I have the stomach flu. Trace called in a doctor—an elderly man with a grumpy disposition—who helpfully advised, “It’s utterly miserable, and there’s no cure.”
Oh, and avoid coffee. Fuck me.
The flu persists for the next forty-eight hours, rendering me nonfunctional and completely useless. Trace and Cole force fluids like drill sergeants and restrict my menu to bananas, applesauce, toast, and sleep. Lots and lots of sleep.
Trace spends the days at my house, but I make him leave when Cole gets home from work. He’s gracious enough to not argue that point, but I see the hurt in his eyes when he kisses me goodbye on my forehead.
Maybe it’s selfish on my part, but I hear his heated whispers with Cole in the other room and feel the constant tension vibrating between them. I need to recover, and I can’t do that with all the damn negativity in the house.
Cole carries his own share of disappointment, since I won’t let him sleep in my bed. They’ve both been exposed to my cooties, but letting him roll around in my sickly, sweaty sheets? That’s just gross.
By the third day, I feel well enough to putter around the house, disinfecting and doing laundry. But I hold off on going to work.
The morning of the fourth day, I’m back to one-hundred-percent health. The severe aches and muscle pain that plagued me for almost a week are gone. Energy buzzes through my blood as I shower and drink coffee and ponder how I’m going to spend the day.
Oddly, neither Trace nor Cole are here. The motorcycle’s gone, and Trace hasn’t stopped by to check on me.
I have the house to myself.
With a grin, I head to the spare room that serves as my closet and change into a black beaded bra and bikini dance bottoms. Then I run through a stretch routine in the dance studio.
Bouncing on my toes, I scroll through my song selection on the stereo. I should work on the ballroom dance Nikolai and I will be performing at the mayor’s Christmas party in a couple weeks. But the dance pole in the corner draws my attention.
I haven’t touched it since Cole left almost five years ago. Chewing my thumbnail, I eye it with longing.
It’s time.
I select a song, put it on repeat, and approach the pole. My freestyle moves will be rusty as hell, but I already feel the adrenaline speeding up my pulse and quickening my pace.
As the electronic pulse of Undisclosed Desires by Muse bounces through the room, I walk around the pole, grasping it lightly above my head. My feet cross, one in front of the other in an exaggerated fashion, and I let my toes drag the floor behind me while pushing out my hip.
On the next rotation, I slide my back down the pole, kicking a leg high as my butt descends to the floor. Climbing back up, I swing upside down into a chopper position with legs straight and spread above my head. My core muscles engage, my fingers clenching hard around the pole as I suspend my inverted weight.
I transition through all the standard moves, splaying my legs open, arching my back, and setting my underused muscles on fire. By the time the song restarts for the third time, I’m swinging my head, rolling my hips, and working up a delicious sweat.
When I climb the pole again, I focus on my spins, full-turns and U-turns, while flipping, leaning back, and stretching into horizontal variations of the superman and the slingshot.
Oh man, I missed this—the sensual movements, the coordination and muscular exertion, and the liberation in hanging from the ceiling by one leg.
Once my feet return to the floor, I close my eyes and swing with the hypnotic beats of the song. With a hand on the pole, I circle my hips and bend my knees, dipping down and sliding back up while flipping my hair round and round.
It’s been so long I probably look like a fumbling amateur, but the movements feel second-nature. Pole dance is rooted in belly dance, after all. In the era of traveling sideshows, belly dancers undulated on the tent poles to draw crowds for the shows. And like belly dance, I find it impossible to dance on a pole and not feel sexy doing it. Every movement fosters a carnal emotion that can turn an innocent girl into a seductive temptress.
The temptress in me has definitely been unleashed. I push my butt out as I climb, splitting my legs open and arching into a deep back bend that inverts my body and gives me an upside-down view of the kitchen doorway.
And the two pairs of legs standing on either side of it.
My breath hitches, and my grip slips. I quickly tighten my fingers, stopping myself from plunging face first to the floor.
Slowly flipping back to my feet, I grip the pole for balance and look between Trace and Cole. “How long have you been here?”
Trace stands ramrod straight, hands behind his back and head angled down, taking in my half-naked body with a scowl in his brow.
“A couple minutes.” Cole rubs the back of his neck, his voice low and thick as he peruses me from head to toe. “How are you feeling?”
“Fantastic.” Rags of air heave from my exerted lungs. “Thank you, both of you, for taking care of me.”
It’s strange that they’re both here, when they weren’t a few minutes ago.
“Did you guys just happen to arrive at the same time?” I rub my sweaty hands on my thighs. “Or were you together somewhere this morning?”
