by Pam Godwin
Cole is decidedly some kind of soldier. Retired or not, the snake is his spirit animal and venomous aggression burns hotly in his blood. So I’m not at all surprised when he shows up at Trace’s restaurant later that night.
When he ambles in, I’m on the circular platform at the center of the dining room, four hours into my belly dance routine. He doesn’t look at me, his attention on the young hostess as he leans down and says something to her. Then he points at the only empty table near the stage.
Trace’s table. Trace isn’t here now, but he’s been in and out all night, sitting in that very spot. He probably reserved it for the evening.
The hostess shakes her head and leads Cole to a different table. But instead of following her, he veers through the dining room toward me.
He got his hair cut. Faded up the sides and spiked on top, it’s similar to the high-and-tight style he wore when we met, only more rebellious. And way sexier.
Dressed in dark jeans and a black collared shirt, he sits at Trace’s table a few feet away and lifts his gaze to mine. I don’t let the clean-shaved face, nice clothes, and new hair cut fool me. He’s up to no good.
The hostess rushes over, and he crooks a finger at her. When she bends down, his lips form one word. Menu.
More head shaking, her mouth moving as she points across the dining room. When he waves her away, she huffs and storms off, probably to call Trace. This should be fun.
Cole returns his attention to me. He’s seen me belly dance, but not on a stage in a packed room. I found the job at Bissara shortly after he left as a way to keep myself busy in his absence and earn some extra cash for the wedding.
Tonight, I’m wearing a black balconette bra with a scalloped trim and a strappy halter accent that divides my minimal cleavage. The black wide-leg pants flow like a skirt and sit so low on my hips it’s impossible to miss a single ripple or twitch in my abs.
Cole’s eyes rake me from head to toe as I undulate my core to the erotic beats of Beautiful Liar by Beyoncé and Shakira. The choreography to this song focuses on synchronized hand rotations, head tosses, and dramatic hip kicks to punctuate the hard beats.
With his unadulterated attention on me, I rev it into high gear, writhing my curves with enthusiasm while holding his gaze with a flirtatious smile.
He sucks in a breath that lifts his chest and parts his lips.
I toss him a wink and spin away. Then I perch my rear in the air, flatten my palms against an imaginary wall, and watch him over my shoulder as my lower half twists and shakes to the sensual music.
His hand flies to the back of his head. I’m not good at reading lips, but I think he curses a prayer to Jesus. Then he twists in the chair, likely scanning the audience in a surge of possessive jealousy.
The restaurant patrons are enraptured. This is an adult-only venue, and the people who dine here aren’t prudes. Most are frequent guests who come just to watch the show.
There are as many women in the audience as men, and this seems to appease Cole as he swivels back to me, his shoulders more relaxed.
I’m halfway through the next song, when Trace’s tall silhouette appears in the entrance. I tense through a pelvic shimmy as he strides directly toward Cole.
Black suit and tie, crisp white shirt, and all glowering business, he stops beside Cole and folds his hands behind him.
Cole reclines back and casts Trace a devil-may-care expression, but there’s mischief in those dimples. Surely, he didn’t come here to pick a fight?
I try to focus on the dance routine, but I’m glued to the interaction before me.
Trace towers over Cole, staring him down for a tense moment before taking a seat beside him. They launch into a stiff conversation, which quickly elevates to fists curling on the table, heated whispers, and red faces.
For fuck’s sake. This song can’t be over soon enough. The moment it ends, I do the customary bow and hop off the stage to the sound of applause.
The next song in my set list streams through the speakers as I stroll over to the table and lower into the chair across from them.
They stopped arguing when they saw me approach, and now they’re staring at me as if bracing for a fight.
Rather than give them one, I prop my chin on my fist and smile at Cole. “I like your haircut.”
The displeasure radiating from Trace heats my face, but I keep my focus on Cole.
“Thanks, baby.” Cole grins back.
