She'd put up a protest, but ultimately conceded, saying that the cash prize would come in handy during their honeymoon in Monaco. And because she'd promised her husband-to-be that she'd act out some of the dances she saw on her girls' night. "And maybe it sounds a little fun, too," she'd added, before scurrying off to cull together a costume from the bag of lingerie that Nia had brought for that very reason.
I'd watched, a little bit jealous, telling myself that I was only envious of the fact that she was dancing, the thing I love most in the world and have so little time for except when I'm teaching it during the summer.
But it was more than that. It was the way the audience responded, and the buzz that I knew she must be feeling because of their energy. It was the sensation of moving through space, and of controlling that space and your own body, and creating something that other people find sensual or thought-provoking or enticing or just plain lovely.
Most of all, though, I'd been jealous of the fact that she'd owned what I couldn't. That she'd stood up and admitted that it would be fun to dance on that stage. To be a little drunk and a little wild and just have a good time. To be raw and let loose.
To dance for the express purpose of getting a man hot and bothered.
The music fades, giving way to catcalls and clapping. The voice of the bartender-turned-emcee blares out through the sound system, encouraging the men in the audience to cast their vote in hard, cold cash deposited into the buckets that the club's waitresses were bringing around.
Normally, the men would show their approval by tucking a bill into a dancer's G-string, but that's against the rules during amateur hour. Each girl has an assigned bucket, and whoever has the most money at the end wins the entire pot.
I intend to win, of course. Even though I came here to audition for Wyatt, until Griffin's officially on the protocol, I'm scrounging every penny I can.
And, also, as far as dancing goes, I might be a teensy bit competitive.
The amateur hour theme music starts up-an unpleasant electronic tune-and a moment later the curtains flutter as the girl who just finished slips backstage.
Her skin glistens with the sweat of exertion, but she's smiling, so I have to assume she thinks she's done well. She has long, lean thighs and a dancer's body that's pretty similar to mine, and I frown, because she might be real competition for me.
I also can't help but notice that she's essentially nude, having stripped down to nothing-seriously, nothing-but a pair of black thong panties.
The butterflies that have been pirouetting lazily in my stomach for the last hour morph into badgers, clawing and twisting and fighting.
I don't think I can do this. How the heck can I do this?
I take a deep breath. And then, for good measure, I take another. Because I can. I can, and I will. It's for Griffin. It's for the money. And I just need to keep my eyes on the prize.
The emcee announces the name of the next girl, and as she struts onto the stage to the blare of Madonna's Like A Virgin, I peek through the gap in the curtain, searching for Wyatt in the audience.
If he's there, I don't see him, and a fresh wave of emotion floods through me.
Disappointment.
It settles in my veins, twisting me up inside. I bend over, stretching out my quads as I tell myself that I'm only disappointed because if he doesn't show, that means I don't get the job. So my disappointment is about the money. About Griff and the protocol. And about the fact that my last ditch plan to get him here didn't work.
I tell myself that, but of course it's a lie.
In reality, I'm disappointed that I won't feel his eyes on me again. That I won't experience that tingle of awareness when he's near, the way I did back when there was nothing dark between us.
I move to a reasonably clean spot on the floor and sit, stretching my legs wide and bending at the waist until my forehead is on my knee and my hands are cupping the ball of my foot. I hold the stretch, feeling the pleasant tightness, the mild burn as my muscles come alive, ready to perform.
I've already warmed up, of course, but I need the distraction now. Because no matter how much I wish I could pretend that this is just about the money and the dance, it's about Wyatt. Of course it is. And instead of running from that uncomfortable little fact, I need to be like Gerrie. I need to just own it.
Own that it excites me to be around him. That I miss the way he made me feel. The way we used to laugh.
Maybe it was nothing more than a teenage summer fling, but it didn't feel like it back then. And it doesn't feel like it now.
So I'm dancing tonight for him. For the Wyatt I used to know. For the boy I might have loved.