by Meghan Quinn
Without having to think of my movements, I wrap my right leg around the silk and use my arms to pull me up the fabric in smooth, flowing motions. It’s as if the choreography is in my blood as I seamlessly execute every step of the performance. It’s like the drape is an extension of my body as I use it to flip and spin through the air. When I grab hold of the second drape, using both of them to hold me in a center split thirty feet off the ground, I can feel my muscles stretch and sing in delight as I flow from one position to the next.
The tempo of the music is building up to the crescendo and I know exactly what’s coming next. And I know, without a doubt in my mind, that I can do it. With the silk wrapped around my waist strategically, I stiffen my entire frame so I’m hanging parallel with the stage. The beat of the drums kicks up, the sound reverberating through the theater.
This is it.
Releasing my hold on the drape just enough, my body begins to spin, down, down, down, until I’m just ten feet from the floor. I tighten my hold at the exact moment I’m supposed to and I stop on a dime, swinging my left leg out to catch the second drape and twist it around my ankle. The last beat of the drum sounds, and I hit my final position with perfect precision, and just like that, it’s over.
I did it.
I fucking did it!
As I make my way back stage in a complete daze as the next group heads to the stage, two strong arms circle my waist like a steel band, lifting me off the ground. I let out a surprised yelp as Gavin spins me around wildly. “You were fucking brilliant!” he declares as he places me on my feet, but keeps his hold tight, pinning me to his chest. “That was unbelievable!”
When I look up into his eyes, those deep, dark depths are glittering down at me, full of delight, and I know, in this very moment, I’m not falling for Gavin Saint. I’ve already landed. I’m completely and madly in love with this man. He holds my heart in the palm of his hand. He’s got the power to shatter it completely, but I don’t care. What I feel for him right now is too strong, too powerful to protect myself against, and the euphoria coursing through my blood is worth any potential heartbreak I might experience in the future.
“Thank you,” I whisper up at him, my eyes stinging with tears.
“For what, baby?” he asks just as softly, brushing a loose piece of hair from my cheek.
“For everything. For getting me this audition, for having Graham put in a good word, for getting me out of that God forsaken apartment, just… everything. If I get this job it’ll be because of you.”
His face lowers, his lips brushing against mine tenderly as he says, “When you get this job, it’ll be because you fucking nailed it, Penelope. It’ll have nothing to do with me, or Graham, or anyone else. It’s all you, baby. If you’d have seen what I just saw…” his awe-filled voice trails off as he pulls away, giving his head a shake. “It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Watching you up there was like watching water move.”
A giddy smile stretches across my lips as I wrap my arms around his neck. “Really?”
“Absolutely. It was inspiring.”
My heart beats rapidly against my chest as I stand on my tiptoes and pepper his jaw with light kisses. “The most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, huh?”
“Well…” I drop back down to get a better look at his face when he trails off. “Maybe second most beautiful.”
“What’s the first?” I ask with a laugh as his eyes grow darker and his hold on me tightens.
“Watching you come while I’m buried deep inside you and you’re screaming my name. Now that’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Watching you perform is a really close second.”
I laugh again as warmth pools low in my belly. “Well, I’ll just have to give you another performance later tonight, now, won’t I?”
With a feral growl, Gavin’s mouth crashes down on mine in a fierce kiss, and as I meet his tongue with my own, I can’t help but bask in the love I feel for this man.
***
“To Nell!” everyone at the table calls out, glasses lifted in the air in cheers. When my name was called earlier today as the newest performer for La Magie du Cirque, Gavin had insisted we celebrate. I thought he meant in bed, and he did… but he also meant at dinner with friends as well. That’s why I’m currently sitting at a large round table at Luxe, the posh, five star restaurant in Hotel Paragon, surrounded by my and Gavin’s friends. Scott’s here, putting the moves on Davies even though it’s a lost cause, Graham and Page are sitting on separate sides of the table, occasionally shooting daggers at each other, but being well behaved, nonetheless. She wouldn’t open up and tell me what’s going on between the two of them last night, but I knew something had gone down, whether she admits it or not. To his credit, Gavin only pouted for about a half hour when I insisted on inviting Nick to celebrate with us. He’s well aware there’s nothing romantic between either of us, but Gavin’s nothing if not territorial.
