Ripped (27 page)

“Y
OU NEED
to make him jealous—simple as that,” Tiff said matter-of-factly. “It’s the only thing that will get his head outta his ass.” She looked around Pointe. “What about that guy? He looks straight.”

“I don’t want to make him jealous, Tiff. I just want him back.” I threw back another shot, and immediately Tiff refilled my glass from the bottle of tequila sitting on the table. “It’s been over a week and he’s vanished off the radar. Maybe it’s too late? Maybe he’s happy stripping and has moved on and forgotten all about me?”

“Pfft, no way. You said you needed time; he’s giving you time.” She clinked her glass to mine. “Cheers, big ears.” We both drank. “More?” Tiff inquired, holding up the bottle.

I held my hand over my tiny shot glass. “Not for me. I need a clear head, Tiff. I don’t know what I’m doing.” The struggle I was having between my heart and my head had me going in circles. I loved Bax more than anything else in this world. I’d thought I always would and that nothing could ever come between us, and yet the images that taunted my every waking moment had me wishing I could forget we had ever met.

“You know what you need to do? Find the hottest guy you can and show Bax that you don’t need him anymore.”

“But I do need him. I need him a lot.”

“He’s choosing stripping over you, Jaz. You need something to bitch-slap some sense into him and make him realize that he can’t have his cake and eat it too.”

Tiffany had a way of confusing me when she spoke, and this conversation was no exception. “Wait, so am I the cake? Can I be chocolate fudge? And if you have your cake, what else would you do with it if you weren’t going to eat it?”

“It’s a saying, Jaz.” She shook her head mockingly. “You’ve led such a sheltered life.”

“It makes no sense. None of it.” I threw my hands to the side in frustration. “Why the hell would someone as talented as Bax be stripping in the first place? You saw the other guys—their dance skills were honed on drunken nights with the boys, bopping up and down in the corner trying to gain the attention of some equally drunk girls. They weren’t trained performers.”

She shrugged. “Beats me. Why do any of us dance?”

Because there was nothing else we wanted to do. When we projected five years into our future to see where we wanted to be, all we saw were aching muscles, sore feet, and our bodies being pushed to the absolute limit in our quest for perfection. But every second of the sacrifice was worth it when the prize was being able to perform. It wasn’t even so much the applause or the rave reviews—it was being able to express your deepest, darkest fears, your burning desires, and the passion that at times consumed your very soul through dance. It was a form of expression, of artistry, and without it in your life, you felt as if a part of you was missing.

But if Bax was so desperate to dance then why had he given up on his dream? What he was doing wasn’t dancing—it was taking his clothes off to music. There was a huge difference.

It was closing time but I didn’t want to go home. I had nothing to go home to anymore. The apartment, though small, felt too big and too empty. A gaping open wound that reminded me every time I set foot through the door that this had been my home with Bax for far too short a time. If I’d known it was all going to come to an end so soon, I would have done many things differently. I would have rushed home after rehearsals instead of staying back to shoot the breeze with the girls. I would have stayed up late every night, waiting for Bax to come home from the restaurant or the club instead of dozing off under the covers, my body exhausted, my mind racing with dance steps I needed to master. And when he did walk through the door, his hands red from scrubbing pots for hours, his body shivering from walking in the icy night air, and all he wanted from me was to dance with him, I would have. That was how things had started, but all too soon I’d let the comfort of our bed keep me from doing the one thing he asked of me. So many nights he had inquired about my day, wanting details and for me to show him what I’d learnt or some step that had been revised, and too many nights I’d complained of being too tired to crawl out from beneath the covers to show him.

Last drinks were called, but I’d had my fill already. Tiff had made sure that when I wasn’t dancing, we were at the bar and she was plying me with tequila, but enough was enough. “I’m heading home,” I told her as I struggled to stand straight. “And tonight was my last night of the pity party. Tomorrow starts a new day, and I want to stay laser-point focused on my career. Baxter Sampson is my past, and I have to accept that.”

She nodded approvingly and gave me a rousing round of applause. “Oh bravo, Jaz. You need to practice that in the mirror though if you want to convince anybody.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, placing my hands on my hips. “My career has to come first, and drinking every night isn’t helping.”

She hauled herself out of the booth and slung one arm around my shoulders. “Oh, I get that part. Dance comes first, second, and third for me. But Baxter Sampson, stripper or saint, will always be here.” She poked me hard in the chest, making me flinch. “If you want my advice—”

“Which I don’t.”

She rolled her eyes and continued, “Find a way to build a bridge and get over it.”

I scoffed. It wasn’t that simple.

