Audition - Skye Warren, Amelia Wilde Page 0,4

with her, but the gate is extra high right now. The letter has her scared. Which means there’s no goddamn way I’m leaving this office without protecting her.

I’m the only one allowed to scare her.

Landon reaches for her. One arm around her shoulder. I don’t launch myself at him, though it’s a close thing. She tenses. “We should call the cops,” he says. “You said no to that, and I respected your wishes, but we can’t ignore this.”

“Auribus teneo lupum,” I say. “Explain it to your boss, so he understands the proverb. So he understands the situation you’re in.”

She glares at me. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Holding a wolf by the ears. That’s the literal translation from Latin. It’s dangerous to do nothing, because you’re close enough to get bitten. But it’s also dangerous to do something, because that means letting go of the wolf. Basically it means you’re screwed either way.”

“You don’t have to face this alone,” the fuckface director says, running his hand down her arm.

“So true.” I gently lead Bethany away, sending a quick slice to the pressure point on Fuckface’s wrist. He yelps and curls his hand close. Oops. “North Security has quite a bit of experience holding wolves by various body parts. We’ll keep you safe.”

She pushes away from me, from both of us. “Maybe you didn’t understand. I’m not hiring you.” She glances at Fuckface, who’s still cradling his hand like a baby bird. “If you don’t want me to resign, I’ll fulfill my contract here—but you can’t make me accept this security. If you’re really concerned about this, and about the other dancers, you can hire general security for the theater.”

“You want to rent a cop? I knew you would make this difficult.”

“I’m not sorry,” she says, her eyes shooting fire.

“Neither am I. It’s hotter when you fight me.”

“That’s highly unprofessional,” Fuckface says, glaring at me.

“I’m only saying what we’re both thinking.” I acknowledge the lithe body wrapped in leotard and tights, my gaze meandering all the way down to her worn ballet shoes. On the outside they look merely frayed. On the inside, it’s another story. I imagine she’s bruised, maybe bleeding. No doubt there’s tape to hold her feet together. The life of a professional athlete isn’t pretty. Much like that of a professional soldier. “I’m not opposed to double-teaming on principle, but when it comes to this particular woman, I think I’d prefer to have her all to myself.”

Bethany draws herself up. The effect is that of a queen. She could be wearing rags and chains around her ankles. Actually, the leotard and ballet shoes serve the same purpose. They don’t diminish her. They only emphasize her inherent dignity. It can’t be touched, not even by two assholes fighting over her. “Mr. Landon, I’ll see you at practice tomorrow. As for you, Mr. North, I don’t expect to see you again. It hasn’t been a pleasure. Goodbye.”

CHAPTER TWO

Author Charles Dickens was only 12 when his father was imprisoned for debt. Young Charles had to leave school and work in a boot-blacking factory to help his family survive.

Bethany

My coat is two sizes too large. The pockets are torn out. There’s something questionable smudged across the back, but it doesn’t matter. No—it’s better this way. The coat, the boots, the earbuds that don’t play any music. All of it’s armor for the train. I keep my eyes down, my chin up. The cars jolt forward. And stop. Forward. And stop. We let our bodies lean into the movement with practiced precision, hundreds of people swaying so that we don’t have to touch. It’s sort of a dance. A dance of survival. The French Quarter is notorious for being dangerous, but I learned to put my guard up well before I moved here. The streets of New Orleans taught me that from a young age. The earphones and heavy burlap messenger bag are my shields. They help me become invisible. New Orleans taught me that, too.

Mist coats me as I emerge from the tunnel. A smoke shop. Cell phone repair. Knockoff purses. Every store sleeps, the gates rolled down to the concrete, as if even the building needs to ward away the chill. I pull my coat tight. The Chinese restaurant is officially closed, but yellow light presses against the window. Thousands of dollars change hands every night in illegal gambling—mah-jongg with high stakes. I skirt the building to the fire escape. Metal groans from the wind. It screams when anyone actually climbs the