Dance: The Collected Series

by Charlotte Eve

  DANCE

  The Collected Series

  Charlotte Eve

  Copyright © 2016 Garden of Eden Press

  Cover Images © 2016 zffoto & konradbak – Depositphotos.com

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writers imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Book One: Dance with the Billionaire

  Book Two: Let's Dance Again

  A Note from Charlotte

  Also by Charlotte Eve

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Charlotte Eve was born to English parents and grew up in New York. She returned to England to study, and has settled in London, where she loves the history, the culture and the tea. Maybe not the rain though. Charlotte still visits New York as often as she can, to shop until she drops.

  To be first to find out when Charlotte publishes something new and for the chance to receive advance review copies, just drop her a line at: charlotteeveromance@gmail.com

  and she’ll add you to her mailing list! Also, she just loves getting emails. ;)

  BOOK ONE

  DANCE

  With the Billionaire

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER one

  “I’ll give you a thousand dollars for your panties.”

  Wait ... what?

  Tell me he didn’t just say that?

  I nervously scan the bar, crowded as usual on a Friday night. It’s not often that someone manages to catch me off guard, but right now this tray of drinks is gonna fall from my hand and come crashing to the floor around my feet if I don’t keep my shit together.

  I take a deep breath, steady myself on my heels, smile sweetly, then say, “I’m sorry sir, I didn’t quite catch that.”

  Pretend like it never happened. There’s no way he’ll say it again.

  But he looks up at me so confidently from his seat in the booth, his dark eyes glinting, a smile playing on his full lips, his thick black hair so glossy and shining in the dim light of the bar. And then he does say it again, even slower this time, never breaking eye contact, so fucking calm and confident:

  “I’ll give you a thousand dollars for your panties.”

  He’s not even alone. There are three other guys in the booth with him, all dressed just as expensively in their slick tailored suits. At first I think that he must be saying it for their amusement – making me the pawn in some sick little game of his own creation, just to get a cheap laugh. But I quickly realize that the other guys are busy laughing and joking amongst themselves, not even paying attention to what he’s saying.

  What the fuck?

  I mean, I’ve had enough sleazeballs come onto me in this place, but this is something else. Usually, they just grab my ass, ask me what I’m doing later, that kind of thing. They all act as if, just because I’m serving them drinks, that I’m their property. But nobody has actually offered to buy me before.

  And the weird thing is, just for a second, a part of me even considers it. I imagine myself stepping out of my panties and dropping them on the table, calling his bluff. I’m wearing plain black briefs that probably cost about $5 max.

  That’s a $995 profit.

  But then of course, I push the thought from my head. Because while I might be broke, I’m definitely not that broke.

  And the way he’s looking at me, the way he’s pinning me with his eyes, the smile growing wider as he waits for my reply, it becomes totally clear to me that this entitled rich-kid asshole has never heard the word ‘no’ in his entire life.

  He’s rich, he’s handsome, and he gets whatever he wants. But he’s about to learn that that doesn’t extend to me.

  “I’m afraid,” I say, my voice threatening to tremble at any moment and give away my nerves, “that I’m not that kind of girl, and this isn’t that kind of bar. But if you like, I could recommend you a pretty good strip club a few blocks from here?”

  He shakes his head, all the while keeping me locked with those fiercely dark eyes.

  “Tell me the truth,” he says, the deep growl of his voice cutting clear as a bell through the music and chattering crowds of the bar. And suddenly, it’s as if we’re the only two people in here. “They’re getting wet, aren’t they?”

  Fuck you, asshole, I think, feeling my heart beginning to pound and the anger boiling up inside me at the thought that this guy has gone through his whole life so spoiled, so full of himself.

  “Well gentlemen, if that will be all,” I say in my most professional tone, setting down their whiskey cocktails and turning to leave.

  But as I turn, I feel the warmth of his fingers against the bare skin of my arm, as he holds me in place and turns me back to face him.

  “If you ever change your mind,” he says, taking a business card from the breast pocket of his crisp white shirt and pressing it into my hand.

  I quickly glance down at it:

  Dylan Campbell

  Campbell Finance

  I yank myself free from his grip, then strut towards the safety of the bar, my heart hammering, wishing I could have thrown his fucking drink in his face – that spoiled prick.

  Even as I walk, I can feel his eyes on my ass, and I can sense that he’s still owning me somehow with his eyes. It makes me so goddamn furious, I stop in my tracks, turn back, lock eyes with him once again and then, so that everyone can see, I let his business card slip from my fingers and flutter straight to the floor.

  What kind of guy actually asks a girl if he can buy her panties, I think, my whole body still trembling in anger and frustration. And then has the nerve to ask her if they’re getting wet.

  But the thing that makes me angriest of all?

  He was right.

  They are wet.

  §

  “Now tell it to me straight, okay?” I say.

