Muse in Lingerie (Lingerie 1)

“This is as straight as I go.” I kept walking, imagining my spine as a straight line.

“You’re being sloppy.”

“How am I being sloppy?” I reached the edge of the stage and stopped. “Just the other day you said I was better.”

“Better doesn’t mean perfect. Better is the worst compliment anyone can receive. Better means absolutely nothing.” His voice didn’t rise, but his anger escalated. The sound of his voice grew quieter, but that implied more rage. Very few people could be more intimidating by generating less noise.

Conway Barsetti nailed it.

He walked up the steps at the side of the stage, his jaw clenched tighter now that I was nothing but a nuisance to him. He walked behind me, his footsteps thudding with power. “This is what irritates me about you.”

I tried to swallow my pride before I could blurt out an insult.

“I’ve watched you more than you realize.” He moved to my opposite side, circling me like a shark calculating when he would strike. “And when you think you aren’t being watched is when you start to perform. It’s when you hold yourself with grace, power, and confidence. It’s when you show who you really are. I know you’re capable of it, but you’re very selective on when you show it.” He stopped directly in front of me. “So, stop being selective. Show it at all times. In life, we’re always performing. We’re always on stage—even when we think no one is watching.”

* * *

We worked for hours straight, but Conway was never satisfied. As a perfectionist, even perfect wasn’t quite good enough. He left his seat in the aisle and walked up onto the stage to my side. Without warning, his bare hand moved to my lower back.

I hadn’t been expecting the touch, so I stiffened. The muscles in my lower back immediately tightened, forcing the sides of my body to curve back. My shoulders moved back at the same time, and I immediately sucked in my stomach. His touch stimulated my heart, making my blood circulate at an exponentially faster speed. My breaths turned ragged, and my fingertips suddenly felt warm. The heels were killing my feet, but the pain suddenly disappeared. Anytime he’d touched me in the past, my body reacted the same way. The stimulus never faded in effectiveness.

Conway stood behind me, his breaths falling on the back of my neck. “Perfect.” His warm fingertips caressed my bare back. “Pretend my hand is just like this all the time. You’re cradling your body back, changing your center of gravity. Now, walk.”

I slowly stepped forward and felt his warm hand slip away. I walked to the edge of the stage, pretending that touch was still pressed against me. The ache was gone from my feet, and my shoulders were naturally snapped back because of the way my spine was aligned. I still felt the fire in my belly from the way he touched me, because his touch did surprising things to me. It made me feel alive but dead at the same time. It made me feel like a lightning bolt had struck me from head to toe. I was burning alive from the inside out.

“Stop.”

I halted at the edge of the stage, his invisible hand still pressed against me.

“Halfway there.” His footsteps tapped against the floor as he approached me from behind. He took his time when he headed anywhere—because he knew people would wait. He came to my side and looked at my face instead of my body. “This is the tricky part. I need you to project your fire to the audience.”

“Project my fire?” I asked.

“Your presence,” he explained. “Your attitude. Your personality. But you have to do it wordlessly. Most of my models not only look like queens, they behave like queens. Their self-respect and authority bring extra appeal to the lingerie. It makes people associate these clothes with power, like a crown for a queen. This is something that can’t be easily taught like placing a hand against your lower back. This is something you have to draw from yourself. I know you have it because I’ve seen it before. I was sitting in this very audience when I saw you for the first time.”

I remembered that moment, but I didn’t remember projecting anything. “I was just being myself.”

“Then do it again.” He moved away, his hand remaining in his pockets. “Combine everything together and own this stage.”

“Are you going to put me in the show this weekend?” I’d heard him mention it to Nicole a few times. He’d designed seven different articles of lingerie this week, and he rushed the order so the designs would be ready in time for the show.

“Yes.”

“If you’re unhappy with my performance, maybe you should put me in a later show.”

“No.” He walked in front of me, his arms crossed over his chest. “You’re going to be my grand finale.”