Am I really going through with this?
The question echoes loudly through my head, and the answer comes just as swiftly on its heels. I am.
And Wyatt better show up. Because if he's not in that audience, I'm out of luck.
With a grimace, I reach for the keys still hanging in the ignition. Time to get home, plan my dance, pick a costume, and hyperventilate.
If my dad could see me now . . .
The thought shoots through my mind, an unwelcome irritant that's been in my head ever since I blurted out my plan to Wyatt. Like a pebble in a tennis shoe. Always there, but sometimes more painful than others.
But Daddy can't see me. Daddy's in Georgia doing landscaping work for the same commercial development company that's employed him for over a decade now. So he has no way of knowing what I'm doing, much less that I'm stripping. And if he ever does find out . . .
Well, by that time, I'll already have the money and Griff will be enrolled in the protocol and I'll weather the storm of his disapproval.
Not that lying sits well with me-that's another one of those things I never do, because I can still feel the sting of Daddy's belt all too well. But in this case I'm not lying. I'm just not telling.
I roll my eyes, annoyed with myself. My dad's not even in the state, and I'm making up excuses. Not that I'm surprised. I'm nervous about tonight, and my mind is jumping to all sorts of places. Anything at all to keep from settling on my sexy dance-or the man I'll be performing it for.
I'm about to back out of the space and head home when my phone rings. I shift into park and reach for my purse, certain it's Nia.
It's not, though. It's a number I don't recognize, and since I recently applied for teaching jobs at three different dance studios in the Valley, I answer the call with a chipper, "Kelsey Draper."
"I don't know if this is a good idea," Wyatt says, as if we're already in the middle of a conversation.
"It's probably not," I admit. "But I need the money, and it's the best idea I have."
"Hmm," he says, though it's more of a sigh and seems a little sad.
I try to stay quiet, expecting him to continue, but I can't keep my mouth shut. "You're coming tonight, right? You're going to give me a chance?"
"Why did you run? Back in Santa Barbara. Why did you run away?"
The question is so unexpected, it pushes me back against my seat. I sit stunned for a moment, then answer quietly, "Does it matter? I already apologized."
He laughs, a harsh sound in his throat. "Even now, you can't own up to it. Or are you still playing the same damn game."
"What game?" I ask, recalling his quixotic statement from earlier. "What are you talking about?"
"Let's not go there, Kelsey. If we're going to do this, let's at least try to be honest."
"Do this?" I retort, my temper flaring. "Does that mean you're hiring me? Because if it doesn't, I'm not sure what this is."
He doesn't answer, and this time it's me who makes the hard scoffing noise.
"You know what?" I demand, the ferocity in my voice fueled by irritation. "You're being an unfair son-of-a-well, you're a jerk." I rush on before he can squeeze in an argument. "Maybe I screwed up back then, but you weren't exactly innocent. You screwed up, too."
He's completely silent. No sounds of disbelief. No laughter. No breathing.
I pull the phone from my ear and check the display, wondering for a moment if he's hung up on me. But the connection is clear, and there are four bars of service.
"Hello?" I press.
His answer is a single word that seems fragile against the weight of this conversation. "How?"
I shouldn't say anything. I know that. But now that I've seen him again, it's all so fresh. So painful.
But against my better judgment, I whisper, "When I left. You didn't even try to come after me."
I hear him draw a breath, but he doesn't speak.
"Wyatt?"
"Nine o'clock? That's what time you said, right?"
"Does that mean you're coming?"
"I guess we'll find out," he says, and then the line goes dead.
6
I guess we'll find out.
Hours later, his words still ring in my mind as I pace the cramped dressing room backstage at X-tasy. There are five of us squeezed in together, surrounded by fogged mirrors, dim lighting, and the stale miasma of sweat, body oil, and desperation. Behind a black curtain, music blares as the first contestant is out there shaking her groove thing.
I've been here only once before, but never backstage. Nia's friend Gerrie-a struggling fashion designer-was about to marry the lawyer who'd negotiated her deal with one of the home shopping channels. Since Nia was in charge of the bachelorette entertainment, we'd all been dragged to X-tasy for the Naughty Girls Amateur Hour, where Gerrie was goaded into signing up to perform, with the aid of about five Cosmopolitans and three test tube shots.