  “Oh, I ain’t gonna lie, girl,” Natalia replies with a grin. “If you suck, imma be the first to let you know about it.”

  Ouch. I know she means it. If you ever needed a friend to wake you up with the cold hard truth, then Nat’s the one. I’ve asked her to meet me here at The Rhythm Project, the community space where we first met. We got talking in the hip hop dance class. You see, Nat spends practically every spare hour she isn’t working hanging out here, even helping out with the little kids sometimes.

  It’s a cool space, but it definitely needs some TLC. There’s a steel bucket in one corner of the main studio catching raindrops from the leak that’s been here the last few months, and the long mirror that runs the length of the back wall got smashed by some kids who broke in one night, and they’ve still not quite saved up the spare cash to fix it yet.

  “Okay then. The truth,” I say.

  “Come on,” Nat says, putting her hands impatiently on her hips. “Stop stalling and show me!”

  I take a final deep breath, then nod for her to start the CD playing in the boom box. There’s a half-second of silence before the crash of the drums and the rumble of the bass explodes from the speakers. As the music fills the studio I begin to dance, feeling the rhythm pulse through my body like pure energy itself.

  I’ve always lived for this moment.

  Because when I’m dancing, it’s the only time I feel free; the only time I feel truly alive.


  I’ve put everything I’ve got into this dance and I hope it shows – after all, this is the only chance I’ve got of getting into the Eldridge School of Dance, the whole reason I came to New York in the first place. I don’t want to be serving sleazy assholes like that guy last night for the rest of my life.

  Concentrate, Julia. What the hell are you thinking about him for?

  Because even as I’m dancing, for some reason his jet-black eyes appear in my head for a second, almost causing me to stumble. Almost. But I’ve practiced this routine too hard to let anybody put me off.

  I’ve got a dream. I want to be onstage. I want to travel the world. I want to dance ...

  As I land my final spin, I shoot a glance at Nat, but her face is giving nothing away. She’s standing there, arms crossed, leaning back on one foot, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Her silver disco pants show off her muscular thighs, and on her top half, she’s wearing a tiny gold tank top. On any one else, this look would be too much, but on Nat, it just works.

  “Well?” I ask, once I’ve got my breath back.

  “You’re good,” she says, “you know that.”

  Even though her words are positive, I feel my heart sink a little. Because I know there’s something else coming.

  “But?” I ask, dreading the answer, whatever it is. After all, it’s too late to change my routine now. My audition is first thing tomorrow morning.

  “It’s just that it’s ... missing something,” Nat says, taking a pause as she tries to put her feelings into words. “It’s just missing some ... sex appeal. Yeah, that’s it! You know? Like when you’re fucking some hot guy and you really put your hips into it and ...”

  Hands on hips, she starts grinding her body, thrusting her hips and arching her back, to show me exactly what she means.

  “It’s dancing, Nat! Not fucking!” I laugh.

  “Dancing is fucking, Jules,” she laughs back. “That’s what you’ve gotta do! You’ve got to fuck them at the audition, tomorrow. When they’re all sitting there, judging you with their paper and their pencils? You’ve gotta fuck them, baby!”

  And I laugh, while Nat seduces an imaginary audition panel. But behind my laughter, I feel awkward. Because I don’t really know what she’s talking about. I don’t know what it’s like when you’re fucking some hot guy.

  And though Nat’s my best friend, even she doesn’t know that I’m still a virgin.

  Nobody does.

  §

  I kick off my Adidas sneakers and drop my sports bag by the door, then walk through my tiny, run-down apartment towards the bathroom. At times like these, I wish I had a bath. I’d love nothing more right now than to soak in the tub for an hour or two, to rest up my aching body, and then get a nice early night before my audition tomorrow. But the best I’ll get from this place is a shower. And if I’m lucky, the water will be hot.

  I sigh. I just can’t get tomorrow’s audition out of my head.

  I need this.

  I’m twenty-one, which I know is still young ... But in the dance world, by now I should really be finishing up school, not auditioning for it. You see dance school is expensive, and money wasn’t something my family ever really had. I’ve always been told I had talent, but unless you get a lucky break, or your family’s got money, talent’s only gonna get you so far. That’s why tomorrow morning’s so important. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a ‘scholarship’ to a school like Eldridge until a few months ago, when Nat first told me about it. And since she did, I’ve been unable to think about anything else.

  As I’m getting undressed, I hear her words echoing in my head again: You’ve got to fuck them in the audition tomorrow ...

  I watch myself in the floor length mirror as I peel off my clothes. I grab an elastic and pull my shoulder-length hair up into a bun. My hair’s kind of unruly – wavy brown with honey blonde highlights, and bangs. It’s really difficult to control, so I hope it will look good at the audition tomorrow.

