by Skye Warren
AUDITION
Skye Warren and Amelia Wilde
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Excerpt from Overture
Books by Skye Warren
About Skye Warren
About Amelia Wilde
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
The novel Oliver Twist shone a light on the plight of poor children who were forced to work in harsh conditions much like a prison. They were fed primarily gruel and soup, only given tea when prescribed by a doctor.
Bethany
Blinding lights. Aching lungs. Thunderous applause.
The opening show ends the way we rehearsed for weeks, only this time with an audience. My muscles know the movements better than they understand the rest. The prospect of after, of anything outside this stage, makes my breath catch.
We take our bows together, as a single line. The avant-garde dance company doesn’t have a strict hierarchy—no corps dancers or prima ballerinas. There’s only this show, this moment, which suits me perfectly. No promises. No regrets.
The curtain falls.
Almost to the second, we break formation—a flock of crows startled from the woods. We prance to the dressing room, our bodies made springy by adrenaline. Euphoria clings to our sweat-dampened skin even backstage.
Grins and congratulations all around.
The show is titled Olivia Twist, a contemporary retelling with most of the roles gender reversed. Fagin has been reimagined as Fanny, the clever head of a group home for girls. The concept was mine, but the entire show is a team effort.
There’s relief, too. The standard ritual of icing swollen joints or wrapping bruised tendons. We hurl our bodies through the air, forcing massive impact through tired joints night after night. We look strong onstage. Behind the curtain we’re a jumble of never-healing wounds, held together by silk and spandex and Kinesio tape.
I catch my friend Marlena under my shoulder. Her face is white with pain.
“Ice,” she says. “Or better yet—tequila.”
I help her limp off the stage. “Don’t sell yourself short. You can have both.”
A delicate snort. “Not likely. We have to smile and flirt with the old men with big, fat wallets. As if I don’t do enough of that at home.”
We fall into our creaky chairs in the dressing room. The stage director tosses half-frozen bottles of Ozarka at each of us, and we both pause to gulp. I’m wearing an army-green leotard sewn with rags to highlight my part as the gender-reversed Olivia Twist, while Marlena wears a patchwork greatcoat for her part as Fagin.
I drip some of the cold water into my palm and smooth it across the back of my neck. “You don’t have to. At home, I mean. You definitely have to flirt at the opening party.”
“My body hurts too much to give up my whirlpool tub or two-thousand-thread-count sheets.” Marlena has a sugar daddy who visits her a few times a week for an uncomplicated evening. In exchange he pays for an upscale brownstone once owned by a Hollywood actor, a Bentley and driver to take her to and from practice, and a 401K through his company.
“Does he have any friends?” I ask, though I’m joking—mostly.
“You know I’d find you a sugar daddy if I thought you’d actually accept it. We probably don’t even need to. I’ve seen the way Scott looks at your ass. He has more than enough money to keep both of us.”
I choke on a swallow of water. “Marlena.”
She giggles. “He may be old, but he knows how to show a girl a good time.”
“We’ll call that plan B. Besides, I like my apartment.” The dance company doesn’t pay very much. Less than minimum wage. They get away with it because it’s considered a part-time job. We’re only paid for the time we perform, even though we practice eight hours a day.
I don’t precisely like my apartment, but it’s all I can afford.
Marlena rolls her eyes. “Let me know when you get tired of the rat droppings.”
For that comment I flick my fingers, spraying her with ice-cold water. She squeals and spills some of her water on my thigh, making me gasp. She thinks I’m too uptight to accept a sugar daddy, like maybe I look down on her. That’s not it. I learned early on the risk of belonging to a man. The danger of trusting one.
Being a ballet dancer is a terrible business model. My only commodity is my body, and between injury and age, it depreciates quickly. Still, it’s managed to keep me off the streets. It’s managed to keep me independent from my brother.
For that I’m grateful.
I remind myself of that as I sit at my bench. We’re contractually obligated to attend the ball. Like Marlena said, we should smile and flirt with the rich people who attend. Both the male and female dancers have to. It’s what convinces the sponsors to write checks that will fund the next season. Ticket sales don’t even cover our tiny paychecks.
Fresh lipstick. Powder. I smooth a hand over my bun, but it’s perfectly tight. The truth is that I look composed most of the time. People assume I must feel that way, too. It’s an act as surely as I dance on the stage each night. A performance.
I’d love to change into a fresh leotard and shoes, but Rio would complain. They like us sweaty, the stage manager says. It adds to the authenticity. Five hundred rich people of New Orleans will be wearing gowns and tuxedos. Meanwhile I’m damp with sweat and the remains of our impromptu bottled water fight, wearing an army green leotard with bits of frayed fabric forming a ragged tutu.
Chandeliers blind me. The chatter is a physical sensation, like hitting a wall.
Rio hands me two glasses of champagne. “Dunn’s on stage left.”
