I'll Do Anything

by Danielle Bourdon

  I trusted Ramsey one hundred percent—which was something I couldn't say for Jasper at the moment.

  Rounding a corner, lost in thoughts of Jasper and the past and issues of trust, I glimpsed a cluster of elaborately costumed showgirls ahead. They were gathered in a circle around someone I couldn't quite see past the sweep of ostrich feathers.

  Great. Dancers. Otherwise known as The Women Who Don't Know I Exist. Most of the showgirls were utter snobs, as far as I was concerned. Maybe they had to be to work under Adrian, who did most of the hiring for the job. Either way, I was happy to ignore them while they ignored me. It made for less drama on a day to day basis.

  “You, hey.”

  About to skirt the edge of the circle, a familiar voice rang out.

  Adrian. There was no way I could mistake the rumbling bass. Slowing to a halt, I whisked an ostrich feather out of my face and glanced at Adrian as the circle of dancers parted to give him access to me.

  “What?” I asked, not bothering to pretend Adrian and I were friends.

  “I need you.” He snapped his fingers at me, then thumbed through a few papers on a clipboard he held.

  “Not her!” one dancer complained. “She's at least three inches shorter than the required six feet.”

  “And let's face it, her boobs won't fill out the top,” another dancer added.

  The girls eyed me in my jeans, tee shirt and boots with utter distaste. Not unusual. I rarely ever showed up at work dressed in anything other than what I had on.

  “Need me for what? Not dressing up like that, I hope, because...no.” I gestured at the bejeweled, half naked dancers in their skimpy white beaded costumes with plumes and ostrich feathers everywhere. I shook my head. The women had more make up on than I wore in year.

  “Yeah. Don't argue, Finley. I'm in a real bind. Not only that, you need to learn the routine.” Adrian, dark haired and brown eyed, dressed in an expensive suit that looked as if he'd just come fresh from a tryst, glanced up and clucked his tongue. “I need you to stand in for Rita.”

  “She's no Rita,” another dancer said with a snort.

  “Learn the routine?” As in...dance? I wanted to ask Adrian if he'd missed the memo. I had two left feet and danced about as well as pigs flew. Growing up, I'd avoided cheerleading and drill team auditions like my life depended on it, which meant I was much less qualified to learn routines than other ladies employed by Olympus.

  “She's a little short, and we'll have to stuff the top of the costume, but her face should be passable with make up,” Adrian retorted to the dancer. Then he looked up from the chart again. “Yes, learn the routine. I need you to fill in for Rita for the next two weeks.”

  “I can't.”

  “Why not?”

  “Use the girl from the front desk. What's her name? The tall blonde.” I was desperate to fixate Adrian's attention on someone else. The insults about my height, chest and face went undefended.

  “If you mean the girl with the face that reminds me of a horse, she won't work,” Adrian said matter-of-fact.

  The dancers sniggled and snorted.

  “I have my own job to do,” I said next. “My shift starts in a few hours.” This is what I got for coming to work early.

  “I can pull anyone else in for that. You're on this for now.” Adrian used his pen to point at the showgirls, then moved to step out of the circle, as if the decision was done and there would be no more arguing.

  “I can't learn the routine that fast.” Just the thought of having to dance in front of a crowd, with spotlights and camera flashes, made my blood run cold.

  Adrian paused, clipboard at his side, and twisted a hard look over his shoulder. “Do it, Finley, or you're fired. Change and get to the rehearsal stage to go through the routine with the girls.”

  Was this really my life right now? Had I not felt dependent on the job, I would have told Adrian where to shove it. I glared at his back while he walked away.

  The dancers sniffed and primped and, as a group, like ducklings, headed down the hall in the direction of their staging area.

  My day had just gone from bad to worse.