“What did your mom say?” Page asks, lifting her wine glass to her lips and taking a sip.
“She cried,” I admit, a watery smile spreading across my face as I think back on my parents’ elated reaction when I called to tell them I got the part in La Magie. The both of them had shouted their congratulations, declaring how proud they both were before my father passed the phone to my mom and we’d talked for another ten minutes. “She’s so happy for me, but she wishes she’d have been able to see me.”
“Aw, sweetheart,” Page soothes, reaching for the hand on the table.
“She can see you,” Gavin says, cutting through my sadness.
I look over at him and see he’s focused completely on my face. “What?”
“I recorded the entire thing with my phone. I’d be happy to send it to your parents so they can see what an outstanding performer their daughter is, although I’m sure they’re already well aware.”
All I can do is stare, flabbergasted, as Page lets out a delighted squeal. “Give it to me! I want to see!”
Gavin graciously hands his phone to Page and she and Davies lean into each other to watch, occasionally gasping at something they see on the small screen. “Thank you,” I mouth to him, all the while wanting to say, “I love you,” instead, but not having the courage just yet. He smiles down at me and leans to press a kiss to my lips.
“Well, I’m happy for you, gorgeous,” Nick speaks up. “I’m just sad you won’t be in the high roller suite with us anymore. Gotta say, it’s going to be boring without you.”
I smile across the table at him as Gavin lets out a low, possessive growl.
“Relax, dude,” Nick laughs good-naturedly, holding his hands up in surrender. “She’s like a sister to me. My balls actually draw up in my body whenever I think about her naked,” he informs the table, earning a loud round of laughter from everyone.
“Thanks, Nick,” I deadpan. “As always, so flattering.”
“Stop thinking about her naked,” Gavin all but pouts at my side. I lean into him and place a hand on his thigh in an attempt to tame the beast.
“Well, I have to say,” Graham interrupts Gavin’s stare down. “If I have to lose my number one cocktail waitress, I’m happy to be losing her to Las Vegas’s number one show.” From the corner of my eye I can see Page rolling her eyes.
“Here, here,” Scott chimes in, lifting his glass in the air. Everyone follows with another round of cheers just before two waiters begin placing our appetizers on the table.
The seared Ahi tuna and steak tar-tar on crostini look to die for and I dig into the food eagerly. Everyone at the table is silently enjoying their meal, that is, before Page speaks up.
“Could someone please pass me the salt?”
Uh oh.
“What?” Graham asks with narrowed eyes, his crostini paused midway to his mouth.
“I need salt,” Page answers.
“That’s ridiculous,” Graham harrumphs. “The food’s impeccable, adding salt to that would ruin it.”
Page gives h
im a shrug and begins sprinkling salt from the shaker Scott just handed to her. “Tastes a little under seasoned to me.”
“Stop that!” Graham shouts. “You’re ruining it!”
Everyone’s eyes bounce back and forth between them like we’re watching a tennis match as Page lifts the crostini to her mouth and hums appreciatively. “Much better.”
It takes everything in me not to laugh as Graham nearly chokes on his own spit. I lift my own food to my mouth and take a bite. It’s good, very good, but I’m inclined to agree with Page on the seasoning, not that I’d ever say that out loud. Scott, unfortunately, isn’t as smart as me.
“You know what, man? I think she might be right.” Taking the saltshaker, he sprinkles a liberal amount on his food before popping it in his mouth. “Yep, that’s all it needed,” he says with a nod, all the while, Graham’s beginning to turn an unhealthy shade of red.
