Stripped (4 page)

I fight through the throng of women as they surround me and crane my neck to see over their heads.

“She’s gone, Stone.” It’s Glenda. Somehow she broke through the groupies and is handing me my sweatshirt.

“Bloody hell!” I curse and pull it over my shoulders and zip it up gratefully.

“I watched her leave in a taxi with her friend.” Glenda’s voice gets softer. “It wasn’t your fault.”

I turn on her, but the venom is only directed at myself. “Right, mate. Cause I wasn’t the one touching her in front of the whole fucking world.” I shake my head.

After she helps me make a path back to the club, I get to the dressing room and lock the door behind me. I don’t give a fuck if the guys need to get in here or not.

I stop in front of the full-length mirror I was looking into when dark eyes first came into the dressing room as if by serendipity.

Yes, me and my evil-brain dick both believe in that shit.

But I don’t think even serendipity would want to save my arse now.

Chapter Five

Emelie

Putting Baby in the corner

(And other pop culture references)

Two weeks later

I steel my breath and steer right, into the Santa Monica Dance Studio parking lot. The red neon sign reads OPEN, but it’s so early in the morning there are only a couple cars in the lot. I pick a spot, leave the engine idling, and stare at the studio’s large dark tinted windows.

A long banner spreading across the width of the building reads, “Where Stage Meets Street.”

Neatly stacked up against the left edge of the window are bold pink and white signs, one on top of the next:
Tap, Jazz, Ballet, Hip-Hop, Latin, Ballroom, Line, Swing, Contemporary, Irish Step, Freestyle, Experimental. Lessons for ages one to one hundred.

A sigh pushes up from my lungs as I lean back in the pleather bucket seat of Vi’s KIA.
What the hell am I doing?

Ballet. I muse longingly and a twinge of electric pain shoots through the top of my right foot and up through my spine, reminding every nerve in my body of the fire it’s experienced.

My cell vibrates from the empty passenger seat beside me. My father’s face lights the screen. The first pain dissipates, only to be replaced by a new one. This one rips through my heart—an agonizing mixture of guilt and failure—bottomless sadness that, in the past year, I’ve come to accept I’ll never be free from.

Ignoring my dad’s stern expression, I gaze back towards the dance studio windows.

All I wanted to do here was think
. But each vibration goads me.

Finally, it stops, but I realize my hands have curled into tight fists. I deliberately relax each finger while I inhale a couple cleansing breaths.

When the buzzing starts again—should’ve known he wouldn’t be satisfied until he actually forced me to speak to him—I rip the key from the ignition, jump out of the car as if it’s caught fire, and lock the cell phone inside.

There. How do you like that?
My excuse won’t be a lie.
Left my phone in the car.

If I think anymore, I’ll lose my nerve. Swiftly, I walk to the door and curl my fingers around the handle. Pushing through, I wince when a strand of jingle bells announces my presence.

Perfect.
There goes all stealth.

Fortunately, the place is empty. At least the front room is.

A little thrill goes through me. I’m alone.
For now.

I take a few quiet and tentative steps into the hallway. The first room on my left is brightly lit, with overhead lights and rays of sun spilling out onto the polished oak flooring. The far wall is covered with a full-length mirror, and a reflection of myself, leaning uncertainly in the doorway, looks back at me.

She doesn’t resemble me, not really. She isn’t who I was
before
—my real self—she’s this new girl who has lost everything, including her identity and her belief in herself.

I blink and refuse to catch her eyes again.

Delicately, my toes point and my foot arches to follow, as I gingerly take a first step onto the floor. It’s been so long.

My heart is pounding—boom-boom-boom, boom-boom-boom—I try shutting off my mind, but there is no way I can calm it.

I just want to
touch
it.

After glancing over my shoulder to make sure I’m still alone, I stride across the room. Purpose seems to shove me along.

My arm reaches out, and my fingers extend toward the pale, polished barre.

I ache with longing. Oh, how I want to feel its surface underneath my palm, to grip it.

In my mind, I watch myself lifting my leg to balance against the barre while I stretch, long and slender. Sleek. Standing en pointe, I’d swing the opposite leg behind me into an arabesque. Graceful, magical.

Slowly, I bring my hand closer to the barre. I get this vision of
Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark
—the first movie’s still the best—and the way Indie reached out to snatch the golden head from the temple—before the massive boulder dropped from the ceiling and rolled after him, trying to crush him into dust. I feel just like that.

The tips of my fingers are almost there…

“G’day. Welcome to the Santa Monica Dance Studio.”

I know that accent.

I freeze.
No
. No way.

No. Fucking. Way.

Slowly, I turn around until I’m face to face with
him
. My nemesis.
My death-rolling boulder!

“Hey, what are you doing here, Sunshine?” Dirty Aussie says happily. A cocky grin spreads wide across his gorgeous face.

Like we’re old friends.

Like, he
knows
me.

“Just leaving,” I say, maneuvering around him.

He sidesteps in front of me. “You just got here.”

“Yes, but I didn’t mean to interrupt your little dance lesson.” Sliding to the left, I take a swift step away from him.

He lunges easily and blocks my path. Oh, he’s so infuriating!

“You’ve got it all wrong, Sunshine. I don’t take classes. I give ’em.”

This day just keeps getting better and better.

“You’re an instructor? Here?” I’m incredulous.

“Something like that,” he answers with a twinkle in his eye.

I’ll make him lose that fast enough.

“I’m going to report you to your supervisor,” I say, looking past him in hopes of spying another employee.

“Really?” His expression feigns distress. “Report what?”

“You know what!”

“No, actually, I’m not sure what you’re referring to.” He leans back a bit, folds his really thick, manly arms across his even thicker, sexy chest and his smile grows cockier. In fact, he seems even more… arrogant.

