Dance: The Collected Series

by Charlotte Eve

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “You sure you don’t want a drink? You certainly look like you could use one.”

  “Fine,” I reply, perched awkwardly on the edge of the couch, my knees pressed firmly together, totally aware that I’m no longer wearing panties beneath this tiny little dress. “Vodka. Ketel One. Same as yours.”

  “Very good,” he says, patronizingly.

  “I work in a fucking bar, remember?” I snap back. “I know the best vodka to drink neat. And I’m paid fifteen bucks an hour to serve it to guys like you.”

  Dylan Campbell chooses to ignore this latest outburst of mine, and turns to head back to the liquor cabinet. And this time, it’s my turn to check him out. I can’t help it. There’s something frustratingly magnetic about him, as if my eyes are drawn to him almost beyond my own control. And even though I know he’s just some creep, I still find myself watching him as he fixes my drink, the way his black hair shines in the light, the glow of his lightly tanned skin, the sheer broadness of his back beneath his shirt, the crisp white cotton giving away the sculpted form of his body beneath.

  What the hell are you doing, Julia? Why are you checking this guy out?!

  I force my eyes away from him, to the dazzling New York skyline, shown off by the huge floor-to-ceiling windows that run all across one wall of his apartment. I’ve never seen the city from this high up before and wow – it’s beautiful. I’m blown away, one hundred percent. After all, I’ve never quite got the spare bucks to take a trip to the top of the Empire State building. But now I don’t need to. This is just as good.

  “Here you go,” he says, standing so close to me now that I can feel the tiny space between us buzzing with

  as he places the chilled cut glass tumbler in my hands.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, lifting the glass to my lips, glad for the sharp jab to the senses that the neat vodka gives me.

  “So?” I say, watching as he takes the velvet armchair facing me, reclining comfortably, spreading his legs wide apart, black eyes burning. “This better offer? What is it?”

  “The deal,” he says, “is this.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, never taking his eyes from mine for a second. “You will come and stay with me for a week. During that time, you will be mine, to do with as I please. And in return, I’ll pay you a hundred thousand dollars.”

  Is this guy fucking serious?!

  “Woah, woah, woah Richard Gere,” I blurt out. “What do you think this is? Pretty Woman?”

  But I’m the only one laughing. I think he is fucking serious.

  “If that’s where you get your ideas about rich guys from,” he says with a sarcastic shake of his head, “then you’ve got even more to learn than I thought. This is no fairy-tale romance, and I am certainly no Richard Gere. You intrigue me, and I want to see more of what you can do. But you need to understand, this isn’t going to be some kind of sanitized Hollywood bullshit, either. We are not going to ‘make love’, Julia Tate. We are going to fuck.”

  As he says the word, I feel a chill run down my spine, and I press my knees even tighter together. My heart’s booming as I lift the glass to my lips and drain it, feeling the clear liquid burn my throat. And despite myself, I can feel another sweet ache, too, right there between my legs.

  “I’ll need to think about it,” I say, steadily as I can.

  “I’ll give you the weekend,” he replies, standing and taking my glass. “If you decide to do this, I’ll see you at my office on Monday, 3pm. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some business to attend to.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I stumble out onto the street. What just happened in his apartment feels so unreal I wonder if maybe I imagined it. But as I begin to walk towards the nearest subway station, I remember all over again that I’m not wearing any panties.

  No. That definitely just happened.

  I can still hear his words echoing around my head: We are not going to ‘make love’, Julia Tate. We are going to fuck.

  And I have to admit to myself that something about it turned me on. Maybe it’s his confidence. The very thing that gets me so mad, that makes me want to throw my fucking drink in his face? Well, maybe, just maybe, it gets me hot, too.

  But even so, I can’t do that. I can’t be ‘his’ for a week – to do with as he pleases.

  Because that’s just prostitution, isn’t it? Plain and simple.