  Next I pull off my grey, off-the-shoulder sweater and white vest, uncovering my slender body beneath. Shooting another glance at myself in the mirror, I wish I had the time to work more on my tan, but between dancing and my job at the bar, I just never have the time. I pull off the rest of my clothes, then turn on the shower and climb into the tiny cubicle, sliding the door closed and relaxing a little as I feel the warm water begin to glide over my body.

  It’s not like I’m a total prude. I’ve done stuff with guys. Almost everything, in fact. I’ve just not gone all the way.

  As I begin to soap my body, my mind returns to him. Dylan Campbell, Campbell Finance. I mean, what kind of creep actually says something like that? But even as I’m shaking my head in disgust, another little part of me can’t seem to stop thinking about him. The problem is, he was fucking gorgeous. Those eyes. That smile. The fullness of his lips. The sheer blackness of his hair. Hundreds of guys come through the bar every night, but a guy that good looking is rare.

  Before I know it, my hand has slipped between my legs, my fingertips grazing against my clit, feeling the almost painful ache inside me; an itch I just need to scratch.

  I gasp as I begin to toy with my pussy, my other hand cupping my left breast, my eyes closing, my head filling with images of him – of Dylan Campbell – again, his eyes locking onto mine, his mouth curling in a smile, as my fingers move faster and faster between my legs, my ass pressing back against the cold wet tiles of the shower stall as I come, hard and fast.

  But as soon as it’s over, I crash back to reality, and all I can feel is anger. Anger and disgust at how a creep like Dylan Campbell has somehow found his way inside my head.

  CHAPTER TWO

  You can do this, Julia.

  That’s what I tell myself as I walk across the beautiful city campus of the Eldridge School of Dance, trying to keep my back straight and my head held high, hoping that if I look like someone who’s confident and believes in themselves then maybe I will actually become that person, too ...

  As I make my way past the large sparkling fountain, trying to find rehearsal room six, where the auditions are being held, I size up all the other students standing in groups, laughing and chatting happily without a care in the world. I just hope that one day soon, I can be one of them, too.

  For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a professional dancer. Sure, I was always the best in the little amateur classes I went to at the youth club back home in Jersey. My teachers even encouraged me to attend summer schools – the kinds of places that might prepare you for something like this. But like I said, my family didn’t have the money for that kind of thing. Nobody even told me what a ‘scholarship’ was. I wonder how differently my life might have turned out if they had.

  Because if I ace this audition, that’s what I get: a full scholarship to study here.

  Otherwise, there’s no way I can afford to attend this place. The fees are just too much.

  Imagine: being able to dance all day. I’ve always loved it sooo much. I’ve always loved that feeling of freedom – of grace. It’s the closest you can get to flying.

  I finally find the right corridor. There’s a sign pointing the way to room number six, but the biggest giveaway is the line of girls, all thin, all toned, all beautiful, and all dressed in expensive, brand-new dancewear, looking totally at home here already as they stretch and limber up.

  I take my place at the back of the queue.

  After only a few seconds, a woman holding a clipboard comes up to me.

  “Name?” she says.

  “Julia Tate,” I say.

  She crosses my name from the list then walks off.

  I smile at the girl stretching out next to me, but she shoots me an unfriendly glance and turns away.

  Bitch, I think.

  Then I remember. This is a competition. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to beat these snooty bitches. And I’m gonna do it. They may have had hours of fancy dance lessons in fancy academies,
but they’ve never had to hustle like I have.

  I’m gonna own them.

  §

  There’s always this pause, just before you start dancing, when time slows right down, and you can feel every little part of yourself: the beat of your heart, the air in your lungs, even the tiny hairs on your skin standing on end.

  And in that pause, as I stand there in front of the audition panel, about to perform, I check out each of them in turn.

  To the left, a guy in his late twenties or early thirties maybe, asymmetric bleach-blonde hair and neon pink glasses. I know the type. Next to him, a woman who must be in her sixties. She’s rocking a severe white bob. I can tell she’s the kind of woman who’s always been fashionable, without ever having to try. And sitting to the right of her is Maurice Ryman.

  Back in the day, so I’ve been told, he was kind of a big deal. He looks a little older than in the photos I’ve seen of him, his hair a little greyer, his skin a little more tanned, but it’s definitely him. I knew he worked here, but I didn’t know he was going to be on the audition panel.

  “Well, Miss Tate,” he says, busting me out of my trance. “If you’d like to begin?”

  I give a nod to the assistant, who hits the play button on the stereo, and then I’m dancing – spinning, pirouetting, jumping – giving this panel all of my best, baddest moves. I dance like my life depends on it, and you know what? It kind of feels like it does. After all, this is my final shot – my only chance at this scholarship. I really fucking need this.

  And as always, as I move to the music, I feel that energy and joy flow through me, too. Even at a high-stakes audition like this, it’s still happening: that magic, that feeling of total release, of complete freedom.