“So he strips. So girls want a piece of that hard, tanned, smooth, delicious body,” she said hoarsely, then cleared her throat before continuing. “He’s not sleeping with them. He comes home to you every night, and he loves you. They may want him, but you have him.”

“I had him,” I said sadly. “Not anymore.”

“It’s academic. If you want him, he’s yours. But you’re going to need to act fast before he thinks all hope is lost and takes one of those painted bimbos home to cheer himself up.”

But could I really build a bridge? Could I sit at home on a Saturday night, knowing what he was doing and the reaction he was getting from the drunken party girls who would take him out the back for a quickie at the first chance they got?

“That’s it. I’m sworn off alcohol forever.” My head pounded. The stage lights were too bright. The orchestra, although at only half-strength, was way too loud. “I can’t even …” I’d been stretching on the floor warming up and laid down on my back, my eyes closed. “Not today. I’m too hungover.”

It was so unfair. Tiff never seemed to have any ill effects from our nights at Pointe. She would always breeze into rehearsals, fresh as a daisy, while I struggled to walk without every footstep sending reverberations through my entire body.

Pierre’s unnecessarily loud clapping drummed in my head. “All right, my little doves, James will not be joining us today so we will start, yes?”

It was no surprise James wasn’t joining us. For a James Bruckshaw production, he was hardly ever there.

I couldn’t get up. If I could have crawled under a row of seats and gone to sleep without being missed I would have, but Pierre had already seen me and stood in front of me, staring expectantly. “Up! Come,
mon cherie
. Time to be beautiful.”

I groaned, doubting that it would be possible to be anything other than an uncoordinated elephant with the way my head felt.

“Before you go,” he whispered as I tried to walk as lightly as possible to save jarring my head. “I have a gala ball to attend tonight. James was supposed to go but he’s unavailable so I must fill in.” He flipped his hand in the air. “Always filling in.”

I waited for the point of this conversation to come to light.

“So you will attend with me.”

“Oh no. I can’t.” My head shook as I backed away. “I’ve got … things to do, very important … stuff …”

His vise-like grip on my bicep stopped my retreat. “I’m not asking, Jasmine. It is part of your duty as the star of this production to accompany me on any promotional activities.” His steely eyes were cold. “You will be my date tonight, and you will wear something ravishing to please me.”

His grip loosened, and the warmth in his eyes returned. Now that he had enforced the rules and how I was expected to play by them, he was his charming self again, but the voice in my head had gone into a panic. How could I attend a gala ball with him as his date? The prospect would have been ridiculous if it wasn’t so terrifying. His words from the fundraising performance came to mind. He could make or break my career. It was all in my hands as to whether I chose to cooperate.

“What the heck do you wear to a gala ball?” It was clear, as I threw my clothes from the rack onto the bed until Tiff was nearly buried, that I had nothing suitable. Unless, of course, you could wear sweats and a T-shirt, which I highly doubted. That wouldn’t please Pierre, and I didn’t want to find out what he would do if he wasn’t pleased. I stopped mid-throw of yet another unsuitable dress. I had absolutely no intention of pleasing him in the way I believed he was expecting, so what would that do to my career?

“Geez, Tiff, what am I going to do?” I slumped on the edge of the bed. “There is no way I’m sleeping with him, or doing anything that involves exchanging bodily fluids.”

“Well, there is one thing you could do that involves fluids?”

I screwed up my face at her.

“You seem to be able to vomit at the drop of a hat. Just keep that up your sleeve in case you get into a sticky situation.” She gave me a playful wink, and I burst out laughing.

I was so grateful that we had become such close friends. She’d been my sounding board when I’d needed to talk, and talk … and talk about Bax. And although most of her advice regarding Pierre was less than useful, it did make me laugh, which relieved my stress levels.

“Well, it’s clear you’re going to have to borrow something.” She pushed all my clothes into a messy pile and stood. “Let’s go to my place.”

I’d stayed at Tiff’s apartment and it was lovely, fairly new and well furnished with odd pieces that somehow worked together, but it was also small and certainly didn’t scream money. “Do you have a ball gown?” I asked, surprised.

She gave me a knowing smirk. “Yes, I have ball gowns, and you can take your pick.”

I stopped walking. “Did you say gowns? As in more than one?”

She laughed. “Yes, Jaz. I don’t flaunt the fact but my family has a bit of money and, well, there have been occasions where I’ve had to wear the odd ball gown and play the dutiful daughter role for their society friends.”

I would never have guessed. I couldn’t recall ever meeting anyone wealthy, but if I had, I was sure they wouldn’t have acted the way Tiff did. She was normal—at least as normal as me and the rest of the dancers—and I didn’t know about the rest of them, but I was dirt poor.