part you’ve given me.”
“What about it?”
“I can’t do it.”
“Fuck off.”
“P-pardon?” I stammered, taken aback.
“Something wrong with your hearing, dear? I said, Fuck. Off. Iggy might be happy to continue babying you, but I’m not. You’re one of the most talented dancers I’ve seen in a long time, and yet you wallow in the background, never letting a soul see your talent. You’re doing this show, Rose. If I have to drag you kicking and screaming, you’re doing it. You can thank me when you’re picking up your Olivier award.”
And with that he hung up. I stood staring at the phone in my hand in both awe and panic, my gut churning. He wasn’t taking no for an answer. He was going to make me do this.
And I was going to be sick. Again.
All morning I’d been in a tizzy, pacing around the apartment like a madwoman. Glancing at the clock, I saw I was going to be late to rehearsals if I didn’t get my arse moving. I’d decided to call Jacob and tell him over the phone, because that way if he started berating me, I could hang up. Well, he did berate me – sort of. Only he was the one to hang up.
Was his particular brand of tough love what I needed? All I knew was that though his words were hostile, they’d bolstered me. He wasn’t giving me a choice, and there was a certain freedom in that. I had to go on stage because there was no option not to.
I was going to do this. I owed it to the girl who used to dance so unselfconsciously in front of the television, not giving a care about anyone else’s opinion. And I owed it to the woman I was now, the one who held her desires close, the one who secretly yearned for the excitement of the stage, of dancing in front of a live audience, but denied herself because of fear.
The entire day was a blur. Once I’d convinced myself I was going to be in the show, I put my all into it. I even stayed after hours to practice, making sure my moves were flawless. I barely saw Damon aside from when he was in character, and I was so bone tired after a day of nonstop practice that I could hardly keep my eyes open once I got home that night.
And then, almost in the blink of an eye, it was show time. I didn’t feel like me. I felt like somebody else. Perhaps that was the point. It was fifteen minutes before they opened the doors to ticket holders, and I’d found a quiet spot backstage where I could have a nice little private meltdown.
I was experiencing heart palpitations. My skin was clammy with sweat even though I’d taken two showers that morning. I just couldn’t seem to calm down, couldn’t seem to stop thinking of the fact that soon there would be hundreds of pairs of eyes on me, waiting to laugh, waiting to point and snicker when I failed.
“God,” somebody said from my right.
I turned to find Damon standing there in tuxedo pants and an off-white wife-beater vest. For a second I forgot all my panic, because there was no sight more delectable than Damon Atwood in a sleeveless top. He looked good enough to eat. I didn’t say anything, just took him in as he approached. His gaze wandered over the skimpy outfit I wore: a black corset, lace stockings, suspenders, and a frilly skirt that rose up at the front. It didn’t sound like a lot, but it actually covered up much of my body. My cleavage, however, was the focal point, and Damon couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away.
His hand went briefly to his crotch, discreetly adjusting himself as his cheeks coloured. I was blushing, too. What a pair we made.
“You look incredible, underdressed but incredible,” he finally uttered, his voice a husky rumble.
“I’m wearing more than a lot of the other dancers out there,” I replied with a soft laugh.
“It doesn’t feel that way. It feels obscene. Or maybe that’s just my perverted mind’s fault.”
A moment elapsed, one laced with arousal and the need to touch. I cleared my throat. “So, how are you feeling? Ready for our grand opening?”
“I’m surprisingly calm. I wish I could say the same for you,” he said, coming closer and taking my hand in his. “Rose, you’re shaking.”
“I know. I’m terrified.”
“But you’re so good. I couldn’t stop