by Tracey Ward
“No, but he loves drama and he loves to sulk. And he loves to hate Eve.”
“That’s true.”
“You can’t get mad at Samantha for not hating her,” Mia tells him. “They were friends. Good friends. It’d be like asking me to hate Greer. I love her. I could never hate her.”
“Aw,” I sing, leaning in to hug her.
“If Greer did to someone what Eve did,” he tells Mia, “you’d have every right to hate her.”
“But I wouldn’t.”
“That’s because you’re loyal.”
I take hold of Cam’s arm, pulling him in close. “I love you. More than anyone. And I think you’re an amazing man and an incredible friend.”
“And good looking,” he reminds me. “Don’t forget good looking.”
“Godlike. It’s stunning and distracting. Women swoon at your feet.”
“Thank you.”
“But you’re being a dick.” He growls in annoyance. I shake him, or at least I try to. He’s twice my size. It’s hard. “Stop being a dick and see it from her side. We all need jobs. No one can afford to be without work. You’re taking opportunities, she’s taking hers. You have to let this slide. You don’t have to be happy for her, but maybe don’t be a jerk about it either. Be neutral. Switzerland. Everybody loves Switzerland.”
“They have great chocolate,” Mia agrees sleepily.
“And bank accounts.”
“And Alps.”
“And watches.”
“And weed.”
I frown. “That’s Amsterdam, I think.”
“Isn’t Amsterdam in Sweden?”
“Switzerland.”
“The Netherlands,” Cam corrects.
Mia looks between us slowly, her expression completely lost. “What are we talking about?”
I pat her arm. “Nothing. Go to sleep.”
“Okay.” She lowers her head onto the bar, her hair falling around her face like a curtain.
Cam takes a deep breath, his big chest expanding and falling with frustration. Finally, he nods, lowering his face to mine. He kisses me gently on the forehead. “You guys will get each other home safe, right?”
“No doubt!” Mia shouts into the bar.
Cam looks at her pointedly. “You want help with this?”
I blow a raspberry. “Nah, I got her. Don’t worry about us. Go. Be Swiss.”
“Cheese.”
I point at him excitedly. “Yes!”
“I’m calling you a cab,” Cam says, already dialing as he backs toward the door. “Hang by the windows. Don’t hit the sidewalk until you see it pull up.”
“Yes, Dad,” I mock sweetly.
“Good girl. Stay safe. It’s dangerous out there.”
I snort. “You don’t have to tell me that.”
“Right.”
“What?” Mia slurs.
I pat her gently on the back of the head. “Wave goodbye to the nice man.”
We wave in unison to Cam. He laughs as he jogs toward the door, chasing after Samantha. If he doesn’t catch her, he’ll find her at home. And if she doesn’t throw a toaster or something at his head, they’ll make up. I’ve seen them fight before. It can be vicious but it’s always brief. A little part of me is jealous of them. Of the friendship they have. Cam and I are tight, but there’s history between the two of them. There’s a string that connects them that feels so unbreakable. It’s a type of safety I’ve never known and my heart hurts for wanting it.
“I need water.”
I smile at Mia, nodding in agreement. “I think you’re right. But let’s get it at your place, okay? If you fall asleep on this bar, I can’t carry you out of here.”
“Cam will do it.”
“Cam just left.”
“We’re screwed.”
“Yep.”
It takes me about twenty minutes to get Mia home and in bed. The cab waits for me as I run her up to her place, toss her on her bed, and drop a bottled water on her nightstand. I even pre-open the cap because I’m a stellar-fucking-friend like that. She mutters thank you and goodbye, already falling asleep as I close her apartment door behind me. It takes another ten minutes to get myself home, and when we pull up outside my building, I feel the night catching up with me. I’m exhausted from the stress of the day waiting for my appointment with Jace and his crew. I’m still reeling from my conversation with him, from the reality of being in the same room with a global star, and I’m trying really hard not to think about how it felt physically being near him. The sight of his tall, lean frame at the end of that hall calling out to me in more ways than one. I was nervous being near him. Not just because he is who he is or the fact that he looks like he’s made of money, but because of the energy around him. It’s pulsing and vibrant, bottled lightning that wants so desperately to explode. And part of me wanted to see it happen. I want to see the animal he keeps caged behind his eyes. I want to hear its growl. I want to feel its claws cutting across my skin. It’s teeth sinking into my neck, my pulse racing inside his mouth.
You need to get laid, I think to myself as I climb the stairs to the third floor. My keys jingle in my hand, echoing off the walls around me. I count the steps as I go, willing myself to calm with each step.
One, two, three… breathe in… four, five, six… breathe out… seven, eight, nine… stop picturing him naked… ten, eleven, twelve… he’s a job… thirteen, fourteen, fifteen… he doesn’t want to—
“Fuck you!” Cam growls.
I stumble on the last step to the landing. My shin cracks against the edge, sending a sharp sting through my bones. I drop down onto the step with my leg in my hands, my breath hissing through my teeth.
“Fuck me, fuck me,” a woman chants on the other side of the door. Her voice is muffled and strained, but it sounds a little bit like Samantha. “Yeah. Just like that. Fuck that pussy, baby! Show it how much you hate it!”