  *

  Stealing ten minutes for myself before heading to costumes and rehearsal, I lurked near my locker, phone in my hand. With the locker door open to make it appear as if I was busy, I stared down at the cell phone screen and hovered my thumb over the speed dial for Jasper. In times of stress or duress, I'd always had him to fall back on. This 'order' from Adrian was no small matter to me and I needed a sympathetic ear. Or at least an ear to pour my rants into.

  Yet I hesitated to make contact with the screen. To push the button. I wasn't sure that I wouldn't be interrupting Jasper—and at the same time, I wanted to interrupt him. Not used to being indecisive, I paced a few feet in front of my locker, glancing at the room every few seconds to make sure no one else had come in. No one that cared, anyway. One or two staff members appeared briefly and left just as quickly, never glancing my way.

  I decided to send a text instead of calling.

  Adrian is pulling rank. Switched me to dancing. Freaking out a little here.

  I deleted it and tried several more messages.

  Could use a call. Adrian is

  Are you available for a

  Jasper call me. Adrian is being a

  I erased them all. Delete, delete, delete. It didn't help my mood any to realize that I was hesitant to message Jasper even on a friendship level. Forget the problems of boyfriend and girlfriend—I felt conspicuous and wary to text him like I'd done comfortably for years.

  What the hell was up with that? I scowled at the phone, which served no good purpose except to bounce back my annoyed reflection off the surface.

  “Finley Carson?”

  Jerking to attention, I snapped a look toward the door. Someone had entered and I'd been too involved with internal monologue to notice. The girl, with her walkie attached to a hip and an employee lanyard around her neck denoting her as showgirl staff, arched her brows.

  “I'm coming. I had to stop at my locker for a moment,” I said, schooling my features and cutting the condescending tone from the words.

  “Hurry, please. We've only got a few hours to get you fitted and rehearsing.” The girl tapped her wristwatch and disappeared into the hall.

  They're coming for me. Help.

  I typed and deleted that text, too. My natural urge to joke my way out of my bad mood failed, and failed hard.

  *

  It took a full half hour for the staff members to deck me out in a hastily altered costume, long black wig and feathers that jutted up from a holder between my shoulder blades. While one set of workers adjusted and clipped and tucked, another set applied layers and layers of make up to my face and eyes. A pound of foundation, scads of liner and shadow, and false eyelashes. False. Eyelashes. With rhinestones in them, because I didn't have enough glued to me everywhere else.

  I felt like an imposter. A fraud. A whore.

  Beads clicked on the bikini style bottoms and rhinestones glittered on the top that barely covered my breasts. The real insult were the cups of styrofoam one of the staff tried to tuck into the bra. I grabbed his hand, glared in a way that said his nuts were not safe, and slipped the foam in myself.

  This was hell. One hundred percent agony.

  The other dancers, who had lingered long enough to snicker behind their hands in the beginning, had finally left to rehearse. That left just four people to witness my humiliation when I tried to take my first steps in the ridiculously high platform stilettos. My ankles bent and turned and I nearly went down three different times.

  I didn't do high heels. I did boots and sneakers and sometimes flip-flops.

  A sadist had designed these shoes, I was sure of it.

  “Practice, practice, practice!” Justin, one of the costumers demanded.

  “I am practicing! My ankles don't want to work right.” I made another wobbly pass across the room at Justin's insistence.

 
; “This is a disaster,” Justin said, shaking his head. Short spikes of white hair stuck up from his scalp in all directions. He wore a short vest, crisply pressed navy blue shirt and black slacks.

  I wanted to tell him to jam his feet in the heels and see how well he got around.

  “Call Adrian and tell him I can't do it. Literally cannot walk, much less learn some flamboyant routine.” Perhaps if Justin called with horror stories about my inadequacy, Adrian would find someone else.

  “We don't have time for anyone else. Come. Do it again!” Justin clapped his hands fervently and gestured to the open space behind the rows of lighted mirrors and seating.

  Torture would be preferable to this. No wait, this was torture. I made another pass, arms out for balance.

  “You're not on a tightrope. Do it again. You've got better balance than that.” Justin fretted while I walked, tugging on strands of his hair.