  And on top of that, I don’t want to lose my virginity to some guy who thinks he can buy me like that.

  But then I find myself thinking again about why I’m still a virgin in the first place. This goes way back ...

  You never met a couple more mismatched than my mom and my dad. They had nothing in common, but they didn’t have that fiery opposites-attract passion either. It was just arguing all the time, fighting almost every night. And I mean fighting. Crying, screaming, slamming doors, smashing plates; that kind of fighting. They split up when I was really young – just before my fifth birthday. I don’t remember much, but I do remember feeling so relieved that all the shouting was finally over.

  I guess you could kinda say it was all my fault. You see, the only reason they got married in the first place was because my dad had got my mom knocked up.

  So when I got a little older, I vowed to myself never to get trapped like that. I was never gonna give up my virginity until I knew that the guy was really special, and surprise surprise, I’m twenty-one years old and that guy still hasn’t come along yet.

  But don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m inexperienced. I may not have had sex, but I’ve done practically everything else. I’ve just drawn the line somewhere. And I’m not going to cross it for anyone ... anyone except The One.

  So you see, it’s not out of some religious belief that I’ve stayed a virgin. It’s simply to protect my future – so that I don’t end up like my mom, some clueless pregnant kid, saddled with a baby and a husband she didn’t love.

  Because if I wait for The One, there won’t be any of that. There won’t be any screaming or fighting, and I won’t have to work three jobs just to make ends meet. Because The One won’t bail on me.

  But this situation is a whole other ballgame. If I say yes to Dylan Campbell, a hundred thousand dollars would protect my future way more than my virginity ever could. Because money like that could pay for my whole three years at Eldridge ...

  I’m still lost in this last thought when I feel my cell vibrating in my purse, and as I pull it out, my panties go flying onto the sidewalk too, right in front of a young kid and his mom.

  The mom shoots me an evil look as I quickly snatch them up and stuff them hurriedly back into my purse, and then I hit ‘answer’ on the call.

  “So?” Nat’s voice says excitedly from the other end of the line. “How’d it go?”

  For a moment I freeze stock still on the sidewalk. How the hell did she know about my meeting with Dylan?! I didn’t tell a soul. Then I clock that she means my audition, of course.

  “I don’t know,” I sigh. “Good and bad. Listen, meet me at Countdown in an hour and I’ll tell you all about it. It’s been a weird few days. I could do with a drink and best of all, a dance.”

  “Funny you should mention that,” she laughs. “I was about to suggest the exact same thing.”

  §

  Countdown is my favorite place in the whole of New York. It was the first club Nat took me to when we started hanging out together. It’s big and loud, laid out on loads of different levels, and sprawling enough that you can be totally anonymous and really let yourself get lost in the music. The DJ’s are amazing, and Nat’s been coming here so long that all the doormen love her and let her in for free, and because I’m her friend, I get to tag along for the ride.

  We push our way into the busy club – crammed as usual with dancing, sweaty bodies. But tonight, before we start dancing, we take a seat in one of the booths in the back room and order two frozen margaritas. Almost the moment we sit down, Nat wants to know just
what I’ve been up to.

  “What do you mean things have ‘been weird’,” she grins. “Oh and where were you earlier? I rang like three times before you answered. Were you on a date?”

  “Oh, come on,” I sigh. “Like I’ve had the time to date recently! My audition’s taken up practically my whole life. You know that.”

  “Then you need to re-evaluate your priorities,” Nat says, pointing a long, expertly-manicured fingernail at me.

  I don’t want to talk about this right now, so I try and change the subject. “Hey,” I say, grabbing her hand to check out her nails. “These are really fierce. Where did you get them done?” I stroke a pointed fingernail; it’s painted a deep purple with glittery diagonal gold stripes and tiny diamante detailing.

  “I just went to Lisa’s Nail Bar,” she explains, “but she’s got this new girl in and you gotta check her out. She is the business.”