I cock my head, squinting as I listen; like that ever helped anyone hear better.
Turns out I don’t need much help. The entire building can probably hear them shouting at each other.
“Oh God, yes, Cam!”
“You fucking bitch! I’m gonna come!”
“Come inside me! I wanna feel you coming inside my pussy! Yes! Yes!”
“Shit,” I whisper into my palm.
I listen with horror and a little bit of guilt as they finish. As they scream at each other, the sound of a fist pounding on the wall with satisfaction. I’ve heard Cam come before. We’ve lived together for two years, most of which he was with Eve. I know his moves, and this fist pounding thing is one of them. His knuckles will be raw tomorrow, but he’ll be loose. Relaxed. Maybe even happy.
But not if he opens the door and finds me sitting here listening to him and Samantha. I doubt either one of them will be happy about that.
I hurry back down the stairs, my shin screaming in pain. I run out the door onto the sidewalk just as I hear the squeak of the door opening upstairs. Samantha is leaving and I need to be out of sight. Lucky for me, there’s a dumpster on the side of the building. It smells like death but still I cower behind it.
A few seconds later the outer door to our building bangs shut. I peek around the edge of the rusted blue bin. Samantha’s back is to me, her blond hair whipping in the wind blowing up the street. Something’s different about her. Something about what she’s wearing. As I watch her walk away, I struggle to remember if she had her hair up or down at the bar. Was she wearing heals? A black skirt?
Was she a couple inches shorter than I remember?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jace
I pour myself another whiskey. Three fingers because why fuck around? “You run the background checks?!”
“Stop yelling, I’m right here.”
I glance over my shoulder to find Grant parking himself in one of the club chairs next to the window. Central Park is lit up behind him, the city glowing in the distance.
I hold up the decanter, shaking the l
iquid inside invitingly. Grant shakes his head. His eyes are disapproving but his lips are sealed tight.
“You ran them?” I ask again, setting the heavy crystal decanter down.
“Yeah, on all of them. They came back clean. Couple of them have some serious credit card debt, but that’s pretty standard for just about anyone these days. Although, one of them doesn’t have a credit history at all.”
“Who?”
“Greer Madsen.”
I take a sip of my drink, hiding my intense interest inside the glass. “Really? How’d she manage that?”
“I don’t know, but it’s entirely un-American.”
“She doesn’t have a cell phone either.”
Grant laughs in amazement. “How? My cat has a cell phone.”
“I don’t know. Maybe she can’t afford one.”
“I’d go hungry before I’d go without my phone.”
“Right? I asked if she’s an alien.”
“Outer space or illegal?”
“Space was implied.”
“What’d she say?”
“No.”
“Of course she did.” He grunts as he reaches for a stack of files on the coffee table. “They always do. But if she’s not an alien, how does she only have two addresses to her name?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he pulls her file out of the stack, handing it to me, “she only has one address attached to her name before the one she’s at now, and she’s only been there for about two years.”
I fall back into the seat across from him. I balance my glass on my leg, opening the folder with her information. I glance over it quickly. There’s not much here. “Where was she before that?”
“Here, in New York. In the slums.”
“So she lived with her parents in the same place her whole life.” I shrug, already closing the file. “Big deal.”
“Her first address was registered with her school. One she dropped out of when she was thirteen. Then her apartment building was condemned two years later.”
“When she was fifteen,” I muse, doing the math. “Two years where she is now, that means she was eighteen when she moved in. So where was she for those three years in between?”
“Not a clue, but you know what it looks like, right?”
“Alien abduction. I knew it.”
“No,” Grant replies seriously. “She’s a runaway.”
My smirk falls from my lips into my lap. “Are you for real?”
“There are a lot of them in New York. It’s not that surprising.”
“Shit.” I scowl at her small file, somehow smaller than her. Everything about her is light. Fragile. It makes me sick to think how a girl like her survived on the streets.
It makes me even sicker to think we might have to cut her from the show because of it.
I shake my head, refusing to buy into it. “No way. She’s a trained performer. You don’t pick that up on the streets.”
“There’s a lot of talent in the gutters.”
“Jesus, man,” I scoff.
“Do you want to have a real discussion about this or do you want sugar?”
I pick up my drink. “Real,” I mutter reluctantly into the glass.
“It’s not just New York. It’s the same in L.A.. There are a lot of talented performers – all of them scraping by working on the streets and dodging the cops. If I’m right, Greer is one of the lucky ones to use her talent to get her off the streets.”
“What about the guy she lives with? Cam. Was he a ghost two years ago too?”
“Oh no,” Grant pronounces emphatically. He pulls another file from the stack. It’s much thicker than Greer’s. “He’s been on the board his whole life. Youngest of two boys. Wealthy parents. Liberals. They’re very supportive of the arts, especially their son’s. They own the apartment he’s living in with Greer along with one their eldest son, Ben, is living in over in France.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a painter. He’s terrible.”
I tap my finger against the side of the glass, staring at Greer’s file. “How long have Cam and Greer known each other?”
“That doesn’t come up when you run a social security number.”
“But the level of Ben’s talent as a painter did?”