  My eighth pass was better than all the ones before. I hadn't fallen, tripped, or lost my balance.

  “That'll have to do. You need to go up to the rehearsal stage!” Justin urged me to take the heels off and carry them. “Go, go, go. Do the routine without the shoes first, so you can get it down without breaking your neck.”

  Taking off the offending shoes, I carried them by the straps and left the room. Gladly. I knew my face was flushed and if looks could actually kill, I might have left a swath of corpses in my wake. Employees of the hotel stared as I walked down the corridor toward the next phase of my demise. I ignored the looks and privately thanked God that no one dared to comment. I didn't want to hear how cute my butt looked or suffer through wolf whistles.

  Being decked out in feathers and rhinestones was enough horror for one night.

  *

  “AGAIN!”

  I thought of using the stilettos as weapons. One heel, right through the choreographer's eyeball.

  Two hours into the torturous routine, I still didn't have all the steps down. I forgot turns, bumped into other showgirls (who were not amused), and looked like a wooden puppet compared to the grace and elegance of the regular dancers. And this was without the heels.

  To make matters worse, the hot lights shining down from the ceiling made my make up melt. One of the fake eyelashes wouldn't stay glued down. That meant staff members dabbing at my face and plucking at my eyelids between takes.

  I didn't know whether to scream or...scream. Because I didn't cry unless it was critical mass. But I might have if I'd been someone other than Finley.

  “No, no, NO!” the choreographer shouted.

  “It's her fault! The rest of us are right in time with each other,” a doe-eyed dancer complained.

  I wondered why her make up wasn't running, like mine. In fact, it appeared that most of the other dancers weren't breaking a sweat, either, while I looked like I'd just escaped a zombie apocalypse.

  My patience was wearing thin.

  “We have one and a half hours until curtain. Girls, line up and do it again,” Raoul said. The choreographer's patience looked as frayed as mine felt.

  “Until curtain?” I parroted.

  “Yes. Until you go on live. Now get in line.” He gestured.

  I panicked.

  “Adrian didn't say I had to go on tonight. I thought tomorrow, or the next day--”

  “Tonight. Precious Rita is out and you're taking her place.”

  I knew that. If Rita wasn't suffering a broken leg, I might break one for her. If she'd been here, as usual, this wouldn't be happening.

  I lined up. Again.

  I wrecked the routine. Again.

  Raoul shouted.

  The girls whined.

  Finally, with a half hour to go until show time, I got it right.

  “Good, good! Now, with your shoes on.” Raoul clapped his hands in a hurry-up fashion.

  Oh god. The heels. I slid my feet into the stilettos and prayed for the best.

  It was as much of a disaster as I fretted it might be. Raoul cajoled, threatened and begged me to find my balance.

  In between, the make up artists rushed between showgirls to touch up shadow, lipstick and rouge. There wasn't time to relax and rest before the actual show, a fact the other dancers refused to let me live down.

  I was to blame, and I felt the heat of their annoyance.

  Fifteen minutes before show time, Justin the Costumer arrived and took me aside. He helped himself to adjusting my top, which nearly resulted in me slapping his hands away from my flesh. I didn't like the groping, tucking and stuffing. The other girls seemed to think it was as normal as breathing.

  “Remember the second turn and don't forget to wait a ten count to trickle your fan to the right. Okay? Concentrate on the steps and your balance.”

  “I will. I am,” I said.

  “You look pissed off.”

  “I am pissed off.”

  “You have to smile and look lovely,” Justin said, in a voice that said he had doubts I could pull that task off tonight.

  I smiled and he recoiled. It struck me funny and I actually laughed.

  “There! You almost look pretty. Smile just like that!” Justin said, like my facial change was a revelation.

  I resisted the sudden urge to flip him off.

  If there was one thing about me, though, it was that I hated not rising to a challenge. No one had said the fated words I dare you, yet, but that didn't matter. I wanted to show these people that when push came to shove, Finley Carson could pull magic out of her proverbial hat.

