Audition (North Security 4)

And I’m lost. I’m utterly fucking lost.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Break dancing originated in New York City during the late 1960s and early 1970s from martial arts moves developed by street gangs. The moves, originally learned as a form of self-defense against other gangs, eventually evolved into the stylized moves that emphasize energy, creativity, and an element of danger.

Bethany, present time

When I dance someone else’s steps, I’m giving my body to their vision.

It’s a powerful experience. Joyful and exhilarating, but it doesn’t compare to dancing my own dreams. Maybe if Josh had come to me when I was practicing the steps for Landon’s new idea, this wouldn’t have happened.

Maybe if I still worried about Josh using me for my body, I could resist him.

I’m standing here in a leotard and tights, but my heart is completely naked. It’s been stripped bare by dance and by fear. There are no walls with which to guard me. As I look into Josh’s green eyes, I’m not sure why I ever wanted those walls.

Dance doesn’t only happen in one direction. It’s a give-and-take. A two-way street. Something that I perform. Something that he receives. In this moment his heart is in his emerald eyes. He’s been stripped bare by the dance and the fear, too.

“Josh,” I whisper.

He shakes his head as if breaking a trance. “You don’t want to do this.”

That makes me smile. “How do you know?”

“I know.” He doesn’t smile back.

His gaze is hard and dark. What I see there makes me shiver. He wants me. Was that ever a question? He’s always wanted my body. A lot of men watch me that way. There’s something else. A raw need that it doesn’t seem like one person could soothe.

“Because I’ll expect too much?” I ask, facing him head on. “Because I’ll think you love me. Because I’ll think I love you. Because I’ll expect a happily ever after?”

“Because I’ll hurt you.” His voice is flat, without any hint of smugness.

Without any apology.

What would it be like to go through life believing you were a weapon, incapable of doing anything but hurting the people who get close? There’s a certain kind of hollowness, knowing that men only want to use my body for pleasure.

What would it be like to believe you can only cause pain?

I’ll never convince him otherwise. I’m not even sure he’s wrong. Whatever’s happening between us—it will break my heart. It’s already breaking. I lift his hand, shocked at how even this part of him is heavy with muscle. I press his palm flat against my chest, in the place between my breasts. Standing far away, he could be an ordinary-sized man. Like this, it’s clear how large he is. How powerful. His thumb rests against one breast. His pinky finger against the other. My heart beats erratically beneath the weight. “Then hurt me.”

He stares at me, the conflict plain in his gaze. There are a thousand battles fought in the span of seconds. I should probably give him time to consider the consequences. Instead I lick my lips. It isn’t something conscious. It’s as if my body is preparing itself for sex, as if it knows what this will feel like even if my mind does not. An ambush. The war is over.

He lifts his hand to my mouth, tracking the path of my tongue. It’s wet and crude and somehow sweet at the same time. Scars on his fingertips drag along my lips, the way mountains jut into the sky. He’s the jagged line; I’m the endless blue.

“I’m going to kiss you here,” he says, his voice almost conversational. He could be giving me instructions for our security detail. This could be routine. “I’m going to fuck you here, too. There’s no part of this body I won’t touch and bend and use. Understand?”

Wrong. He shouldn’t be talking to me this way, and I definitely shouldn’t like it. My whole life I’ve been fighting against the idea that men can use my body. I’ve been kicking and screaming against society’s demands—only to discover they turn me on. Well, not any man. Not every man. Joshua North. When he says those words, they turn me on.

“What if I say no?” The question comes out coy, and I’m not even sure how I want him to answer—as the man who’s protecting me or as the asshole I’ve always wanted.

“Then I stop.” The corner of his mouth turns up. It’s a smile without humor, without doubt. “You aren’t going to want me to stop. Not until I’m through with you.”

A clench between my legs. “You’re pretty

confident.”

“I fuck the way I do everything else. Mean. You come when I say so.” Heavy lids hood those green eyes, making him look sinister, underscoring his words. “We stop, you don’t get to come.”

I should want someone like Landon, someone who has the same interests as me, someone who understands the life of a dancer. I should like any one of the men who come to my performances, who look at me like I’m a figurine in a music box. They would never talk to me this way. And I would never feel this pulsing, aching sense of being alive.