His phone buzzes in his pocket, breaking the trance. He glances at the screen and returns his attention to me. “Why do you dance?”
“It’s my passion.”
“Elaborate.”
Despite his curt tone, I don’t mind answering. Dancing is the piece of myself I will never suppress or hide.
“I love creating art through movement. Not only does it allow me to express my feelings, it makes others feel.” I lower onto the coffee table, bending a leg across the surface to face him. “It’s not about the job or the money or the accolades. I dance because I have to. Because it’s who I am—the artist, the athlete. It’s my outlet to let go, to just be.”
“And you achieve this through teaching?”
“Yeah, but honestly, I’d rather focus on honing my own talent. In an ideal world, I’d perform on stage with dancers I can learn from. But Beyoncé has yet to knock on my door and offer me a position on her dance team.” I snort to myself. As if. “We don’t always get the job we want. So I teach dance lessons and entertain restaurant patrons. It makes me smile and keeps a roof over my head.”
“There’s a small stage at the center of the restaurant’s new location, and that stage will be visible from the most active gaming areas in the casino.” He leans in, eyes hard, a business man poised to seal a deal. “The casino averages over six million in admissions every year. That’s six million patrons strolling through my doors and resting their eyes on the art you create through movement.”
“Art or male desire?” I squint at him. “Your spiel about selling sex sounds exactly like you intend to objectify me to promote your goods and services. I’m a person, not a commodity.”
“You’re whatever I want you to be.” The controlling controller controls his gait to the front door. “We’ll finalize the contract tomorrow night. Seven o’clock sharp.”
It takes great effort to not recoil from the cutting snap of his voice. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“My office is on the 30th floor of the casino hotel.” He sweeps open the door, bringing with it the sound of the idling car on the curb. “Don’t make me wait.”
“I’m scheduled to dance at Biss—”
“Bissara is closed until the remodeling is finished at the casino.”
“Wait. Back up.” I approach him with suspicion edging my voice. “Didn’t you just purchase it this morning? You’ll lose money if you don’t keep it open.”
“I’ll lose money if I don’t get the employees relocated and up to speed immediately.” He palms the doorframe, towering over me. “The new Bissara will be a fine dining restaurant. Full-service, high-quality, catering to wealthy clients with refined palates. The staff must undergo thorough training to meet the specifications.”
Well la-di-da. I don’t care about his rich and important agendas. I’ll go to his office tomorrow, only because I want to hand him a counteroffer that’ll make his eyes bulge and his ego explode with indignation.
“Lock the door.” He steps outside and shuts it behind him with a victorious glimmer behind his scowl.
I glare at the deadbolt until my vision blurs. Why does he care if I lock it? What the hell is his angle? There’s something going on beyond him wanting my employment. He chased away my date. Trespassed in my house. Offered me a job that pays triple the normal rate. It feels like he’s gone out of his way to put me directly under his thumb.
Am I reading too much into this?
The door cracks open, and his crystal blue eyes fill the gap. “Lock. It.”
Oh my God. I shove it closed, turn the deadbolt, and flip him off through the door.
A moment later, the muffled sound of his car fades into the distance. That’s when it dawns on me I didn’t ache for Cole once while Trace was here. It’s both disturbing and remarkable. There isn’t a chance in hell I’ll ever forget what I lost, but for the last hour, Trace’s assjackery extinguished the grief I carry for the man who owns my heart.
But as the silence creeps in, so does the emotional pain I’ve been wallowing in for years. Self-pitying, soul-gutting, wishing-for-death pain. Sometimes it feels like all I have left is an endless well of tears and bitter loneliness. Sometimes it’s easier to give into the anguish than to hold it at bay. I’m tired. So fucking tired of missing Cole with every agonizing breath.
Am I fading? Becoming less of who I was? Cole’s absence cast me in darkness, but this solitude and discordance is of my own making.
I trudge through the dining room and rather than giving into the urge to straddle and hug his bike with all my might, I keep walking. Passing through the hall, I strip off the pajama bottoms. In the spare bedroom that serves as my closet, I slip on a pair of low-rise booty shorts. Then I enter the dance studio through the door between the rooms.
My emotions unravel with each step across the wood flooring. Burning chest, tightening throat, pressure behind the eyes—it’s all there, threatening to turn me into a useless blob.
I rush through my stretches before powering on the sound system and selecting an empowering song.
The instrumental intro of Dangerous Woman by Ariana Grande trickles through the speakers. I stand in the center of the room, rolling my shoulders and measuring my breaths. The instant the smoldering vocals begin, I move. Arms, legs, abs, neck, every muscle is engaged, sweeping in wide fluid motions and channeling my emotions.
I don’t need to focus or think about the steps. I simply let go, give myself over to the moment. The music floats through me, possesses my body, and carries me to better days.
Chapter Three
FOUR YEARS AGO
“Here he comes.” Virginia wraps a liver-spotted hand around my arm and points her filmy eyes at the vacant street. “Hear that?”
All I hear is the too-damn-early squawk of birds telling me to go back to bed.
“He’s bringing the marijuana into our neighborhood.” The saggy skin on her neck quivers. “I just know it.”
A smile struggles behind my pinched lips. When my hundred-and-ninety-year-old neighbor isn’t complaining about the Bosnians moving in with their pink flamingos and loud music, she’s fretting over alleged drug activity. I love Virginia dearly, but her over-imagination is horribly discriminatory.
For the past few weeks, she’s had her floral smock all twisted up over the tattooed devil on a motorcycle who rides down our block. She can’t see two feet in front of her, but her hearing is sharper than a bat. And she says he’s coming.
A gentle fog blankets the sleepy road. The giant oak trees and quaint brick bungalows in this neighborhood date back to the 1920’s, as do most of the residents. Since I’m the only one under the age of seventy, they all come to me when there’s a problem. Last week, I spent an entire afternoon chasing a poor squirrel out of Jackie’s basement. And Wilson, the Vietnam vet who lives across the street, needs help programming his TV on a weekly basis.
I still don’t hear the offending motorcycle, which Virginia claims rattles her fine china before the Lord has risen for the day. She also swears the pot-smoking heathen tries to run her over when she steps off the curb. Of course, she chooses to alert me of his misbehavior at six every morning.