My stomach sinks. Trevor Dunn is a real estate mogul who thinks his corporate sponsorship gives him the right to grope the dancers. Unfortunately he has a particular liking for me. I look around for Marlena, but she’s already with Scott Castle. He stands in a black suit with silver-blond hair, a stern expression on his face. They met at one of these events last season, and he hasn’t missed one since. He wants the other men to know she’s taken. His hand on her ass doesn’t leave any ambiguity.
From all the way across the room I hear Trevor’s over-hearty laugh. God. He probably wants to become my sugar daddy. The idea makes my throat clench. My eyes burn.
Mamere’s voice rumbles through my head. You come from priestesses and warriors, child. Why you want to take off your clothes and dance for white men? She’s never thought ballet was different from being a stripper. As I approach the drunk men on the left side of the ballroom, the knot in my stomach tightening with every step, it feels like she’s right.
It might seem like being onstage, but for me it’s completely different. When I perform, my footwork is predetermined, the choreography practiced so well it feels like second nature. This? I try to avoid the boisterous crowd. People jostle me. They bump into me.
They make the champagne slosh against the glasses.
Golden liquid slips over the rim. It spills between my fingers. When I arrive at the group
of men, they’re caught in the grip of belly laughs—most likely over something lewd or offensive. These are the quintessential frat boys all grown up.
I’m the girl from a family where no one’s been to college.
“Bethany,” Trevor says with what I suppose is a charming smile on his perfectly tan face. He’s aggressively fit, the kind that must take hours in a gym every morning. He’s also aggressively styled with slick hair and expensive clothes and a gleaming male manicure. “You looked great tonight. I can pick you out of the lineup every time.”
Heat rushes to my face. He can pick me out of a lineup because of my skin color. It’s not really a commentary on my talent or his skills of observation. “I brought champagne.”
Only as the words leave my lips do I realize how strange it is for me to bring a glass only for him when he’s standing in a group of other men. It’s something a girlfriend would do.
I don’t want him to get romantic ideas about me.
“Thanks, sweetheart.” He hands me his empty beer stein as if I’m a server.
It would be less humiliating if I weren’t half-naked. The leotard that feels so natural onstage seems obscene as I stand here holding a glass smudged with Trevor Dunn’s fingerprints.
I’m the high-society equivalent of a Hooter’s waitress.
“That must be for me,” comes a low voice I remember from my dreams. Green eyes. A face so handsome it belongs on some kind of movie star, not a soldier for hire. A mercenary. He wears his muscles with an ease that Trevor can’t match. Those hands have done things that would make society matrons gasp. That body has moved through the darkest places on earth.
“You.” My mind supplies only that word: you, you, you.
He gives me a cocky half smile that promises a wicked night. It’s the smile that could lure Eve out of the garden. He’s not Adam. No. He’s the serpent with the dark temptation. “Hello, Bethany.”
Trevor frowns. “You know her?”
“We’ve met,” Josh says, taking the other champagne glass from my numb fingers. He takes a gulp before passing the flute to Trevor. He takes the beer stein, too, putting it in the crook of Trevor’s suited elbow. That’s how he leaves Dunn, holding three glasses, unable to move his arms without spilling. “Be a good pal and walk that over to the bar,” Josh says, not taking his eyes off me.
It seems impossible that Trevor would obey. He does. His friends drift away, too.
Then it’s only Joshua North standing in front of me.
“Why were you bringing that fucker a drink?”
His harsh tone makes me flinch. Which annoys me. I don’t answer to this man. “It’s not any of your business who I bring drinks to. What are you doing here?”
“I’m a fan of ballet,” he says, his voice bland.
An unladylike snort. “Of course you are.”
“What’s not to like? Half-naked women onstage for an hour and a half. Doing the splits. Bending over. And those lifts. I swear your partner had his hand right in your—”
“Oh my God, you’re worse than Trevor.”
“That’s his name?”
“You were talking to him.”
“Only because I didn’t know his name was Trevor.”
My eyes narrow. “Why are you here again?”
“To see you, my darling, my love, my northern star.”
He’s making fun of me, which would be bad enough—worse because my heart skips a beat at the words, eternally hopeful, eternally stupid. Once upon a time I had a crush on this man, even knowing he could never return the feeling. The whole world is a joke to him. A dirty joke. “Fine, don’t tell me.”
“I could only count the days that we were apart. Desolate. Lonely.”
He really is worse than Trevor. At least with Dunn I can slap away his grasping hands. When I get home, it’s easy enough to take a shower. Somehow I don’t think hot water is going to wash away the sting of Joshua’s mocking tone. “Whatever you’re doing here, leave me out of it.”
“That’s going to be tough to do, sweetheart.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m here to protect you.”
Josh
I remember the hunger, the raw scrape in my stomach, the heaviness in my muscles. The name brings it back to me. Years ago, a different Trevor. Trevor Rawley was an equal opportunity elementary school bruiser. He made sure all of us got a turn under his fists. He came at me looking for my lunch money, but like so many other days, I didn’t have any. He would have knocked me around a little regardless, but it pissed him off not to get anything.