“Do you like Moroccan food?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I catch a passing server and ask for a menu. Then I turn to Trace. “Are you finished working for the night?”
He gives a starched nod, his neck looking strangled in that tightly buttoned shirt.
“Why don’t you loosen the tie?” I gesture at my own throat. “Relax a little?”
“Take the rest of the night off.” He bends closer, with the small table separating us. “Spend the evening with me.”
“I’m going to finish out my shift.” I tilt my head, eying Cole. “Did you come here for the food, the show, or to ruffle Trace’s feathers?”
Trace leans back, scowling at Cole, though it looks more like a pout.
“The food and the show.” Cole smirks. “Trace can ruffle his own feathers.”
“You’re not welcome here,” Trace says curtly.
“Is this your first time at the casino?” I study Cole’s sobering expression. When he shakes his head, I ask, “Did you come here after you met me? To visit Trace?”
“Yes.” He frowns.
He used to go to the casino while living with me, to hang out with a best friend I didn’t know about. It’s a bitter sore spot for me, a deception I struggle to forgive, even though I understand why he kept their friendship a secret.
Had I met Trace through Cole, if I’d been introduced to him as the friend of my fiancé, would I have still fallen in love with him after Cole died? Or would I have kept him in the friend zone? It’s hard to say and doesn’t really matter at this point, but I wonder how different things could’ve turned out.
“I know you haven’t been to this restaurant.” I accept the menu as the server approaches and hand it to Cole. “It’s only been open for six months.”
“I thought I’d check it out, see where you worked.” Cole glances around. “It’s a nice place.”
A sneaker slides against my barefoot beneath the table and hooks beneath my calf. I narrow my eyes at Cole but don’t move my feet.
“The entertainment here is exquisite.” He opens the menu and stretches his other leg toward me, capturing my ankles in the cradle of his. “I’m jealous of that light you dance on.”
“Jealous?” I laugh. “Why?”
“It has the best view in the house.”
Oh my God. I rub my forehead, grinning.
“Ridiculous,” Trace mutters.
“I bet she makes you a shit ton of money.” Cole glares at Trace.
“My money will be her money.” Trace bores his steady gaze into mine. “The moment she takes my last name.”
His quiet intensity is nerve-wracking, making me shiver all over.
“Danni doesn’t give a fuck about money.” Cole inconspicuously tightens his legs around mine and scans the menu.
“You’re wrong.” Trace’s eyes don’t stray from mine. “A large bank account means endless donations to whatever charities she’s passionate about.” He shifts his glare to Cole, his tone eerily calm. “Keep your fucking feet to yourself or I’ll have you removed from the property.”
I widen my eyes, surprised Trace knew what was going on under the table.
Cole doesn’t move. “You’ll have your paid servants remove me, because you’re not man enough—”
“Stop it.” I pull back, tucking my legs beneath my chair and sitting straighter. “Instead of taking pot shots at each other, how about you have a pleasant dinner together?” I look at Cole. “The cuisine is amazing. I recommend the Kefta Mkaouara with the tasty bread to soak up
the sauce.” I turn to Trace. “When you’re done, you can show him around the restaurant. Meanwhile, I have to finish my set.”
Without waiting for their reactions, I return to the stage. The room erupts in cheers and whistles as I find my footing mid-song and roll into the choreographed routine.
Trace and Cole order dinner and eat quietly without turning the steak knives into weapons. They mostly ignore each other and focus on me. But there are a few conversations through the next two hours. Conversations I so badly wish I could hear. Their mannerisms and expressions are serious, stormless even, as they talk.
When they finally stand from the table, Trace heads toward the exit.
Instead of following him out, Cole steps up to the stage. I dance toward him, encased in the beam of light that shines from beneath the acrylic platform. He studies it for a moment and reaches out to test the motion sensor, trying to make it follow his hand.