  Nat’s looking really smug; she just loves it when people compliment her nails. But she’s no dummy either. She can see exactly what I’m up to.

  “Oh no no no no no!” she laughs. “You’re not getting out of it that easily! I said, where were you? You were on a date! There’s someone, isn’t there? I just know it!”

  “Oh, come on Nat,” I sigh. “I don’t want to talk about this. We’re out having fun, aren’t we? You know how I feel about guys right now. In fact, you know how I feel about guys full stop. They’re only after one thing, but they give you all the talk, all the lines, and before you know it, you’re staring at your phone, crying, wondering why he hasn’t texted you back.” At this, I slam my hand down on the table. “Love is for losers,” I say, deadly serious, “and I’ve got to stay focused.”

  “So where were you then?” she persists.

  “Nowhere.”

  I don’t know why I can’t just tell her the truth. I mean, it’s a crazy story. I’d love to tell someone, and I know Nat would find it hilarious. What is it about me that keeps things so private? Why do I always keep everything to myself? Like my virginity. Nat’s my best friend. I should be able to tell her, right? I know for sure that she wouldn’t judge me. But for some reason, I always keep little parts of myself locked away from others. And on top of all that, I still don’t know what the hell I’m going to do about Dylan’s offer. I feel so torn, so confused. And I need to get out of this conversation ...

  But just then, the DJ saves me. He switches up the music, and starts playing some old-school hip hop, and we can never resist that.

  “Come on,” I say, pushing myself up from our table, grabbing her hand and dragging her to her feet.

  She quickly knocks back the rest of her margarita then lets me pull her towards the dance floor.

  Nat’s breath-taking to look at. Even just standing still, never mind dancing. Tonight we’re both dressed in matching barely-there mini dresses: red for me, while Nat’s is gold – metallics are her signature colors. She’s got long legs to die for, and in her heels she clears six foot easily.

  She’s an amazing dancer, too – much more at home with hip hop than me, and there’s something totally hypnotic about the way she moves, that always gets people watching. I’ve told her that she should try out for dance school too, but she’s always shrugged it off. She says she just wants to dance for fun, or maybe to teach disadvantaged kids, or something. But not to learn it. She says that anything she’s studied, she’s ended up hating – and she sure as hell doesn’t want dance to become something she hates, too.

  I can totally understand, but I don’t think that could ever happen to me. When I’m dancing, it feels just as natural as breathing – and who could ever hate breathing, right?

  “Nice moves,” comes a voice from behind us.

  I turn around to confront the voice, only to see two guys grinding hopefully towards us.

  Nat leans in to me. “They’re both kinda cute, no?” she says, just loud enough for me to hear over the music.

  I nod, and we smile at the guys, wordlessly inviting them to join us. Soon we’re all dancing together, and when the song finishes, they offer us a drink. They always do, and we always accept.

  As they go to the bar to fetch us a second round of frozen margaritas, we wink at each other. It’s not that we’ll let any old guys flirt with us just for drinks, and we’re certainly not going to go home with these two tonight. But they’re cute, and we’re broke, and this is fun.

  No one’s getting hurt, right?

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Name?”

  The impossibly blonde, perfectly-made-up receptionist at Campbell Finance looks me up and down like I shouldn’t even be allowed in the lobby, let alone to come in for a three o’ clock with the head of the company himself.

  “Julia Tate,” I say, keeping my voice steady and my back straight, my head held high.

  “Just one moment please.”

  I cannot fucking wait for her to call Dylan’s office and realize that she’s gonna have to be nice to me.

  “Oh, hi Chloe, I have a Julia Tate here? Says she’s got a three o’ clock with Mr Campbell?”

  There’s a pause and she shoots me another catty little glance, like she can tell my black dress came from a Target sale rack, but then sure enough, her face changes and a thin-lipped smile flutters across her face.

  “It’s the seventeenth floor, Miss Tate,” she says. “The elevators are in the far corner over there and Chloe will receive you when you reach the top.”