  That was how I got through the countdown to showtime. It was how I forced myself to stand in line and smile a 'pretty' smile, and how I walked out onto the stage with a full house sitting in the dark seats beyond the stage. I couldn't do anything about the sweat starting to bead on my brow, but I performed all the steps and tried to look elegant doing it. I didn't stumble, miss a cue, or turn the wrong way in the ripple of arms and bodies.

  My calves screamed and my ankles, I knew, were going to be sore tomorrow. Achingly so.

  The crowd cheered at the end of the routine, though I couldn't see anything but the glare of the spotlights. I lined up with the girls and performed the final bow. Then I followed the dancers off the stage and kicked the shoes off before I even hit the stairs.

  “Watch it,” one of the other dancers hissed.

  I let her go past. Picking up the shoes, I winced at the pain shooting up my legs and followed the girls back to the staging area. Right away I started removing all the rhinestone jewelry from my wrists, neck and throat. Other girls made snide commentary that they knew I could hear, but that I didn't respond to.

  I'd done my part, hadn't fallen or knocked them down. I considered that a win.

  “Well. That was...interesting,” Adrian said from the doorway.

  The girls, who hadn't yet begun to remove any part of their costumes, smiled and cooed at Adrian.

  Maybe, if I was lucky, I wouldn't puke at the very obvious way the dancers fought for his attention.

  “Finley, congratulations,” Adrian added.

  I straightened and glanced at my boss, startled to think he was about to say I'd done a good job after all.

  “You get to keep your job.”

  The showgirls tittered with mirth.

  Grinding my teeth, I turned back to my lit up mirror—Rita's sitting area, actually—and snatched up a few wet cloths to start wiping the make up off.

  I couldn't wait to get out of the costume and leave.

  To think I had to do this for the next two weeks was unfathomable.

  Having forgotten all about Jasper in the latter hours of practice, I went to my locker and worked the combination until it fell open. From within, I rescued my phone, keys and street clothes. I expected to see multiple messages from Jasper about me being late for pick up—but there was nothing.

  No messages.

  My stomach tightened and I swallowed hard. How busy was he that he'd forgotten about picking me up from work? I started to text him to say I needed a
ride, then deleted the message and shoved the phone in my jeans.

  The bus was a better option. It would give me time to decide what to do if I arrived home and Jasper wasn't there.

  Chapter Six

  I knew the second I opened the door that the house was empty. There was something vacant about the feel between the four walls, a lack of warmth and energy I always associated with Jasper. None of the table lamps were on, either, a sure indication that he hadn't been back here since leaving with Asia earlier.

  My stomach sank. Dread coursed through my body, heavy like sludge, making me instantly tired. He was still with her, doing God knew what, even though it was after midnight. And not one message to soothe the angst he knew I would be feeling.

  Closing the door, I threw the locks, snapped on a few lights in the living room, then stalked into the bedroom. There I changed from street clothes to pajamas, choosing my own set of pants and mismatched tee shirt instead of Jasper's. I didn't want to smell his clothes on my body, and decided at the last second that I didn't want to smell him on the sheets, either. Snatching my pillow off our bed, I carried it into one of the spare bedrooms. We'd set up a queen bed in the off chance either of our parents came for a visit, and I flopped sideways onto the covers, careless for now about shuffling under the sheets.

  I refused to cry. Stuffing the pillow under my head, I stared through the gloom at the wall and suffered through terrible pangs of pain and emotional upset. Hollowness set in, a vacancy that felt a lot like the empty house, until there was nothing left but a shell.

  This, I reminded myself, was why I'd avoided relationships and commitment all this time. The pain and agony just wasn't worth it. That it was my best friend perpetrating the crime made it that much worse.

  The sound of a key in the lock startled me into an upright position, and I listened closely as the quiet creak of the door indicated Jasper was home. Funny, I thought¸ that he should come in now.