“I Googled him. I was curious.”
I smirk at him. “You wanted to see if he was as hot as his brother.”
“Yes. And he is.” Grant shifts irritably in his seat. “He’s also straight. And engaged. But I can do some more digging to find out how long Cam has known Greer, if you really want to know.”
“You’d have to hire an investigator, wouldn’t you?”
“I know a guy.”
I curl my lip over my teeth, unhappy with the idea. “They agreed to the background check. Not this.”
“Up to you, Ryker.”
I run my finger across my lip, staring into nothing. The smell of my whiskey burns from the cup in my hand up into my nose. Down my throat. I consider downing its contents in one gulp before grabbing my phone. There are a lot of numbers I could call, even in New York. A lot of ways to get to sleep tonight. To avoid this whole fucking mess that’s only getting messier.
“It doesn’t matter,” I mutter distractedly.
Grant doesn’t respond. I can feel his frustration, though. The way he gets when I won’t make a choice. He doesn’t care whether I want to dig deeper into Greer’s life or not, he just wants me to commit one way or another.
“Do you want to bring her into the show or not?” Grant asks, his voice laden with patience. With persistence.
I flip the page on the folder. In the back I find her headshot. It’s good. Professional. I wonder how she paid for it. Was it a gift from Cam or did she work her ass off to pay for it with three jobs and blood, sweat, and tears? A weird feeling of jealousy rolls through me when I imagine the former. A possessive surge in my gut that isn’t quenched when I take a long sip of my whiskey.
“Yeah,” I tell Grant, snapping her file closed. I hand it back to him. “She’s good. Lock her in. Cam too.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’re worried about their director.” It’s not a question. I’m worried too.
Grant sighs. “Rendezvous was a last shot at notoriety for him and it’s failed. He might try to ransom his actors.”
“Pay it.”
“I don’t know what ‘it’ is yet.”
“You’ll know if it’s too much. If you’re good with it, so am I. Pay him off. Free ‘em up.”
Grant shakes his head doubtfully. “We have to stop paying everyone off. First your dad and now this director.”
“I doubt the director will ask for half as much as my dad.”
“You’re still not producing anything new and all of your tour dates have been cancelled since the scandal. Fresh funds aren’t coming in.”
“The old royalties are still there. I’m not exactly poor, Grant,” I remind him irritably.
“By your standards, you’re headed there.”
“Pay. It,” I command clearly, sick of the argument.
I expect Grant to be irritated, but instead he looks relieved. He sits back in his seat, a small smile on his face. “If that’s what you want.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Good. I’ll do it then.”
“Thanks.”
He nods, not saying anything, but his body language speaks volumes. He’s happy. I’ve made him that way by being a dick, but I was a decisive dick. And that makes all the difference.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Greer
The first day rehearsing for Jace Ryker’s show is surreal. Cam and I get to the studio space early only to find out that we’re the last ones to show. Three other dancers are already here. Clara from Surrendered isn’t a surprise considering Samantha just slid into her spot. Next to her is a beautiful girl with black hair and ebony skin who I can’t name but I’ve seen her before. She was
a star ballerina as a kid but she got too tall, too broad, and the culture forgot about her. Now she works a solid spot in Incidental Intersection, one I very much doubt she gave up the way Clara let her spot slip away.
Luckily Cam is quick to introduce himself. I quickly find out that the only other guy in the show is short, ginger, and his name is Tim. The ballerina’s name is Naomi.
The room is bright with summer sun pouring in, reflecting off the mirrors dominating the longest wall. An oak ballet barre cuts across the wall, the wood the same warm tone as the scuffed floors. In the corner is a small mountain of duffel bags pressing up against a squat, black stereo. Danny is there perching an iPod in the dock on top. He smiles when he sees me.
“You ready to work, lindeza?” he calls across the room.
I smile. “That depends. What does lindeza mean?”
“In English you’d say it means ‘pretty’.”
“Then yes,” I assure him, dropping my bag down with the rest. “Pretty came prepared.”
“You remember the steps?”
“Do you?”
He laughs, waving me to the front of the room. “Let’s find out.”
I hurry to stand next to him. We face ourselves in the mirror, but I’m watching him. I’m waiting for his cue.
He pulls a small, black remote from his pocket, hitting PLAY. The room fills with the opening beats to a song I could sing in my sleep. The one I danced to for Danny in the hotel room. The same one I sang in the hallway for Jace.
My heart hammers in my chest when I remember that moment. I try not to think about it because it’s seriously just too much for me. Dancing for him to his music, standing alone in that hallway with him and all of his hotness, I felt powerful. Like I had his full attention; this man who commands entire arenas of screaming fans. He was at my mercy. He was focused on me and only me, and it’s a drug I could happily OD on. It was a highlight in my life. Another moment in his that’s probably already been forgotten, but I’ll remember it forever. Just like I’ll always remember the steps to this dance.
Danny and I launch into the routine together, falling in perfect sync. He watches me in the mirror. His face is intense, his eyes searching for flaws, and I do my damnedest not to give him any. Three minutes later as the song fades out slowly, I’m breathing heavy and sweating down my spine, but I’m smiling.