“Come to the practice gym after your last class. You can wear your PE uniform.” She pats me on the arm, then walks off before I can protest.
A groan rises in my throat, but I choke it down. Is there anything the Royals aren’t capable of doing? I’m not interested in joining the dance team, but I know that if I don’t show up to the tryout, Ms. Kelley will report back to Callum, and if he’s pissed enough, he might actually force me to quit my job. Or worse, the school might decide I have nothing “special” to offer, and Beringer will kick me out, which Callum definitely won’t like.
Truthfully, I wouldn’t like it either. This school is light-years ahead academically from the public schools I attended in the past.
I can’t concentrate at all during my last class. I’m filled with dread about the tryout, and when I make my way to the south lawn after the bell rings, I feel like an inmate walking the green mile. I should have asked Val how she got out of this sort of thing, because she can dance and I don’t see anyone forcing her to a tryout.
The girls’ locker room is empty when I walk in, but there’s a rectangular box sitting on the long gleaming bench between the rows of lockers.
ELLA is scrawled on the top, and there’s a folded piece of paper taped next to my name.
My stomach churns. With shaky hands, I snatch the note and unfold it.
Sorry, sweetie, we don’t allow dirty strippers on the team. But I’m sure The XCalibur Club in town would LOVE to let you try out. In fact, I have so much faith in you that I even bought you an audition outfit. The club’s located at the corner of Trash St. and Gutter Ave. Break a leg!
—Jordan
Her name is signed in a feminine scrawl, and the glee behind each letter is unmistakable.
My hands tremble even harder as I open the box and shove the tissue paper aside. When I see what’s inside, embarrassment floods my stomach.
The box contains a teeny pair of red panties, five-inch spiked stilettos, and a lacy red bra with black tassels. The lingerie is ugly and trashy and not unlike what I wore at Miss Candy’s back in Kirkwood.
I wonder which Royal told them about my stripping. Callum must have confided in his sons, so who talked? Reed? Easton? I’m betting on Reed.
Another emotion eclipses my embarrassment—rage. White-hot rage that surges through my blood and makes the tips of my fingers tingle. I’m sick of this. I’m sick of the judgment and the insults and the sneers. I’m sick of it all.
I crumple Jordan’s note in my fist and whip it across the room. Then I spin on my heel and march toward the exit.
Halfway to the door, I halt. My gaze travels back to the skanky underwear on the bench.
You know that?
They think I’m trash? I’ll show them trash.
Maybe it’s the anger, or the frustration, or the lump of sheer helplessness lodged in my throat, but I don’t feel in control of my own body. My hands rip at my clothes as if on autopilot, and I’m so mad I can taste the fury. My mouth is even watering. God, I’m foaming at the mouth.
I yank the scrap of lace up my hips, snap the bra into place, and march toward the door. Not the door that leads outside, but the one that will take me to the gym.
I leave the stilettos on the bench. I’m going to need my balance.
My bare feet slap the floor, each step I take fueled by anger and a sense of injustice. These people don’t know me. They have no right to judge me. I throw open the door and enter the gym. Head high, hands at my sides.
Someone notices me and gasps.
“Holy fuck.” A male voice echoes from the other end of the gym, where the partition separating the weights and exercise equipment from the court is pushed open.
A clanging sound echoes through the gym, as if someone dropped a barbell.
My step stutters. The entire football team is over there lifting weights and working out. I sneak the briefest peek in their direction and feel my cheeks heat up. Every pair of male eyes is glazed over. Every jaw is unhinged. Except one. One jaw stays locked tight, as Reed’s blue eyes blaze at me.
I tear my gaze off him and continue toward the group of girls who are stretching on a pile of blue mats. I add a little sway to my hips, and they all stop mid-stretch, wide-eyed.
Jordan’s shock only registers for a moment. Then it fades to wariness. When she sees the look on my face, I swear she trembles. A second later, she hops to her feet and crosses her arms over her chest.
She’s wearing bootie shorts and a tight tank top, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her body is long and toned. Strong. But so is mine.
“You really have no dignity, do you?” She smirks at my getup.
I stop in front of her. I don’t say a word. Every single person in the gym is looking at us. No, they’re looking at me. I’m half-naked, and I know I look good even in this sleazy outfit. I might not have billionaire parents like these kids do, but I inherited my mother’s looks.
These girls know it, too. A few envious glances flit my way before they’re shielded with scowls.