The spotlight stays under my feet, chasing me from side to side as I move through the footwork. Maybe it’s attracted to sweaty women, because sweet mercy, I’m burning up. Thankfully, the light doesn’t put off heat. Trace had it designed specifically for me, as well as the renovations for this restaurant, the addition of the stage, and my own private dressing room. All of it—as I recently learned—was constructed for my employment before I even met the scowly casino owner.
Cole lingers at my feet, staring up at me as if he can’t bear the thought of leaving. I hate it. No matter the hows or whys that put us here, I seem to be the one pulling the strings now, and what I’m doing is cruel.
I twist mindlessly through belly dance movements while playing out an agonizing resolution in my head. I could end things with Cole right now. Tell him I moved on, that I love Trace more—a lie—and demand he pack up his shit and go. Cut ties. Change my locks. Block his number. Force him to find new love and deeper happiness with someone else.
It would be excruciating for me, but it’s the compassionate thing to do. In the long run, his life would be better for it. Nothing good can come from being with a woman who loves two men.
A pang stabs my chest, and my face crumples. I spin away, pretending the twirl is part of the routine. With measured breaths, I focus on rippling my mid-section and composing my expression. Then I turn back.
He grips the edge of the stage, bulldozing me with a look that says I am his only mission now, and a soldier doesn’t back down from a fight.
It also tells me the scenario I just imagined is total bullshit. Our love won’t end with changed locks and blocked numbers. It’s stubborn and unshakable and fated.
I lift my gaze to the man standing near the entrance of the dining room. Fingers in the pockets of his tailored slacks, Trace rests a shoulder against the far wall, watching me with single-minded focus.
Maybe he’s the one I need to let go. But we haven’t had any one-on-one time since Cole returned. Perhaps I’ll stay with him tonight and talk to him openly about this.
Cole removes his hands from the stage and straightens, as if preparing to leave. I can read his demeanor—the tense shoulders, the pinched lips, the stalling. He might not admit it, but this is hurting him.
I glide toward him and press my lips to my fingers. Then I bend down and touch those fingers to his mouth, letting my caress feather along his jaw and float away from the indention in his chin.
“Love you,” he mouths.
I nod and soften my eyes with all the things I want to say but can’t on a stage in a crowded dining room.
He strides toward the exit and joins Trace. Together, they vanish beyond the door, taking all the air with them.
Love is a deep breath with wings. It flutters in the chest, swooping and dancing to the beat of the heart. Without it, I feel strangled and lifeless.
Without them, I might never breathe again.
I slip off the stage at midnight, physically exhausted but emotionally energized. Dancing clears my head and breathes life into my soul. I feel blissfully empowered and eager to talk things out with Trace.
I haven’t seen him or Cole since they left Bissara. I assume Cole went home. Trace could be anywhere on the property.
Rather than heading to my dressing room, I swerve toward the main floor of The Regal Arch Casino and Hotel. Past the clanking, flashing slot machines and around the crowded gaming tables, I veer down a quiet corridor and punch in my access code to call Trace’s private elevator.
Inside the lift, I press 31. After a short ride, the doors open, and I step out.
The penthouse is quiet, seemingly vacant. Dim lights illuminate the open kitchen on the left. Straight ahead, the living room is dark, drawing my attention to the glittering St. Louis cityscape beyond the windows.
“Trace?” I make my way down the hallway, stopping at the first doorway and poking my head into the workout room and indoor pool area. “Are you home?”
Silence.
Dang it. He must be in one of the bars downstairs, hobnobbing with clients.
The humidity and aroma of chlorine swaddles me in a vapor of tranquility, and I suddenly feel like swimming.
I follow the exposed brick walls to his bedroom and find it as tidy and vacant as the rest of the penthouse. An industrial warehouse theme dominates the top floor of the hotel, but the soft red and charcoal textures in this room give it a welcoming, cozy feel without losing the masculine ambiance.
His maid service comes three times a week. Today is an off day, yet his king-sized bed is made, accented with coordinating pillows. I smile at the image of him straightening and fluffing. He’s such a damn clean freak.