“We had a meeting,” Trace says at the same time Cole blurts, “We grabbed breakfast.”
“A breakfast meeting.” Trace glares at Cole and returns to me. “Why?”
“You had breakfast together?” I cross my arms. “For what reason?”
Did Cole tell Trace we had sex? A spike of fear chills my skin. I don’t want to keep secrets, but it’s…delicate. I need to be the one to tell him.
“We’re trying to figure this out.” Cole gestures from me to Trace to himself, drawing an invisible triangle.
“Really?” My tone is dry as I fidget with the beaded bra to ensure my chest is covered. “What did you figure out?”
“That you should pole dance,” Cole says. “Every day. Just for me.”
I wing up my brows and pinch my lips together.
“I think…” Trace breathes in slowly. “We think this situation is making you sick. Your health is a concern. If we push you for a decision, it’ll likely make you sicker.”
“But I’m dragging this out.” I clutch my throat. “I can’t—”
“It’s only been a couple weeks, Danni.” Cole rests his hands on his hips. “You’ve been sick half that time. Give yourself a break.”
“I’m trying.” I lift my fingers to the pole and walk a circle around it while working up the nerve to ask them about the holidays. “Thanksgiving is next week.”
Neither of them have families. No one to spend Thanksgiving and Christmas with.
They watch me steadily, their expressions giving nothing away.
“Bree’s having turkey dinner at her house.” I release the pole and hug my waist. “Would it be weird if I invited you both?”
“I’d love to go.” Cole, impulsive as always, offers me an eager smile. Then he pushes off the wall and disappears beyond the doorway of the spare bedroom.
I share a look with Trace, taking in the sculpted lines of his face.
He rolls his lips, reading my eyes, and nods. “I’ll be there for dinner.”
“Thank you.” I smile. “Our first Thanksgiving together.”
A second later, Cole returns with my seven-inch platform stilettos dangling from a finger by the ankle straps.
Oh shit. He wasn’t joking about wanting me to dance for him.
I shoot another look at Trace. “I don’t think this is a good—”
“I’m not asking.” Cole squats at my feet and holds out his palm, waiting.
Trace rests his fingers in his pockets and holds up the wall with his back. He would never complain about me dancing. Hell, he put me on a stage in his casino in a glowing beam of light.
I blow out a breath, ruffling the hair away from my face. Then I give in and place a foot in Cole’s hand.
He slides on the stiletto, buckling the strap around my ankle. As he moves to the other foot, his fingers trail softly up the back of my calf.
An exquisite shiver races up my leg, and my eyes flutter closed. He does it again, and I have to gulp down a moan. I can’t let him do this. Not with Trace watching.
“That’s enough.” Trace’s voice cuts through the air, cold and sharp.
I wobble in the heels, and my hand flies to Cole’s head for balance. His hair slips through my fingers, soft and silky. I linger there for a heartbeat before forcing myself to pull back.
“I’ll finish this one.” I crouch beside him and buckle the second shoe.
He leaves me to it and prowls toward the stereo. I rise to my full height, seven-awesome-inches taller, just as Physical by Nine Inch Nails starts playing.
It’s the song Cole chose the first time I pole danced for him over five years ago. Unbidden, memories of that night heat my face and shorten my breaths. He fucked me half-way through that dance, right up against the pole. Then he spanked me for making him so horny and fucked me again.
The speakers crackle with the staticky screech of a guitar, pulling me back to the present.
“Dance, Danni.” Cole grabs a folding chair and flips it around to straddle the seat with his arms resting on the back.
Trace doesn’t move from his stance across the room. Tall, dark, and arrogant, he watches. And he waits.
I begin the pole walk, crossing one stiletto before the other and pushing out my hip. When the grungy vocals kick in, I swing my hair and climb the pole.
My dance outfit is exactly that. A two-piece ensemble designed to not interfere with my movements. But as I writhe before them in the beaded bra and panties, I feel like I’m wearing lingerie. I might as well not be wearing anything at all.
They’re so attuned to my movements, they seem to have forgotten each other. I try to keep it sexy and alluring without being a tease, exaggerating hip circles and leg kicks sparingly, like an exclamation point.
I slowly, sensually, slide to the floor, let my head and hair fall back, and close my eyes. This is what defines me. The emotion in movement. The anatomy of art and music. I might be performing for them, but I dance like I’m alone. This is my space, my outlet, my meditation. My time to think.
And I have a decision to make.
I need to dig deeper, beneath the footwork and the melody, and really figure out who I am and where I want to go.
Maybe then I’ll know who I’m meant to be with.