“You two don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters as he takes a bite. “Tastes fantastic to me,” he says around a mouthful, even though the expression on his face belies his words. He knows damn good and well Page is right, he just won’t admit it.
“Here, you big baby,” Page salts another crostini before leaning across the table and dropping it down on his plate. “Taste that.”
Graham stares for several seconds before finally relenting and lifting the food to his mouth. The instant the properly seasoned tar-tar hits his taste buds, his eyes go wide before he catches himself. Swallowing the bite, he lifts his napkin to his mouth and clears his throat. “Must just be a fluke.”
Page smiles mockingly before saying, “Or your chef doesn’t have the first clue on properly seasoning his food. Properly salting something is Cooking 101. You’d have to be an idiot to screw that up.”
“That’s preposterous!” Graham yelps indignantly. “I’ll have you know that Jean Gusteau is a world renowned chef! He has a Michelin star for Christ’s sake!”
“Good, for him,” Page replied nonchalantly. “The tar-tar was still under seasoned.”
I do my best to swallow down my laughter, but a strangled, choking noise still manages to escape my mouth before I cover it with my hand. “Sorry. Went down the wrong pipe,” I offer as Graham shoots me a disgruntled look. From the snickers around the table, everyone else finds the stand-off between those two just as funny as I do. We somehow manage to finish off our appetizers without more drama, talking about menial things, staying away from the topic of our food, just as the main course comes out.
Then the shit really hits the fan.
“Excuse me,” Page stops the server with a kind smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be a pain…”
Graham snorts, “That’s unlikely.”
She shoots him a dirty look before wiping it clean and looking back up at the waiter. “As I was saying, I don’t mean to be a pain, but my Beef Wellington isn’t prepared right.”
“Bullshit!” Graham shoots up from his chair and charges around the table. “I’ll give you the salt on the tar-tar, but now you’re just lying you… you… liar!” Seriously, I can’t help it, I giggle behind my hand because a flustered Graham is just hilarious! Gavin squeezes my thigh under the table and I look up at him, his eyes twinkling with mirth.
“I am not a liar! See!” Page cuts another chunk from her Beef Wellington. “The beef is clearly overcooked. It should be pink in the middle. This is gray. And the puff pastry is soggy, not flakey. The dough hasn’t even been cooked all the way! And once again,” she waves her hand in the air. “The seasoning is off.”
Graham grabs the fork and lifts the skewered Beef Wellington to his eyes, his shoulders slump as he sees just what Page was talking about, but being a stubborn man, he refuses to admit defeat. “Looks fine to me,” he says, the obvious lie written across his face.
“Taste it,” she grinds out between clenched teeth.
With a visible gulp, Graham brings the fork to his mouth and closes his lips around the bite, chewing slowly as we all watch on in rapt fascination.
“The puff pastry should have flaked off in your mouth, and the beef should have been tender and juicy. That’s not what you’re experiencing right now, is it?”
Graham swallows down the beef and shoots Page a murderous look. “You think you can do better?” he asks sarcastically.
“I know I can. Your chef might have a Michelin star, hell, he could have cooked for the goddamned President. I don’t care! That meal is subpar at best, and you know it. If you want to stand there and act like what I’m saying isn’t the God’s honest truth, go right ahead, but I’ll be there to say I told you so when this restaurant goes under because you’re too pig headed to listen to someone you know is right.”
Placing the fork back on the table, he brushes at the lapels of his jacket before reaching for Page’s plate and picking it up. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” he addresses the table. “I’m, um… I’m just going to have a quick word with the chef.”
He turns on his heels and all but runs towards the kitchen, the poor, flustered server scurrying after him.
“Well,” I state, finally laughing openly. “That was entertaining.”
“Are you kidding me?” Scott guffaws. “That was amazing! Page, I think you’re my new hero, I’ve never seen someone put Graham in his place like that.”
