Christ, he had to get her reeled in soon. She’d always been a live wire. Now she buzzed with more frantic energy. The focused, determined partner he’d trusted for years was nowhere to be seen in her skittish behavior and insistence on returning to the pro circuit. That grind was no place for them, not since her injury—yet another problem to weigh on his mood. After all, Dima had been the one to screw up their tidy life together.
She’d fallen right out of his arms.
He’d failed her. Failed the woman for whom he would have done anything. His best friend and closest partner in the world.
Forcing a smile, he made his way into the main area of the club. The creative freedom he’d found at Club Devant was second to none. Being released from the strict guidelines of the competitive circuit tapped into a part of his imagination he hadn’t known was there. The hefty paycheck Declan offered in order to pull in the big names wasn’t bad either.
That didn’t mean he’d gotten used to working the floor.
Declan prided himself on a friendly, open atmosphere, despite the kink. Or maybe because of it. He wished customers to believe they could get a taste of the performers if they were lucky enough. Or hot enough. Or rich enough.
That didn’t mean Dima liked it, not without Lizzie at his side. She had been the one to talk when they were interviewed. Cameras loved her sparkle, and she loved meeting new people. It only made sense. That same sparkle turned him inside out, made his whole life brighter. Naturally everyone else would want a part of her.
Dima wanted all of her.
Eventually he landed at the table permanently kept for Declan. At the far end, Jeanne nursed a mineral water.
Dima gripped the back of Declan’s chair. The club owner was the only man Dima knew who could pull off a sheer dark purple shirt and still look like he used his dick the traditional way. Mostly.
“Good show,” Declan said, one arm around the waist of a woman in a tiny shimmering green skirt.
“The cha-cha wasn’t over the top?”
“For here? Not at all. And Jeanne’s promised to wear neutral shoes from now on, so next time will be perfect.”
Best-case scenario would’ve included Lizzie dancing the cha-cha with him. Always such a flirt. Always so damn good at how she played him and the crowd. First he needed to convince her to stay in New York. No more midnight bus trips to God knows where for the privilege of dancing the same routines on a temporary wooden parquet floor. Three championships were enough. He couldn’t put either of them through that punishing, body-cruel schedule. After four months at her parents’ house, it was his turn to take care of her again. The apartment just hadn’t been the same without her.
He made himself smile at Jeanne anyway, since she was blushing a little as she looked at him and Declan. A highly skilled contemporary dancer whose career had been cut short by crippling tendonitis, she meant well.
“Have you seen Lizzie? She said she’d be here tonight.”
He was so completely, ridiculously excited by that. Dumb. She never held out on him forever. It was part of what made them a unit. Although Lizzie had always trusted him in the long run, his plans wouldn’t work if he couldn’t even get her to watch him dance in this new way.
Stomach twisting, he knew the answer before Declan opened his mouth. The man’s glance darted toward the bar. Wherever Lizzie was, she was with Paul. Probably flirting with him. Occasionally Dima hoped she was doing it intentionally, purposefully trying to drive him crazy. What she didn’t realize was that she’d had his full attention for years.
Dima had met the bartender, but hadn’t been interested. Some other time, some other place, yeah, he might have enjoyed fucking Paul until they burned each other out. The man was perfection in blue jeans. When Paul had hired on at Devant, however, Dima and Lizzie had been readjusting to life in the same space—and Dima had been trying to come to terms with his new feelings and the decisions they’d prompted.
When she’d come home to their apartment, she hadn’t given Dima a chance to sit down and actually talk. To apologize for letting her get hurt. To really explain his fascination with what had started as a temporary gig at Club Devant. Instead, she’d hit the ground running: physical therapy, new costume designs, a travel schedule for the autumn season. And a parade of new guys. She was as restless as she was hurting, although she steadily ignored what had changed.
Altogether, it was enough to make a man start doubting his choices. Dima had made some huge ones since her injury.
“I’ve seen her,” Declan said at last. He stood up, lifting the chick from his lap and plopping her down in his chair like some living blow-up doll.