist, but I was gone.

  Unfortunately, I was slow. I hadn’t made it two feet before two strong arms went around my waist and pushed me against the wall. Wildly, I bucked and pushed. “Josh!” I yelled. “Westin!”

  “For God’s sake, get back in the elevator.” Brant’s breath wafted through my hair. “Don’t fucking risk your life after Josh and Wes made sure you kept it.”

  Oh, God. Oh, God. They were dead.

  I couldn’t hold myself up. Brant tightened his hold, swinging me into his arms and back into the elevator. “Where are they?” I barely recognized my voice. “Brant.”

  “Two in custody,” Al said. “Mike?”

  “Get her upstairs. Clean those scrapes. We’ll be up.” Mike and Nick walked past me, and the doors closed before I could see what they were walking toward.

  “You call.” I fixed Mike with a stare. I meant business. “As soon as you know what has happened to Josh and Wes, you fucking call me. Got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he answered, and the doors shut.

  Steven was quiet, almost frozen, as the elevator began its ascent to my floor. I turned into Brant’s chest, wrapping my arms around his waist and then reaching for Lan. He came readily, plastering himself to my back and dropping his face to my shoulder. We stood there, offering each other the silent support of our presence until the doors opened.

  “Wait here,” Al said, withdrawing a gun from a holster I’d never noticed before. My security guards had guns? How had I not noticed that? It struck me how much I didn’t know. In my head, my security was to keep paparazzi at bay. This was way more serious.

  “Al has a baby on the way,” I whispered.

  Brant had moved me to the side of the elevator, using the doors to block anyone who might be looking out from my apartment.

  “Clear.” Al’s voice echoed down the corridor. Lan went out first, then me and Brant. I hobbled down the hall, feeling like I’d aged twenty years in twenty minutes.

  “Steven?” He stood by the elevator, head against the wall.

  “I need a minute.” His voice shook. “Alone.”

  Studying him, the way his hands trembled when he pulled out his phone, I nodded.

  “Okay.”

  Al was on his phone when we came in, but immediately went to the door and locked it once we were through.

  “I’ll tell her,” he said. “No signs of the shooter?” He listened, glancing at me and the boys before turning his back to us. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “Josh and Westin are in police custody,” he said as soon as he hung up. “They’re being escorted up.”

  “Are they okay?” I asked.

  “Superficial injuries only. Scrapes.”

  “And the shooter?” Landry asked. “He got away?”

  “There’s plenty of evidence left behind,” Al said. “The police are on it. But he escaped through an employee entrance. He was probably waiting there the whole time and came up behind us when we got out of the car.” He cleared his throat, running his hand down the back of his head. “I’m so sorry, Miss Belle.”

  It wasn’t his fault. “You’re okay, Al?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Let’s get these cleaned.” Brant touched my arm, reminding me of the scrapes. I turned toward him and wobbled. Fucking stupid fucking crutch. I leaned down, ripping the straps off. I’d fucking hop down the hall. Like he could read my mind, Brant lifted me up. “Come on.”

  Once we were in the bathroom, he sat me on the sink. Reaching past me to turn on the water, a sigh blasted out of him. Lan handed him a washcloth which he ran beneath the tap.

  “Let me see,” he said, voice barely audible.

  I held my arm so he could see the underside. The cotton was soft, and his touch was so light, I barely felt it. He stared at my arm, dabbing spots before he ran the cloth back under the water.

  “The other one,” he said.

  Lan pressed his hand onto my knee, crowding me. “It’s going to be okay.”

  Josh and Wes were alive, so yes, it would be. But they had come so close to getting hurt. To dying. I couldn’t live with that.

  “You should go,” I said. “Get far away from me until all of this is worked out.” Even as I said it, I knew they wouldn’t.

  Lan glared at me, shaking his head once. “Don’t ask it.”

  “I didn’t,” I replied, sucking in a breath when Brant found a particularly tender spot. “I told.”

  “We’re not leaving,” Brant said. “If we weren’t leaving before, we’re sure as hell not leaving now.”

  If they wouldn’t leave, they’d be at risk, just like I was. How was I supposed to protect them here? It was too big. There were too many people. With all the security, all the careful plans and precautions, someone had managed to shoot at me today.

  I didn’t blame Mike. He took his job seriously, and I knew he’d let no stone go unturned. He was going to beat himself up over this, no matter what I said.

  I was asking too much of him.

  I heard a crash in the other room. Brant and Lan slid in front of me, placing themselves in harm’s way.

  I couldn’t live with this.

  “Betsy?” It was Josh.

  I pushed Brant’s shoulder, trying to hop down. He spun, lifting me up and off the sink, and then steadied me on the floor.

  “Josh!” Lan opened the door in time for me to see Josh and Westin barreling down the hall toward me.

  A sob caught in my throat. They were alive. Dirty and dusty, with stains across their shirts and sweat streaking their faces, but alive.

  “Wes.” I held out my arms, barely able to balance on one foot. I wouldn’t have to, if I could just hold on for a second for them.

  Josh reached me first and lifted me into his arms. I kissed his cheeks, his neck. Anywhere I could reach. “Why did you do that?” I asked between kisses.

  I flung my arm around Wes’s neck and pulled him agains
t me. He dragged me out of Josh’s arms and backed me into the wall, lifting me so I fit against the front of his body.

  “You can stay here and watch, or you can give us space. Either way, she’s mine right now.” Wes sounded nothing like the man I knew. He didn’t look like him either. His hair was stuck up at all angles, and his blue eyes were wild as they trailed over my face.

  “Al!” I called. “Please go in the hallway.”

  “You got it.”

  It was just us now.

  Wes looked over to his friends. I could feel their gazes, hot and heavy. My face was flushed, too, my body throbbing in preparation for whatever would happen next. I didn’t care if they watched me with him.

  I never wanted to be away from them again.

  The past—from Shawville to San Diego—was just that. Past. I could forgive and forget anything if it gave me another day with these boys. When I thought about how close I’d come to losing Josh and Wes… I held onto him tighter.

  “I need you to forgive me,” Wes growled. “It’s a selfish fucking thing, but I can’t go another day without it. I can’t die without it.” He kissed me, desperate and painfully. Our teeth knocked, lips bruised.

  “I’ve forgiven you.” It hurt me down to my soul to think about him dying without knowing that. Moments ago, he’d thought he could die, and the only thing he wanted was my forgiveness? He had it. “We were kids, and it’s over now. We’re together. There’s only the future now.”

  He drew back, staring at me hard. His lower lip was swollen. I brushed my thumb against it, and he caught it, biting gently on the pad of my thumb. “I love you.”

  My breath caught. I wanted to say it back. So what was stopping me?

  I took stock of myself—did a real deep dive into my feelings and all I came up with was pride.

  It was my fucking pride keeping me from forgiving them. From loving them.

  Shutting my eyes, I took a breath. For eight years, I’d worn armor. It was impenetrable and heavy as fuck. I slept in it. Danced in it.