Shacking Up (Shacking Up (Shacking Up 1)

Bancroft is still standing in the same place when I take the stage for my solo. He can’t see me, because the stage is dark, but I can see him. He keeps looking to the right, toward the door that leads to the dressing rooms and backstage.

And then the lights come up and his gaze is suddenly trained on me. I can’t look at him. I’m so nervous. It feels like the first time I ever performed. I remember the butterflies. I remember puking after the first act, and the second. It feels a little like that now. I better not puke. I need this job.

It’s the longest four minutes and thirty-seven seconds of my life. The applause usually makes the smile I wear genuine. I’m staring out into the crowd, and I have a smile plastered on my face, but it’s forced.

Bancroft is clapping, slow and steady, but his expression is dark. I don’t know what it means. Is he going to be waiting for me when I come out? Is he going to change the code and kick me out? The second thought is fairly fatalist of me. He doesn’t really have a reason for such a strong reaction. He can be upset that I lied. He can throw his judgment around at me for my choice, but at least I haven’t caved and gone home to daddy. Yet.

Dottie stops me on the way out of the dressing room. “There’s some guy out there looking for you, says he’s your roommate and he’s here to pick you up, but he can’t wait long. I just wanted to check to make sure that wasn’t a load of bullshit and he isn’t some kind of stalker fan.”

“Tall, dark hair, bigger than the bouncers, drop-dead gorgeous?”

“That would be the one.”

“I’ll be out in five. Can he wait for me at the employee entrance?”

“If that’s where you want him. He doesn’t look happy.”

“I imagine. I won’t be long.” I don’t even bother to change out of my costume. I grab my outfits, shove them in my bag, throw on an oversized cardigan, and leave my makeup alone. I’ll deal with that when I get home, after I freak out on Bancroft for being a judgmental asshole.

He’s standing at the entrance to the club looking uncomfortable. When he sees me, his eyes move over me, but I don’t get a smile. All I get is a cold stare. “Ready to go home?”

I don’t say anything. Instead I brush past him, holding my head up high as my stomach churns. When I reach the top of the stairs I realize I have no idea where he’s parked, so I’m forced to cease my haughty strutting and wait.

Sweet lord. He looks delicious. He’s wearing a pair of dark dress pants and a dark button-down shirt. It’s open at the collar. He’s very Johnny Cash right now, even his expression is angsty. And hot. I wish I wasn’t preparing to be angry at him so I could fully appreciate it.

He barely glances at me as he turns left and I follow him down the street. He’s walking fast. I didn’t change from heels to flats. I’m pretty good in them, but it’s dark and I can’t see the miniature potholes and cracks in the sidewalk well enough to feel safe at this speed.

“Will you slow down? We’re not running a marathon.”

Bancroft whirls around and I almost slam right into him. As it is, I have to put out my hands to keep from face planting into his chest. His hands are balled into fists. His nostrils are flared. His chest is heaving. And all I want to do is rip off his clothes and ride him like a rodeo bull. Too bad that’s not likely to happen.

His left cheek tics. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with those shoes while you were onstage.”

“It’s a flat, even surface.” I gesture to the sidewalk. “This is not.”

“Would you like me to carry you?”

“I’m not dressed for a piggyback ride,” I snap.

His gaze moves darkly over me. “No, you certainly aren’t.”

With that he takes a step forward, drops almost to his knee, wraps an arm around the top of my thighs, very high on my thighs—so high his thumb is close to grazing parts of me he probably doesn’t want to right now, what with him being so angry.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting you home.” And with that he stands.

Now if I wasn’t a trained dancer with incredibly strong abs I would probably flop right over, because this is clearly his plan: to carry me away like a caveman. Just like Diva said he wanted to. I wonder if she’s psychic.

“Are you kidding me with this?” I snap, irate. I’m perilously close to dropping my bag. I consider hitting him with it, but if he drops me it’s a long way down. I can’t afford a sprained ankle. And bruises are hard to cover with makeup. I let it slide down my shoulder and bump him on the butt. If I relaxed and let him pull this Cro-Magnon BS on me, my face might actually hit his butt, but then I’d be giving him what he wants, which is . . . well I don’t know exactly, other than to get me in his truck. And probably get righteous with me.

I stay upright, putting lots of pressure on his shoulder with the heel of my hand to maintain this unnatural position. We pass half a dozen couples on the way to the car. Bancroft is extra pleasant with them, asking them how their evening is going, wishing them a nice night, commenting on the weather. And the entire time his thumb is disturbingly close to my girl parts, which don’t seem to recognize that this situation is likely not going to lead to fun things.

Less than a minute later Bancroft is carrying me through a parking lot. It’s dodgy, as is the rest of this neighborhood, but the lot has an attendant. He stares at us as we pass by. Bancroft lifts his hand in a wave and I just roll my eyes.

I’m a little disturbed by the fact that not one person we’ve passed has asked if I’m okay. Just because Bancroft is hot and well-dressed doesn’t mean he’s not kidnapping me. I suppose if I was putting up more of a fight it might help.

He sets me down beside his truck. It beeps and the lights flash, he reaches around me to open the door. I’m facing him so it hits me in the butt.

I cross my arms over my chest. “That was completely unnecessary.”

“I disagree. Would you like to get in the truck now, Ruby?”

“Not particularly, no.”

Bancroft gives me a tight smile.

“Will you please get in before a group of thugs swarm us and tries to steal you?”

“No one is going to steal me.”

He steps in rather close. “If I was a thug, I would steal you.”

Well now, that’s a little disconcerting. “Why would anyone want to steal me?”

“Will you please just get in the truck?”

I hate it when people answer questions with more questions. Evasiveness is annoying. As if I have a right to complain about evasiveness. “Well, if you’d give me some space maybe I could.”

He wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me up tight against him. I huff and then maybe I gasp just a little. I swear I can feel hardness against my stomach, and it’s not his belt.

He sets me down quickly though, takes my bag and holds the door open, waiting until I’m in before he closes it—harder than necessary.

His jaw is working and his brow is furrowed as he rounds the hood. He slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine without saying a word. I’m so irritated right now. He pulls onto the street. Still silent. I’m the first to break. “You have no right to judge me.”

“I’m not judging you.”

I scoff.

He comes to a stop at a red light. The tension is so thick it’s like wading through Jell-O. He turns his head slowly so he’s looking at me. I glare back. “Why would I judge you?”