Audition - Skye Warren, Amelia Wilde Page 0,28

performance, in the lobby with Trevor Dunn. He’d put all those drinks in his arms and physically pushed him an inch backward. The rest of the people in that room didn’t need that kind of nudge. I can see it in my mind’s eye—the way the men and women in their stiff formal clothes had sensed him coming and moved out of the way. I’d been too annoyed to notice it then. And he’d been out of line.

“Right?” Marlena answers the expression on my face and the silence on my lips. “You know what I’m talking about. He’s got a black hole inside of him. If you’re not careful, you’ll get sucked inside.” She makes a twisting gesture in front of her own gut and clicks her tongue.

I force a laugh and reach out to pat her arm. “You’re dramatic when you’re drunk on tequila.”

Marlena winks at me. “Maybe I’m dramatic. But maybe I’m right. And you know what happens with wounded men. Don’t you, Beth?”

“Of course I know.” But I don’t—not really. Marlena is the one who plucks men out of the world around us and coaxes money from their pockets with a smile and a kiss. I’m the one who keeps my fists raised at all times. How could I do otherwise? Especially when it means ignoring the hard-won lessons I’ve spent my life learning. “Let’s go dance.”

Marlena leans over the sink and touches up her lipstick, a bold red color that will probably make Scott’s eyes darken. “Just be careful.” The lipstick disappears into her purse and her arm slides back into place, our elbows locked together. “Guys like that—they always self-destruct in the end. You don’t want to be standing too close when it happens.” She lets out a little sigh. “But damn, does he ever love watching you dance. Those pretty green eyes of his light up like the freaking aurora borealis. Don’t tell him I noticed. He’d be mortified.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The first ballet on record was staged in the year 1581 by Catherine de’ Medici, the queen of France. She, the king, and her court also performed in it. It was staged in the Louvre Palace in Paris lasting nearly five hours.

Josh, five years ago

When you throw pebbles at someone’s window, restraint is important.

Too hard and you’ll break the glass, leading to an unpleasant scenario—especially if there are strict parents slumbering downstairs. I have some experience with stealing pretty girls out of bedroom windows.

Bethany makes me wait.

It takes three pebbles against the pane for her shadow to appear at the glass. She lifts the sil and pushes her head out. A smile flits across her face, her teeth white in the moonlight, before she can think to act cool around me. That smile makes me puff up like a goddamn lion.

An object comes fluttering down and lands on the ground at my feet, taking shape as I pick it up. A messenger bag. Cloth, sturdy, a long strap. Bethany follows a moment later. She lands in a half-crouch, the movement appropriate for the stage. Anticipation thrums in the air around her. “Where are we going?”

“Wow. Not even a hello kiss for the man who’s going to rock your world?”

Bethany makes a face. “So far, we haven’t done anything except stand in the yard. Where are we going?”

“Somewhere you’re going to like.”

Skepticism shines from her expression. “How would you know what I like?”

“I was right about the beignets, wasn’t I?”

Even in the moonlight I can see the flush of her skin. “Everyone likes beignets from Cafe du Monde. Try again.”

I shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t—shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be taking her out, shouldn’t be giving in to this, whatever this feeling clawing through my veins is. But Bethany’s made the second move. She climbed out the window. So I take her hand and twirl her under my arm. My dick throbs so hard it’s at its limit. This goes much further and I’ll have her twirling and twirling under my hands. Mine.

For tonight I’ll pretend that this is simple. “There’s a hint.”

She comes to a graceful halt and lowers her heels to the ground, her eyes raking over my clothes. “I see. You want to get your hands on me.” A flicker of a smile. “That’s par for the course.”

Bethany is still smiling when I get us to our destination, pulling my rental car into into a spot that’s probably illegal, tucked into the end of an alley. She sits up straight in the passenger seat. “A back