I take a quick shower, washing off make-up, glitter, and eight hours of sweat. When I finish, he still isn’t back.
In his ginormous closet, I dig through drawers in search of my favorite pink bikini. It’s no secret I’m a little disorganized and a lot messy—the complete opposite of Trace. His suits and shirts hang in color-coded rows while my shit rarely makes it onto a hanger.
He cleans up after me constantly and never complains. For a man who tolerates very little, he puts up with my quirky, annoying habits like a champ.
Now where did he put my bikini?
I find it in a drawer labeled swimsuits—imagine that—along with a few others I’ve never seen before. He doesn’t have a personal shopper. He’s too controlling for that. Picturing him standing in a clothing store and picking out these skimpy things makes my heart smile.
I pull on one of the new suits, a strappy silver monokini, which is essentially a few tiny pieces of fabric webbed together with dozens of spaghetti strings.
Making my way down the hall, I cross the workout room and enter the glass enclosure on the roof of the casino hotel. In the warmer months, the windowed panels slide back, bringing the outdoors inside. But October in St. Louis is chilly. With the pool area sealed up for the winter, it feels like a sauna in here.
I stop at the digital panel beside the pool entrance. I love how the smart home system plays music in any room in the penthouse. It also does security stuff and other things, more important things—Trace’s words—but I only access it for the sound system.
With my playlist already loaded, I select Don’t Let Me Down by The Chainsmokers and crank up the volume.
Gathering my damp blonde hair, I knot the waist-length strands on top of my head and bounce my legs. I can’t help it. I’m a slave to the music, and within seconds, I’m dancing beside the rectangular pool.
The catchy lyrics spur me to sing along and wriggle my hips. By the time the chorus hits, I’m straight-up grooving, belting the words like the singer I’m not, and completely caught off guard when an arm snakes around my waist and spins me around.
Devious blue eyes illuminate my horizon right before strong lips swallow my gasp.
Trace grabs the backs of my thighs and lifts me up his body, kissing me so passionately the world tilts and infinity stands still.
I hook my legs around his hips and melt against him, matching the sinful strok
es of his tongue. He tastes like warmth and love and feels like sex. His hunger vibrates beneath the crisp suit, and his fingers dig unapologetically against my backside. Impatient. Greedy. Carnal.
I brace my arms on his shoulders and twine my hands in his hair, holding on as he licks inside my mouth, chasing my tongue and groaning his pleasure.
With a tight grip around my waist, he loosens the knot on my head and caresses my hair down my back. It’s diabolical the way he gently separates the tangles, his fingers absently moving while his tongue annihilates my senses.
He’s divinely beautiful and devilishly tempting, like a warrior angel fallen from grace. But he’s always graceful, every action calculated, his movements precise and controlled and erotically appealing.
The song fades, silencing all sound but the heavy panting of our breaths.
He breaks the kiss and stares at me with a stern frown in his brows and an even deeper frown on his lips. It’s such a natural expression for him—severe, imposing, seemingly displeased. His scowl used to annoy me. But now that I understand the man behind it, I find it oh-so tasty and lickable.
“Hi, sexy.” I lower my tiptoes to the tiles.
He’s so much taller than me I have to tilt my head way back to smile at him.
“Hi, gorgeous.” His expression softens, and he trails a knuckle along my jaw. “Thank you for the text last night. I won’t say I slept well, but your message made it easier. I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.” I glide my hands down the crisp lapels of his suit jacket.
“Stay with me tonight.”
“Okay.” I rest my cheek against his chest and close my eyes as I breathe in the seductive scent of his aftershave. “Swim with me?”
He holds me for a peaceful moment before stepping back to prowl a circle around me.
“If I get in the water with you while you’re wearing this…” He pinches the crisscrossed straps on my waist. “This abstinence bullshit ends.” Stopping behind me, he trails his fingers from my thighs to my ribs, his arms slipping under mine to flick the strings beneath my breasts. “Take this off.”