“Agreed,” Gavin chuckles, lifting his wineglass to Page. “That was a thing of beauty. That fucker needed to be knocked down a few pegs. We’re forever in your debt, Page.”
“Well, fuck me sideways and call me Susan,” a gruff, masculine voice states crassly from behind us. “If it isn’t Gavin motherfucking Saint.”
The light mood at the table suddenly grows glacial, and it isn’t until I turn to face the foul asshole that’s just spoken that I understand why. Gaudy gold chains hang from his neck, a woman who’s clearly just been picked up off Freemont hanging from his arm. With one look, it’s obvious he’s so beneath Gavin it’s not even funny, but from the way Gavin’s entire frame has grown stiff as a board, it’s clear they know each other, and well.
And something in my gut tells me that Gavin seeing this man again is not a good thing.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
**GAVIN**
Every last nerve ending goes on high alert the minute I hear the gravely, smoker’s voice of Harley St. James. I don’t even have to turn around in order to confirm it’s him, I can smell the pungent scent of his over the top, classless cologne he claims comes straight from Italy.
Wiping my mouth with my napkin, I look over my shoulder to see the rotund man staring down at me, the evil glint in his eyes telling me right off the bat that he’s not here for small talk.
“Harley, what brings you around these parts?”
He cracks his knuckles, trying to appear intimidating, but the only impression I get from the man standing before me is that of a Class-A douchebag. “I’m back in the states and I’m looking for some competition.”
I nod just as Penelope’s hand squeezes my thigh. The tension between Harley and I is evident, you don’t have to know of our past to understand it is one full of animosity just from the way we address each other. “Hotel Paragon has the best high roller suite on the Strip, I’m sure you’ll find great competition here. I’ll be sure to inform Graham when he gets back about you sneaking in on the roster.” With a curt nod, I dismiss him, willing him to leave us alone. I don’t want anything to ruin the celebration we’re having in honor of Penelope.
Giving her a calm smile, I squeeze her hand that’s still resting on my leg and try not to show the palpable tension that’s rising on the back of my neck. Just from him breathing behind me my hackles are rising. Harley St. James is not one to be trusted. I’ve learned this well.
During my poker playing prime, I played Harley quite a few times, never letting up and always taking the cake. I’ve seen him grow from a meager player to one to watch for. It wasn’t until we hit the tables in Monte Carlo that he gave me a run for my mon
ey. That was until his signature chip flip sent him spiraling in the opposite direction. I took a chance and called his bluff, giving me the most victorious win of my career, putting me on the map as the best poker player in the world. From there, my high for the game dwindled because I’d just accomplished all there was in that world.
I play here and there now just for the hell of it. Not because I need the money, but because it passes the time. Thankfully, after I got my head out of my ass as a young kid in this torrent game, I wised up and invested my money, tripling my earnings over the years to the point that I can sit easy for the rest of my life, never having to pick up another hand.
From the look in his eyes though, I can see Harley wants a rematch. Too bad for him, I really have no desire to sit back at the table with him.
“I don’t want back on the roster, I want you.” Harley says from behind me, clearly not catching on to my dismissal.
I lift my joined hand with Penelope and show it to Harley. With a smart ass smile, I say, “Sorry, Harley. I’m taken.”
A growl escapes the man as he shoves my shoulder forward, causing Scott, Nick, and me to stand while the women at the table all shrink back in distress. “You know what I mean,” he grits out.
Brushing at the spot on my shoulder his slimy hand just touched, I say, “I suggest you fuck off before you get yourself into some trouble.”
Stepping up to me, toe to toe, he seethes. From the corner of my eye I can see Scott round the table, prepared to jump in when needed. “Cut the shit, Saint. I want a rematch.”
“I’m out of the game,” I answer honestly. “So you’re going to have to find someone else to play.”
“You and I both know there is no one out there good enough to give me the kind of challenge I’m looking for. You can’t just quit the game, Saint. I can see from the glint in your eyes that you’re interested, so what’s holding you back?”