Shacking Up (Shacking Up (Shacking Up 1)

“She is.”

“But that—”

I elbow him in the ribs. The card isn’t advertising dinner theater, it’s a burlesque show.

“So . . . you want us to go to my place to watch the game?” Griffin asks.

“That’s probably a good idea.” There’s not a chance in hell anyone but me is going to see Ruby’s show.

Chapter 17: The Jig Is Up

RUBY

I’m so embarrassed. And annoyed. And embarrassed. What is Drew doing hanging out with Bane? I mean, I guess it’s not that hard to believe considering all the superwealthy people in this city like to stick close to each other. It’s like wealth incest.

I’m in a terrible mood as I suit up in my costume. It’s beautiful, sheer, gauzy, and flowing. It’s on the revealing side, which is not unusual for a burlesque-style show, but having seen the way Drew was looking at me—as if I was meat he’d like to sink his teeth into again—makes me even more aware that the job I have really isn’t one I can keep long term.

In the weeks I’ve been working here I’ve dropped a lot of inhibitions. It’s been good for me in some ways. But the secrecy is eating at me.

Diva’s sitting beside me, applying makeup, just like me. She sweeps a generous amount of lip gloss along her bottom lip, then dabs with powder, and follows up with liner. She repeats the process three times. Her lips always look fabulous. I’m learning all the best tricks from these women. My least favorite is the glitter, though. It gets into everything, and I mean everything. All the time.

“What do you think the chances are that you can hook me up with a number for one of those guys?”

I stop applying mascara to glance at her. “I don’t really know if you want to date any of those guys. Except maybe Bancroft, but he’s off limits.”

“I don’t want to date any of them. I want to make them fall in love with my pussy so they’ll buy me nice things. And don’t you worry, baby girl, it was clear the second that man walked in the door that he’s all about you.”

“What do you mean?” Things aren’t quite the same since he’s come back from London. It’s my fault it’s this way. I’m so conflicted. I want him, but I don’t want to feel like one of his pets—another thing he has to take care of. And when I’m near him I have a very hard time remembering that, so I’ve been avoiding him, which clearly isn’t helpful at all.

Diva snorts. “I’m surprised he didn’t throw you over his shoulder caveman style and carry you off to his bedroom as soon he walked in. How amazing is he in bed?”

“I have no idea.”

Now it’s her turn to pause in the makeup application. “I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?”

“We’re not sleeping together.”

“Well, once he sees you shake your thing, I bet that’ll change.”

“Maybe I should practice my solo routine while he’s watching a game next week.” I snort at the idea, then think about how he was looking at me tonight.

“I don’t think you’ll have to wait that long.”

“Why do you say that?”

Diva adjusts her tiara, then pulls out her glitter dust. “I told him and his friends they should come tonight.”

“You did what?”

Diva gives me one of her calm-the-fuck-down looks. “Girl, that man is going to crack like an egg when he sees you up there.”

I can’t tell her Bancroft doesn’t know about the reality of my job. I like Diva. I like all the girls I work with. They’re far more genuine than a lot of the girls I grew up with or the ones I’m forced to deal with at the hoity-toity upper-crust events and socials. Inviting them to Bancroft’s to rehearse was a big deal. I explained that it was just temporary, that he was a friend of a friend who needed a hand, blah, blah, blah. I didn’t need an elaborate story, just a plausible one.

The only thing they cared about was the incredible space we could rehearse in that didn’t smell like stale beer and horniness.

But now, as I sit here, I have to come to terms with the fact that I’ve been lying to everyone: These girls who have become my friends in the past few weeks. My best friend, the man whose condo I’ve been squatting in for more than a month and who has been nothing but generous. The man whose bed I slept in. The man I’d like to sleep with on a regular basis.

Oh God. I want him to be my boyfriend or my friend who also shares his penis with me on a regular basis—daily even. Over these past weeks I’ve begun to really like him. A lot. More than a lot, even. And now he’s going to know I’ve been lying.

If I didn’t come from a family with a buttload of money this probably wouldn’t be a big deal. But I do, so it is. More than that I’ve kept it secret because part of me is ashamed. I shouldn’t be. These are good women, who work hard.

And now Bancroft is going to see me up on that stage. And maybe Armstrong. And that inadequately endowed jerkoff, Drew. Unless Bancroft has punched him out. That would be nice.

I grab my phone and fire off a text to Bancroft:

DO NOT COME TONIGHT

It takes less a minute for me to get one back. It’s a picture of the club business card, followed by a message:

This doesn’t look like dinner theater.

I can almost hear his disapproval. Dammit. I don’t need his judgment. I have enough of my own.

Well done, Sherlock.

The next message I get from him is a frowny face. The one after that sends my stomach plummeting to the floor.

See you soon.

“Shit.”

“What’s wrong?” Diva asks, clearly oblivious to my plight. Because she’s just another person I’ve been withholding the truth from. I’m a terrible person. I’m also freaking out.

“Bancroft is coming tonight.”

“Hopefully he won’t be the only one.” She winks. “You’ll be magic out there, Ruby, you always are. You move like a dream.”

It’s meant to make me feel better. She thinks I’m nervous. And I am, but not for the reasons she assumes.

“Come on, we need to be on stage in ten.” She pats me on the shoulder.

I message Bancroft one last time, but he doesn’t respond. My stomach is in knots. This is so bad. I need this to not be happening right now. But it is. I’m going to have to deal with it. I’m going to have to deal with a lot of things, it seems.

I finish getting ready and prepare for judgment to rain down on me. Diva has a point, though. I’m really good at this. I’ve always played pretty tame roles. My dancing has always been more classical jazz-ballet than this contemporary sexy stuff I’ve had to learn in a short period of time. While this may be a far distant cry from Broadway, it certainly has been an unforgettable experience.

We’re halfway through the first set when I spot him. He’s impossible to miss. He dwarfs the bouncers carding people at the door. All the tables are already claimed so he props himself up against the wall at the back of the room, arms crossed over his chest. He’s so pissed off. And sexy. And angry. Wow, does he ever look angry.

And his anger makes me angry. He doesn’t have a right to be mad at me for this job. He can shove his judging eyes right up his stuffy, tight ass. Wait . . . that sounds wrong.

The set ends, I have enough time for a quick costume change. My solo is different. It’s a little less in-your-face bawdy and a little more along the classical lines I was trained in. It’s still sexy though, thanks to the ridiculously skimpy, yet tasteful and arty outfit I’m currently wearing.