As the song begins, we take our positions and slide through the small light footwork. Swaying right and left, always turning, bending, and straightening, we create a unified twirling motion, two bodies swinging forward and back like a pendulum.
I concentrate on adding little lifts at the end of each beat, the subtle kicks that bounce in my pelvis and sex-up the movements. My feet ache in the heels, my soles covered in callouses. But I muscle through it, pushing against the floor to roll up on my toes and absorb that lift in my core. Soon, I’m oiling my hips and slipping into the zone.
“There’s my girl.” Nikolai beams, rolling me in a full turn out and back.
A knock sounds on the exterior door of the dance studio.
He pulls me into a closed position, bending me backward as I shout with my head hanging upside-down, “Come in! It’s open!”
It’s a Friday afternoon. The visitor could be any one of my students. Or my sister stopping by after school. Though she never knocks.
I sidestep through a circular volta, spinning to wrap my legs around Nikolai’s waist with my back to the door. He gyrates against me, hands spanned across my backside and bare chest flexing beneath my fingers. Then he stops abruptly and drops my feet to the floor, staring at whoever walked in.
Chest heaving, I turn and come face to face with Trace Savoy.
Hands on his hips and expression stormy, he aims his crankiness at the other man.
Oh, now this is interesting. Cole hated Nikolai, but that was a jealousy problem. Who knows what crawled up Trace’s ass?
“What are you doing here?” I adjust the spandex shorts where they gather uncomfortably around my upper thighs.
“Checking in.” Trace shifts his testy gaze to me.
Nikolai turns off the music and joins my side. “Who’s the stiff upper-lip?”
“The reason my evenings are no longer available. Nik, meet Trace. Trace, this is Nikolai.”
They don’t shake hands or exchange customary greetings. Nikolai crosses his arms over his nude chest. Trace maintains his wide stance, hands behind his back, spine straight.
He’s wearing a black suit today, the shirt stiff and blue like his eyes. No tie. The top few buttons are open, offering a tempting view of his strong neck.
“I’m gonna go.” Nikolai slips around me, pulls on his shirt, and changes into his street shoes.
“No, wait. We need to—”
“I’ve been here before.” He moves toward the door, gesturing between Trace and me. “Once was enough.”
Trace raises a brow in question. I’m sure he’d love to hear all about the night Nikolai met the bloody end of Cole’s fist, but it’s none of his business.
“There’s nothing going on here.” I give Nikolai my angry look, which works on exactly no one.
“Right.” He laughs and shakes his head. “Call me, padna. We’ll have that talk you promised.”
I fist my hands at my sides as he gives Trace a chin lift and steps outside, vanishing beyond the door.
“What happened to the mirror?” Trace nods at the splintering hole that’s been there for two years.
“Self-pity happened.” I leave the broken mirror as a reminder of what I used to look like, so that I never let myself reach that level of numb, grieving drunkenness again.
“I can have it repaired.”
“No, thanks.” I grab a towel and wipe the sweat from my face and neck. “For the record, that’s the second time you’ve chased a man from my house.”
“I did no such thing.” He steps through the room, scanning every detail of Cole’s hard work with his infuriating eagle eyes. “It seems you have trouble hanging onto men.”
My blood simmers, and my pulse shoots through the roof. “Nikolai is one of my many lovers. He always comes back.”
He pauses, turns his head toward me, and narrows his gaze. “You’re not fucking him.”
Though he’s right, the conviction in his tone makes me want to cold cock his clenched ass. I spin away and stride through the door that leads to the kitchen.
“You know how I know that?” He trails after me, zinging electricity up my spine.
“I don’t care.” I grab a bottled water from the fridge and chug it on my way to the shower.
“If you were spreading your legs for him,” he says, leaning against the door jamb of the bathroom, “he wouldn’t have left so quickly.”
“You don’t know—”
“You’ve turned him down so many times he’s conditioned to accept your rejection.”
How does he know that? And why is he still here? Even more troubling, why haven’t I kicked him out?
The black suit hugs his tall muscled frame. As hot as it is outside, I bet his skin is damp and warm beneath the expensive fabric. And hard. Like sun-soaked marble. His chiseled jaw, defined cheekbones, and straight nose form a regal backdrop for the blizzard churning in those cerulean eyes.
With the collar of his button-up open and a few blond strands falling haphazardly from his raked-back hairstyle, this is the most casual I’ve seen him. He’s arresting in a deliberately edgy yet effortless way that makes it so easy stare at him.
“You need to stop doing that.” He rests a hand in the front pocket of his slacks.
“Doing what?”
“Giving me the look. I’m not going to fuck you.”
Then he opens his mouth, and I’m reminded why I don’t like him.
“You’re confusing the look with annoyance.” I reach into the shower and turn on the water. “Why are you still here?”
He regards me in a way that makes me feel defensive and brittle. But he can’t hurt me. He can stand there all he wants in silent judgment. I’m taking a shower.
I hook my thumbs beneath the waistband of the shorts and ask with my eyes, Are you going to watch me undress?
He turns and ambles into the hall.
I listen for the sound of the back door as I strip and step into the tub, but I can’t hear shit over the spurting water. It would be better if he left.
Except I’m dying to know the real reason he showed up. Checking in, he said. What in the ass does that mean?
Is he wandering through my house right now? Other than Cole’s bike and the spare room crammed with dance costumes, I don’t have anything of value. Not that I’m worried about a man of his wealth stealing anything.
But he can steal information, can glean my weaknesses from the shrine in my bedroom.
Which is exactly where I find him after I shower and wrap myself in a towel.
Perched on the unmade bed with the sheets tangled beneath him, he holds a photo of Cole and me in his hands.
I yank it from his grip and return it to the dresser where countless others clutter the surface.
“What are you doing in here?” I storm toward the closet, collecting bras and panties from the dirty clothes scattered across the floor.
“Waiting on you. It’s become a dirty habit.”
I glance over my shoulder and find him lifting a black thong from the floor. I dash toward him and snatch it from his hand right before he presses it to his nose.
“Add panty-sniffing to your list of dirty habits.” I tighten the towel around my chest and return to the closet. “Really, Trace. Why are you here?”
The closet is deep enough to stand out of his line of sight as I slip into a white lacy tank top and a pair of denim cut-offs.