Well, I could take it.
Dear old Dad taught me how to take a punch.
One day, though, I decided not to.
I looked at Trevor with his clothes that fit and his pudgy stomach from more food than he needed, food I didn’t have. The world turned red. He was twice my size, but I fought and kicked and clawed my way to an ugly victory. I carried my tray with cheese sticks and milk in a bag down the line and handed over his five-dollar bill.
Later that day I was called into the principal’s office. Apparently Trevor had bruised ribs and a torn cornea. The cops were called.
And at the end of it, I went home—my belly full.
That’s all I had to do? Go apeshit. That’s the answer. What’s the point of holding back? What’s the purpose of denial? That was the day I decided to take what I wanted, no matter the cost.
Bethany Lewis is the one exception.
She’s the one thing I wanted that I didn’t take. Call it a crisis of conscience. Or a moment of stupidity. That’s over now. The moment I saw her name on the dossier at North Security I felt the same hunger, the same raw scrape in my stomach. I felt the heaviness in my muscles.
Like I’d fight the whole world to have her.
She manages a frosty silence all the way to the back offices, her chin high, her lips pursed. Naturally it makes my dick hard. That much I remember about her. Everything she does makes my dick hard. She climbs the back stairs, her tight little ass twitching in her leotard and stockings. I definitely shouldn’t grab her butt right now. The word shouldn’t has always been like a dare to me, like a bully challenging me to stand up to him. Which of course I would every time. If it meant bleeding out in the mud behind the playground, I would.
What’s the point of holding back? What’s the purpose of denial?
The director looks up when she enters. There’s no surprise. I told him she would fight the protection. Most people do. Celebrities. Politicians. Accepting that they need protection means accepting that they’re unsafe.
The mind will fight that conclusion long and hard.
She’ll fight this for other reasons—because I’m the one offering protection.
There was no knock at the door. No demure waiting for permission to enter. Only as she stands in front of the desk does she hesitate. Such a good girl. It’s hard for her to assert herself, but she does.
“Mr. Landon,” she says, her voice tight. “Did you give this man permission to follow me?”
“The threats—”
“Everyone gets threats.”
I lean beside the window, looking out, scanning for suspicious people. “Everyone gets e-mails from shitheads. You’re too fat. Too skinny. I wish you were dead. Those are the kind of threats other dancers get, right? The world is full of random assholes. Except that’s not what yours say.”
Her eyes narrow. “He had no right to show them to you.”
“Actually he did. They’re the property of the ballet company. They were sent here. Which is interesting. I’m sure this person could have sent them to your apartment.” Her dark eyes shutter. “Ah, but he tried that. No response. He escalated the game to get your boss involved.”
Her jaw works. “I’m sorry about that,” she says, addressing the director. “I didn’t mean to disrupt the dance company. If I need to resign my position, I can do that.”
Alarm fills his eyes. He’s looking at her with more tha
n an employer’s interest. “Of course not, Bethany. Don’t even say that. I’m only concerned about your safety. You’re my responsibility.”
A subtle tightening of her lips. “I’m my own responsibility.”
The director manages to look hurt, which makes me wonder how far he’s pushed his interest. Would he fuck a ballerina who worked for him? Of course he would. Would Bethany let him fuck her in order to be the good, dutiful dancer? That hungry brown gaze sweeps over her body. Too desperate. He hasn’t had her yet. It’s those damn ethics that get men in trouble. He didn’t want to overstep. My brothers have that shit, too. Me? I’m fresh out. I will step all over her lithe little body, framed so prettily in ivory spandex.
“Bethany.” His voice becomes coaxing. “You’ve only been with us for one season. What would happen if you leave now? You have so much more to learn. I have so much more to teach you.”
Christ. Bethany’s danced with the world-class touring company Cirque du Monde. She’s been on a global tour with the violin prodigy Samantha Brooks. She’s a thousand miles above this rinky dink dance joint, a thousand miles above this guy, who only has the job because he flunked out of his MFA with his best friend, who inherited a shit ton of money. They started the avant garde dance company to challenge the institution, which is ironic considering they’re white men in the one percent.
I pull up the photograph on my phone. A typed letter on the letterhead of a fifty-year-old hotel in lower New Orleans. They could tell me nothing about any possible-stalker guests. I’ve already tried that angle. “‘Dear Bethany,’” I read aloud. “‘Why don’t you look at me? I’m waiting for you. I’ve been waiting a long time.’”
“Personal correspondence,” she says with the same good effort in the face of the same sheer futility. “That’s my personal correspondence.”
This woman will never stop fighting. It’s the truly twisted part of me that finds her a turn-on. I don’t want her surrender. “It’s evidence for when your body turns up in a dumpster.”
Anger flashes through her dark eyes. It would be more comforting if it weren’t also accompanied by panic. “You don’t know that. You don’t know anything.”