I’m joking, of course. Well, mostly. The salary of a kindergarten teacher is not a shiny treasure chest of gold, and that’s even when you throw in the extra money I earn teaching dance during the summer. Which means I pinch pennies as a matter of course. Only now that I’m saving for Griffin’s treatment, I’ve been pinching them so hard the little copper devils are practically disintegrating between my fingers.
“Anyway, I can’t come tonight,” I continue. “I’m tied up for a while. But I’ll come over tomorrow after I teach my Zumba class. I’ll just change at your place and we can leave for the party after we redo the recording.”
“Sounds good.”
“Great. I’ll be there. Unless you decide to take a date in the meantime.”
“Give it a rest, Kels.”
I know I should shut up, but my brother is awesome, and if he’d just put himself out there more, I know he’d find someone. “There are a couple of girls taking my Wednesday Barre class who I think you’d really like.”
He mutters something I can’t make out, which is probably a good thing. “Tell you what, when you come over, you can give me a list of all the dancers you think are perfect for me, and then I’ll tell you the reason why they’re not. There’s just the one reason, Kels. And we both know what it is.”
I grimace, knowing I’m poking his one sore spot, but I can’t seem to help it. “Griff—”
“Don’t even start.”
I want to argue, but the intro music starts up, meaning the break is almost over. “Fine. As a matter of fact, you’re in luck, because I can’t. I have to go. I’m trying—”
I cut myself off, realizing this really isn’t the time to get into it.
“What?”
“Nothing. I really have to run. But I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Is that music? What? Are you auditioning? Is it for a show? At this hour?”
“No, it’s a—doesn’t matter. I have to go. Seriously, they’re calling for me.”
“Right, right. Tell me about it tomorrow. And break a leg, okay?”
I’m grinning as I hang up. Griffin has always encouraged my dancing, telling me I need to audition more and get out of the teaching grind and into performing. Somehow, though, I don’t think this is what he had in mind.
I draw a deep breath and step up to the curtain as the emcee announces me. The pounding beat of Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me” fills the club. The music swells inside me, and I travel across the floor in time with the beat, then leap onto the pole, hooking one leg around it and holding on loosely so that I spin around, my back arched and my breasts high.
It’s a move designed to grab attention, and from the rising applause, I know that it worked. I hold the pose for a moment, then rise back up until my breasts rub the pole and my feet are firmly on the stage. I plié down, the pole rubbing between my legs as I add in a few sensual gyrations for good measure.
The men applaud, and I can only assume that they’re imagining me doing that very move with them. But it’s not anonymous men I care about. It’s not even their vote or the money they might put in a canister for me to win.
It’s Wyatt. And not just the job, but the man.
That simple truth twists inside me, as raw and wild as the music I’m dancing to, and I straighten up, then hold on tight as I slide one leg up until I’m in a sideways split. I search the crowd for him, arcing my body as if that’s part of my dance, when really all I’m trying to do is see the crowd.
But he’s not there, and a bone deep disappointment rushes through me. He’s the reason I’m here. The reason I’m dressed in a filmy skirt made of four different colored scarves stitched loosely to a ribbon tied around my waist. The reason I’m wearing a fragile silk blouse that I fully intend to sacrifice as part of my dance.
I’ve come here ready and willing to put my whole body on display for strangers to prove to him that I have the gumption to handle his job, and yet he’s not here.
He’s really not here.
I’m still lost in the dance, though. Lost in the performance—because a true dancer doesn’t let her emotions stall her. Doesn’t let real life interfere with either the movements or the fantasy world through which she’s moving.
He’s not here, I think again. And the truth is that I don’t care.
It’s a heady realization—and a scary one. But in that moment at least, I’m exactly where I want to be. I’m dancing. Wildly. Provocatively. Seductively.
That basic reality overwhelms me, and I gasp, then cover my unexpected reaction by dropping to the ground and starting my floor routine early. A series of overtly sexual moves that perfectly match the music, and end with me arching my back as I face the ceiling, then ripping open the shirt, sending buttons flying. The shirt slips off, baring my shoulders while my arms remain in the sleeves.
I’m on my back on the stage, my hands pushing me up so that my torso is elevated and my back arched. My arms are bound behind me by my own shirt. For a moment, I’m vulnerable, both on this stage and in the fantasy of the dance where I am bound and helpless in my lover’s bed.
I roll my head as I improvise a struggle, my dance comprising both movement and a story.
And that’s when I see him.
He’s standing at the back of the club, leaning against a pillar. The dim light from a nearby fixture illuminates his face, so that I can’t escape the weight of his gaze—or the intensity of his attention. He’s watching me.
He’s entranced by me.
The power of that moment flows through me. I’ve captured him. For this moment at least, he’s mine.
That’s when something shifts inside me. I’m no longer dancing for my own pleasure. And I’m certainly not dancing for the anonymous men in the audience.
Now I’m dancing for Wyatt. For only Wyatt.
I roll over, and as I do, I let the shirt slide off, freeing my arms. I place my palms on the ground in front of me in child’s pose, then lift my rear until I’m in a pike position. Now my body forms a triangle, with my butt at the apex. I hold that pose for a moment, then rise up, my movements always in time to the music.
I’m almost bare on top now, something that is obvious to the audience now that I’m standing in front of them wearing only a tiny flesh-colored bra. I kick up a leg and twirl, thankful the stage is polished. With each rotation, I pull off a scarf from my makeshift skirt, holding onto it long enough so that it flutters beside me for dramatic effect. I release it after a full rotation, letting it pool on the ground beside me.
When all the scarves are gone, I’m left wearing nothing but a pink ribbon around my waist and a G-string that matches the bra. I pull off the ribbon and let it fall to the stage with the scarves.
The song starts to wrap, and I draw a breath. I’m lost in the dance, but somewhere deep inside me, I know I ought to be nervous. I’m revealing myself. I’m being bad, getting my naughty on. It’s scary stuff, and yet I’m really not scared.
On the contrary, I want it to go on and on. I’m on stage—a real stage—and I’m not only dancing for an audience, I’m dancing for Wyatt.
I tell myself that the only reason I can do this is because there’s a good cause behind it, but that’s just not true.
It’s everything. It’s the way the music fills me. The way the audience watches me.