I could tell that she was annoyed with me because I wasn’t returning her flirting and I hadn’t agreed to meet her after the show.
Elaine had pleaded my case with Volkov and got the boss-man to agree that I was off limits. I hoped that was enough to keep Sergei away. I’d also swallowed my pride and arranged to borrow the money from Gary.
Fuck, I hoped that Volkov’s word could be trusted. Elaine said he was going to be in the audience tonight—that was the rumor. I was holding onto that. With the big boss around, Sergei wouldn’t try anything.
My nerves were kicking into overdrive. I always got a little angsty before a performance—those were good nerves, adrenaline that gave me an edge. But tonight, my stomach felt like it was trying to climb through my throat.
Yveta added some rouge, a little eyeliner, and then dusted my face and chest with shimmery powder.
“Are we done?” I ground out, knowing I sounded like an ungrateful prick.
Yveta stalked away to finish her own makeup.
The changing room was tiny, and there was nowhere separate for me and Gary. We were crammed into a corner and told not to look when the girls were naked. Not that Gary cared, and I’d seen more tits in changing rooms than most men ever saw in a lifetime. I wasn’t immune, but tonight I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if they glued rhinestones onto their bare pussies.
My nerves were jumping all over the place and my fingers drummed on my thighs restlessly.
“Oh my God, calm the freak down, will you?” Gary hissed. “You’re making me nervous. Crapaloosa! Do I shift weight on the one?”
“What?”
“In the contra botafogo—do I shift weight on the one?”
I gave a distracted nod. “Yes, two changes of weight in one beat of music.”
Gary sighed. “Did you hear that Elaine is talking about including a West Coast Swing number?” He paused then tossed a feather boa at my head. “Are you listening to me?”
My eyes flashed with anger and Gary jerked back.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“Jee-zus! Just chill, will you? Do some stretches or something!”
It was good advice and I knew that I was too close to doing something stupid like running. But maybe Elaine was right. Maybe the worst was over.
I started stretching out my body, working through the warm-ups that we all used.
“You have really good extension,” Gary said, gazing critically.
I grunted, trying to tune out all the static in my brain and get into the zone while I loosened my shoulders and back muscles.
“Five minutes, people!” Neal yelled.
There was a rush of activity and the sharp smell of fake tan, sweat and perfume thickened as the girls lined up. With their headdresses of ostrich feathers, they towered over us—all fake lashes, sequins and thousands of crystals glued to their skimpy costumes.
Yveta still looked pissed and it was my fault.
“You’re beautiful,” I said honestly.
She beamed at me.
The music started and something inside ignited even as the pulsing beat calmed me. And then I was there, strutting onto the stage, owning it, lighting up from the inside as the audience clapped and cheered. I presented girl after girl until the dance-off with Yveta as my partner, and Gary and Galina as our competition.
The audience lifted us, made us fly.
This was my moment!
Laney
I gasped. “It’s him!”
“Him who?” Vanessa asked, peering up at the dancers cavorting on the stage in front of us.
“The guy from last night—at the club. Wow! He’s just . . . wow!”
“I think you’re right,” Jo said excitedly. “I guess he wasn’t lying when he said he wanted to dance. He’s h-o-t!”
He wasn’t lying. The thought brought a warm pulse of pleasure to my chest. He really was a dancer, not a gigolo. So if he hadn’t lied about that, maybe he really thought that I was pretty.
He was even dressed similarly to last night in tight black pants and black shirt, except that this one was slashed to his waist and glittered under the stage lights with sequins sewn onto the silky material.
I smiled happily and sat back to enjoy the show.
His name was Ash.
When he was on stage, the lights seemed brighter, the dancing hotter, the atmosphere electric. The dance-off with the other guy had been phenomenal, each of them trying to one-up the other. But there had never been any competition, not in my mind. Ash oozed sexiness, his muscled chest gleaming under the spotlights, testosterone pumping through him, obvious in the swagger of his hips and caress of his fingers along the arms of the dancers.
A twinge of jealousy surprised me. Why on earth did I feel possessive about a man I’d spoken to once?
Looking around covertly, I pulled out my phone, turned off the flash, and snapped a photograph. Something to remember him by—the hottest guy who’d ever hit on me.
The thought made me smile.
When the two men left the stage and the girls formed a chorus line for the can-can, I lost interest. My bladder reminded me of the three Mimosas that I’d had earlier.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I whispered in Jo’s ear.