“Mean.”
Her gaze flicks down, but I see the hurt before it does. “Same thing around here,” she murmurs before turning away.
My hand reaches for her—to apologize, to tell her I’ll eat with her after all. We’ll find some greasy diner and spend five bucks on rubbery egg whites. It wouldn’t be so bad. But I can’t give up this time.
I learned long ago to keep some things to myself. So I curl my hand into a fist and push out the back door. There is only one place around here I’ll find privacy. Not onstage. Not even in the motel room I share with my sister. No, my refuge is the roof of the building, behind the stairs.
Metal creaks as I climb to the top. The old fire escape isn’t remotely stable, and that means I’ll be left alone. Cracked concrete and debris, so different from the fine ballet floor my father had installed.
No one can see me here, and when I dance, I dance for myself.
A simple dance, without music—only the sound of my breath. Plié. Relevés. I dance for myself as the sun spreads over the city, yellow hands reaching building by building, until my muscles are sore and my breath comes short. I stretch my body in a grand arabesque until it becomes my own again—no longer a thing to be wrung out by other hands. I push myself now.
I make myself hurt.
If I’m too late, Clara will worry. So eventually I grab my duffel bag and head for the stairs. I climb down, yanking at the strap of my bag where it gets caught on the metal.
“Need a hand?”
I jump and almost bang my head into the railing. That voice. It rumbles through me, diving for every soft and vulnerable space, making me flinch. Kip.
I whirl to face him. “You scared me.”
He raises an eyebrow, looking wholly unconcerned. “I wondered where you went.”
My heart is still beating too fast, and I take the opportunity to examine him. He wears his usual dark T-shirt and dark jeans, with a black leather jacket. I don’t fuck around, the clothes say. I’ve seen a lot of posers come through the club, but the watchful eyes and scarred hands back up his claim. This is a man who knows how to fight. This is a man who has fought before—and won.
I have no business with a man like this. I don’t need another person to perform for.
“Don’t,” I say flatly. “Don’t wonder. If I’m not in the club, I’m unavailable. If I’m not there, I don’t even exist. Forget you even know me.”
He smiles without humor. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Of course he can’t. Or won’t. But then, I can’t seem to stop thinking about him either. And not just when he’ll show up again and whether he’ll fuck me. Not just how much he’ll pay me. No, I can’t help wondering where he goes when he leaves. If there’s a woman waiting for him. Hoping there’s not.
Crazy.
I heft the bag high on my shoulder and push past him. “I’ve had a long day.”
“Let me walk you home,” he says. And then he plucks the bag off my shoulder without waiting for a response. “I already know where you live,” he says when he sees me open my mouth. “So you’re not giving anything away by letting me come.”
I snort. “Right.”
“I’m just walking. Making sure you get home safe. Then I’m gone.”
I shouldn’t believe him.
Hesitating, I wrap my arms around myself. A shudder runs through me. Sometimes I just get so damned tired of protecting myself—of protecting Clara. Of being vigilant against everything and everyone. Sometimes I wish someone would be on my side, someone I wouldn’t have to protect.
“Hey,” he says, his expression softening. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Aren’t you?” All my bitterness, my fiercest wish for relief comes out in the question.
His eyes widen a moment. Then he looks away.
And isn’t that my answer right there? It’s not even a surprise. The bile that rises in my throat is completely uncalled for. He’s just like all the other men in that building.
Worse, because he makes me hope for something more.