The emcee announces the name of the next girl, and as she struts onto the stage to the blare of Madonna's Like A Virgin, I peek through the gap in the curtain, searching for Wyatt in the audience.
If he's there, I don't see him, and a fresh wave of emotion floods through me.
Disappointment.
It settles in my veins, twisting me up inside. I bend over, stretching out my quads as I tell myself that I'm only disappointed because if he doesn't show, that means I don't get the job. So my disappointment is about the money. About Griff and the protocol. And about the fact that my last ditch plan to get him here didn't work.
I tell myself that, but of course it's a lie.
In reality, I'm disappointed that I won't feel his eyes on me again. That I won't experience that tingle of awareness when he's near, the way I did back when there was nothing dark between us.
I move to a reasonably clean spot on the floor and sit, stretching my legs wide and bending at the waist until my forehead is on my knee and my hands are cupping the ball of my foot. I hold the stretch, feeling the pleasant tightness, the mild burn as my muscles come alive, ready to perform.
I've already warmed up, of course, but I need the distraction now. Because no matter how much I wish I could pretend that this is just about the money and the dance, it's about Wyatt. Of course it is. And instead of running from that uncomfortable little fact, I need to be like Gerrie. I need to just own it.
Own that it excites me to be around him. That I miss the way he made me feel. The way we used to laugh.
Maybe it was nothing more than a teenage summer fling, but it didn't feel like it back then. And it doesn't feel like it now.
So I'm dancing tonight for him. For the Wyatt I used to know. For the boy I might have loved.
I'm dancing for the memory. The way he'd looked at me with a mix of heat and tenderness when I'd slowly unbuttoned my sundress. The way he'd made me feel beautiful and exotic and terribly sexy even in white cotton panties and a plain, unlined bra.
Admit it, Kelsey, I order myself. You're here for the memory--for the man--as much as for the money.
And it's true. It really is.
And that's so not good.
Nia had said pretty much the same thing when she called me back and I started to chew her out for not telling me that W. Royce and Wyatt Segel are one in the same.
"The guy from the Santa Barbara country club? The one you were with that night when--"
"Yes. Who else? I can't believe you didn't tell me."
"Whoa, whoa! Hold on, girlfriend. I swear, I didn't know. Do you really think I'd blindside you like that?"
I frowned, because she was right; I didn't really believe that. Of everyone in my life other than Griffin, Nia is the person I trust the most.
We met when we shared a dorm my freshman year of college. She dropped out in the middle of our first semester when her modeling career took off, but it didn't matter. We'd already spent too many long nights sharing each other's secrets, and you just can't put the brakes on that kind of a friendship.
She's the only one who knows what really happened between me and Wyatt. I'd told her after I'd dodged her third attempt to set me up with a random guy from one of her classes.
"Wow," she'd said when I'd finished laying out the story. "No wonder you're such a neurotic mess."
No wonder, indeed. But at least she's always understood why I keep myself in check, not pushing the envelope. Not taking risks.
And, honestly, I like my life the way it is. It's uncomplicated and ordered, and I know what to expect.
Or, rather, I like the way it was. Back before I set my sights on earning fifteen grand. Before I walked into that studio, and Wyatt fell back into my life.
"I mean, come on, Kels," she continued during our call this evening. "Just because I think we need to shove your OCD into a box and slam it tight, doesn't mean I'm going to throw you to the wolves."
"I know. I'm sorry. It's just been a crazy, freaky day."
"I get that," she said. "But the real question is, did you get the job?"
"Undetermined," I'd told her, then explained about tonight.