Audition - Skye Warren, Amelia Wilde Page 0,25

chase away, not when I’m lying in his bed. The last thing I want is Joshua North. He’s too much like my brother—I know that. I know that. But the smell of him against my skin has heat curling through my belly. My skin tingles with the closeness of him. All that separates us is a few feet of empty air and an unlocked door. Once, he kissed the corner of my lips in a warehouse owned by my brother. His green eyes took in the lines of my body beneath my leotard, even then. Once, he bent to whisper a secret in my ear that made me feel like a grown-up instead of a child with my nose pressed to the window of a world I never wanted to be part of.

Once, I saw him sleeping—defenseless.

I traced the lines of his forehead and chased the dark thoughts away. He’s not sleeping now; I can feel it. Just like I can feel his skin under my fingertips still. And his mouth against mine. God, it could have gone so much further. Back then, I questioned it. I ran through scenarios in my mind. What would I do if Joshua North lowered me to the ground outside and peeled off my shorts? What would I do if my panties were next? I know the answers now. I would have let him.

At some point my mind slips from a white-knuckled awareness into a half-sleep. Is that his heart I hear, beating in my ears, or is it my own? And why does it feel like it’s somehow beating outside my chest, alongside the man who still sits on the sofa, guarding the door inside his own house?

The very last edges of my consciousness hear them—the raindrops. The night breeze tosses them gently against the windowpane by the bed. They can’t touch me. Only the sound can reach me here. Tap, tap, tap.

CHAPTER TEN

In 2008, the world’s first sustainable dance floor opened at Club Watt in Rotterdam, Sweden. The floor’s tiles rest on springs wired to generators. The harder people dance, the more the springs are compressed and this converts into energy, which runs the LED lights in the floor.

Josh, present time

Marlena opens the door to her townhouse with a flourish, her gauzy red sleeves accentuating the movement. Then the act cracks and she giggles, throwing her arms around Bethany’s neck. “You’re here! I’m so excited. And you brought your bodyguard.” She shoots me a questioning look. “You know she’s perfectly safe with me and Scott, right?”

“Now you’ll all be perfectly safe.” I give her a wide grin, like this is a fucking joke. It’s the furthest thing from a joke. Having Bethany in my house is an exquisite torture. I thought agreeing to this little double date with Marlena and Scott Castle would help ease the tension. Surprise, surprise. It hasn’t. Not yet. That’s probably because Bethany would have climbed down the ivy on the side of my house if I didn’t agree.

Marlena squeezes Bethany a little tighter—tight enough that I consider peeling her arms away from Bethany’s skin one by one—and then releases her. “You look gorgeous,” she tells her friend. “Everyone at the club is going to have their eyes on you. And I know there are so many guys in the city who’ll make it worth your while.” She winks at Bethany. My stomach lurches at the thought of Bethany in one of their lurid little deals.

What would you even call it? A sugar daddy? Prostitution. Marlena holds power in the city. If she’d been born a few decades earlier, she’d have been posted up at the Moulin Rouge. Or salons full of artists and courtesans in France. Instead she’s bought and paid for at this brownstone, with its outrageously built-out doorframe and spiky wrought-iron fence rising out of brickwork at the front.

“Oh, stop.” Bethany’s voice is light, revealing nothing.

Does she want a sugar daddy? She might need one. I’ve seen what that sad excuse for a dance company reports on its taxes. I’ll pay her a million fucking dollars not sleep with one, even if she never touches me.

“I need tequila,” Marlena announces. “Are we ready?”

As if she’s summoned him, Scott Castle appears behind her. For a man in his fifties, he’s pretty fit. His suit’s probably bespoke from Italy or some shit like that. Not a single silver-blond strand of hair moves out of place. He slips a possessive hand on the curve of Marlena’s waist. Like