  “Thank you,” I say, unable to keep the see-I-wasn’t-lying smile from my face.

  Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip, I repeat in my head like a mantra as I click over to the elevator in my heels. And as I step inside and punch in floor seventeen, I still can’t believe I’m actually going through with this.

  “Ah, Miss Tate!” Chloe coos, as pristine and smiley as an air hostess, the very second I step from the elevator. “Right this way.”

  She’s way taller and prettier than me – as flawless as any supermodel – and it makes me wonder, why me. What is it about me that’s got Dylan Campbell throwing his money around?

  Chloe leads me to a small, elegantly furnished, wood-paneled waiting room outside the door to what I assume is Dylan’s office, and tells me to take a seat. I sink down into the plush black couch, glad for some respite from my heels, wishing I’d brought a pair of flats in my purse.

  And then, as she returns to her desk, just around the corner, I wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  A few times, I slip my cell from my purse to check the time – he’s ten minutes late, then fifteen, then twenty.

  After half an hour, I’m furious.

  That asshole, I think. Is he doing this on purpose? Is this just another one of his fucked up mind games?

  I’m about to get up and leave, when all of a sudden the door opens and there he is, dressed the same as that first night in the bar: in an immaculately tailored charcoal gray suit, perfectly crisp white shirt and pitch black tie, cufflinks glinting, shoes shining, hair perfectly styled, as if he’s stepped directly from the pages of some glossy magazine.

  “Excuse me,” he says nonchalantly. “My conference call with Hong Kong overran.”

  Is he fucking with me, or is that really the truth?

  I can’t work out whether he’s playing mind games, making me wait to want him even more. But true or not, that was hardly much of an apology, was it?

  “Right this way, Miss Tate,” he says, gesturing into his office.

  As I step past him into the room, I catch that same cologne again – so strange and distinct, strong yet subtle. It suits him perfectly.

  His office is amazing. Floor-to-ceiling windows on three walls, offering a panoramic view of the New York skyline. He’s got a whole bar in one corner. It’s like something out of Mad Men, and he’s definitely the Don Draper character. In control, womanizing, not to mention devastatingly handsome.

  “Please, Julia,” he says, indicating the chair facing his desk.
And the word ‘please,’ when Dylan Campbell says it, means something totally different. It means, Do it. Now.

  I sit down, and he walks around to the other side of his desk, then sits facing me, black eyes locking onto mine.

  “So,” he says calmly, “how may I help you?”

  “Not this again,” I say, feeling the anger boil up inside me.

  He is fucking with me, isn’t he? He knows exactly why I’m here but he’s determined to make me say it. He’s actually enjoying humiliating me. It’s totally obvious.

  “We had a deal, remember?” I snap. “One week of my time for a hundred grand? Well, I accept. I’m here. It’s three o’ clock on Monday, isn’t it? Or are you gonna try and fuck with my head all over again? Because if you are, please tell me this time before I remove my underwear.”

  I just can’t read him. His face gives almost nothing away. But is that the slightest hint of a smile on his lips?

  Maybe he even enjoys being shouted at. It’s probably one of his kinks.

  “Of course, of course,” he says, leaning back in his chair, cradling his head in his hands, his suit jacket coming open, the cotton of his shirt stretching taut against his broad chest, showing off what looks like a pretty muscular torso beneath. “Our little deal. I remember it well. But ...”

  God damn it. Why is there always a ‘but’?

  “I’ll need you to audition first.”

  “What do you mean, ‘audition’?” I spit.

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Julia,” he replies. “That much is clear. But this city is full of beautiful women. I need to know that you’re more than just beautiful. I need to know that you can turn me on, too.”

  This is enough. He’s taken this too far.

  Propelled by the anger, I push myself to my feet, slam my palms on the desk and practically scream in his face.

  “I came all this way and you’re telling me I’ve got to fucking audition?”