If I could shoot fire from my eyes and disintegrate him, I totally would.

“Oooohhh!” Dirty Aussie-Thunder man nods like he’s sifting through the best memory of his life. “That I’m an exotic dancer?”

“You’re a stripper!” I lower my voice to a hiss and accuse.

“Since when is that against law?” He lifts an eyebrow at me.

And fuck him if it doesn’t make him more attractive! Like that could even be possible!

I sputter, “It’s unethical.”

“I think you mean immoral, Sunshine.”

“Whatever. What’s your supervisor’s name?”

A whimsical glow paints his expression as he brings his boyish, good looking face right next to mine. So close I get a whiff of his sweet spearmint toothpaste, and all I can think about is the soft fleshy pink of his lips and how they would feel…

“How are you going to tell him, you know, that I’m a…?”

“Stripper.”
Guilty as charged,
I think.

“Yeah. How?”

“How…? Am I…?”

“You do have a firsthand
eyewitness
account, don’t you…? Love?”

The mirror behind him on the opposite side of the room proves what I’m feeling—that the blood has drained from my face and I’m now left holding the crown and title of Most Embarrassed at the Miss Outsmarted Pageant.

“Right, that’s what I thought,” he quips brazenly.

“If you don’t mind getting out of my way…” I shove my shoulder into his brick house physique—bumping up against him is
not
helping my situation. There seems to be a fine line here for us between hate and lust. It’s also very clear that my body and brain are on two totally separate sides of the force! My brain—completely Jedi; my body—so ready to embrace the dark side. “I’ll be leaving now.”

I’m halfway across the room when I hear that sex-saturated accent that makes every hormone, nerve ending, and cell in my body drool and whimper for more. “You know, if you want to dance, I’m your man.”

My feet stop without a direct cue from my brain. “How are
you
my man?”

He says something, but I can’t make out the words. I need red wine and double fudge brownies, stat. This is going to be a suck-ass kind of day. I should’ve never come in here.

And
I still have to talk to my dad.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “I’ll never dance again.” The agony squeezes my heart like an iron fist.

“You were dancing pretty bloody well the other night.”

I wheel around hotly. “Really?!?
Really?!”

I can’t believe he brought it up and just… just… threw it out there like it was nothing!

“Yeah, really.” He shakes his head as if to tsk-tsk me. “You’re so oblivious.”

I huff at him.

Fuck,
I can’t think of anything witty to say back. And what’s he mean, oblivious?

“Come on, Sunshine,” he purrs disarmingly. “For you, I’ll give the first three
private
lessons free.”

“Private?” Damn my smile reflex!

“Ahh, I thought you’d like that.”

I shake my head. “No! No, I do not like that. I do not want or need private lessons… from you!”

“Sure you do,” he guarantees with mischief in his expression.

My lady parts are all in favor. I’m not so agreeable.

He continues, “Superstar like you won’t want to share floor time with novices.”

I feel my brow furrow as hot frustration not only rises up into my eyes, but also down between my legs.

“Don’t look so surprised. I’m taking you as a principal dancer… before whatever happened to you.”

How does he know?
“I was,” I admit quietly. “New York Ballet.”

He nods.

My thoughts go full tilt. Do I still carry myself like a dancer? What does he see when he looks at me? I have to know. Why do I have to know?

“Despite my earlier threats, I’m not…
so
angry anymore.” I shrug a shoulder in an attempt to play it cool. “The Foreplay video didn’t actually go viral—almost 2,000,000 views, but still, there are worse things happening in the world. Plus, you couldn’t really see my face because of the shadows, and your
ego
-
enormous,
head blocking me, and none of my friends recognized me, and my father, thankfully, never saw it, so…” I can make nice long enough to find out what I want to know.

“Happy you’re not angry anymore, Sunshine. Especially since our first encounter was so explosive you’ve been my
only
fantasy for the past two weeks.”

My mouth drops open.
Holy mother of all strippers!
Has he really been thinking about me since that night?

I would
never
admit he’s been the fuel for my lady garden sessions ever since.

I push myself to think coherently. “Why are you stripping if you’re a professional…?”

“Dancer?” he finishes. “I have a game plan. I’m bridging all my ventures so I can do what I love.”

“And you love stripping in front of hundreds of sex-starved, screaming women?”

He just smirks at me, wagging an eyebrow.

“Why did I even ask?”

“So, what did you come in here for anyway, Sunshine?”

All the air deflates from my chest. “I just wanted to watch.”

“
What
do you want to watch?” he says with a glint in his eye.

“Ugh! Can you get your head out of the gutter for even a second?”

“Not sure if that’s possible with you standing so close to me.”

“Maybe I need to leave.”

“Don’t go. Best behavior, honest.” He holds up a peace sign, like that’s a thing. Or a viable symbol to swear over.

That’s obviously not going to hold up.

I look towards the door. “You must have a class starting soon.”

“Not for another twenty minutes. Would you like something to drink?”

It’s still egging me on—finding out how he guessed that I was a principal dancer. “Sure.”

He fetches us both a couple of water bottles from the cooler.

“You know, Sunshine, you can talk about it. Sometimes stranger-therapy can be healthy for you.”

“Stranger-therapy, huh?”

He smiles and it’s soft and friendly. I have nothing more to lose. “I got injured and now I have no life. What I was born to be and trained to do since I was three years old was ripped away from me with one wrong move. I spent almost two years in physical and occupational therapy and went to a sport’s shrink for the past year at my father’s insistence. My physical condition is healed, with the exception that I’ll never be able to perform as a principal again—with its hours of rigorous and repetitive work en pointe.”

“I get it,” he says gently. “You need to fall in love again.”