-15-
Grant
Without thought, I reached across the table and grabbed Tara’s wrist, gently pulling her arm toward me and pushing up her sleeve. I stared at the tattoo in disbelief.
Like an idiot, my first reaction was to scan the restaurant as if Julius was going to appear from nowhere and throttle me. He’d warned me to stay away from his club, giving me a thinly-veiled threat. Yet, here I was, sitting across from the woman I’d tried to buy a night with. I was chilled with a cold sweat of panic.
My second reaction was a flood of memories. What Tara looked like naked and bound to the table. How the ice cube melted and slipped from my fingers. How she’d tasted. I ran the edge of my thumb over a curve in the ink, and her eyes hazed. My sweat turned from cold to hot, my body overwhelmed.
My third reaction was anger. I glared at the scrolling tattoo and grew mad. Not just at the patterned artwork, or the way I couldn’t seem to let go of her, but at myself. How hadn’t I noticed it before? Fuck her sleeves. And why hadn’t I recognized her? It was amazing what a difference a simple blindfold could make. I wanted to put one on now and go back in time to when I was blissfully ignorant.
Ignorant.
She hadn’t really told me what she did for a living, but judging by her expression, that confession was up next. If she didn’t tell me, and someone saw us together right now, I could claim I didn’t know. It was a stretch, but it could work.
It could save me.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
Wires were still crossed in my brain. “What?”
An incredulous smile warmed her lips. “My tattoo? You’re, uh, petting my arm.”
“Sorry.” I was finally able to pull away. “It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.” She straightened in her seat, her expression filled with longing. Like she wished I hadn’t stopped touching her. It was the same for me. Wait, no. I needed to put distance between us.
The server appeared with our dinners, and we stayed silent as the plates were set down. I stared at my burger, no longer hungry. How was I going to keep her from telling me?
“I don’t need to hear more,” I said as soon as the server departed. When her face twisted with hurt, I felt it sharply in my chest. Shit. I had to fix it. “What I mean is, thank you for being honest with me. I bet it wasn’t easy, and I appreciate it. But I . . . need time to absorb all this.”
“Oh,” she said, confusion running visibly through her. “Okay, but—”
“Does anything have to be decided right this second?”
“No, but I should—”
“Perfect. I’m starving,” I lied. “We can eat first. You said you wanted to get to know each other better. Let’s do that.”
She was submissive and liked when the other person was in charge. That was good. I liked taking the lead, and right now, I’d do my best to steer her away from revealing the whole truth.
I picked up my burger, readying to take a bite. “Tell me about the Dance Dreams audition.”
“Um . . .” She struggled to pivot that rapidly. “What do you want to know?”
“What do you get if you win?”
“The whole show? It’s a cash prize and a contract with a talent agency, but I won’t win. I’m too old, my turns aren’t good enough, and it’s a popular vote system. The audience is mostly women, so guys are more likely to win.”
“But if you can’t win, why do it? What’s the goal? Exposure?”
She nodded. “That, and to get to work with some amazing people. I really like choreographing, and I’d fucking love to see other people’s process.”
“What’s yours like?”
“My process?” Her eyes lit up, and internally I breathed a sigh of relief. I had her hooked now. “I used to be really structured. I’d write out the eight count sections and map the whole thing from start to finish, but lately I’ve been improvising. I put on the music and let it tell me how the piece should go.” She picked up her fork and speared a leaf of her Caesar salad. “That’s how I’d like to do it with you.”
I paused. “With me?”
“I can get rehearsal space at my friend Elena’s studio. Just let me know when your cello is fixed and what days and times work with your schedule.”
The audition seemed like a very bad idea now, but I didn’t want to leave her stranded. “I’m pretty busy. Can I send you a recording?”
“Sure.” She lifted a teasing eyebrow. “But my routine won’t be as good, and I thought you were a competitor.”
I was. And this girl was killing me.
I couldn’t have her. Not as a girlfriend, or a lover, or even as a friend. I didn’t scare easily, but I also wasn’t stupid. What would happen if Julius caught me? I didn’t want to find out.
“One session,” I said. “I’m usually done around two on the weekdays.” I’d be careful and make sure we stuck to the task at hand. As soon as it was over, I’d have no choice but to ghost her.
My curiosity ate at me, though. Did the couple she was with know she worked at the blindfold club? And if so, why was it okay for her to fuck strangers for money, but not me?
Because it’s about power.
I was jealous of them. If things were different, I would have stepped up to the challenge. It was two against one, and I loved a good underdog fight. It made the victory even sweeter.
Somehow, Tara and I made it through the meal without straying back to our original conversation, and although we were friendly, there was tension hovering over us. She was probably worried I was judging her, which I wasn’t. I was worried about slipping and confessing that the brief night we’d shared three weeks ago had been one of the hottest things I’d ever experienced.
Not to mention, I’d spent months trying to get a lead into the story of the club, and Tara could bust the thing wide open for me. That was, if I was the kind of guy who was willing to use her like that.
I wasn’t . . . was I?
“I’m not going to hear from you again, am I?” she asked when the check arrived. “I’m too weird for you.”
I snatched up the bill as she reached for it. “No, not at all. You’re exactly my brand of weird.”
“If you say so.” She didn’t believe me. “Okay, where does that leave us?”
There was a huge lie wedged between us, and I was the one who’d put it there. I swallowed thickly. “Hanging out and not sleeping with each other—I guess that makes us friends?”
She pressed her lips together. This wasn’t the answer she hoped for, but it wasn’t a total loss either.
“Okay,” she said finally. “But friends split the bill, Grant.”
Monday morning, I was drinking my second cup of coffee when a production assistant came scurrying up to me, her eyes wide with fear. “Morgan needs to see you.”
“What’s going on?”
“Wardrobe put her in a size eight dress.”
“Shit,” I muttered and drank the rest of my coffee in two huge gulps. “Where is she?”
“In makeup.”
I tossed my paper cup into the garbage and checked my watch as I made my way toward the makeup department. I’d need to handle this quickly. If she was in tears, we might not have enough time to fix the damage, and I wasn’t going to put her on-air with a runny nose and mascara smudged under her eyes.
Morgan was seated in the chair in front of the bright mirror, white napkins tucked into the collar of her dress to protect it while the makeup artist brushed powder on her forehead. As soon as the artist saw me, she stepped back, shoved her brush into her apron, and gave me a knowing look.
“I’m gonna grab some coffee,” she said.
The woman didn’t want to hear the upcoming conversation, and I couldn’t blame her. I certainly didn’t want to be having it . . . again.
Morgan’s gaze found mine through the mirror, and she grabbed the armrests of the chair, pushing up to stand. “Grant, finally. Look at this dress.”
It was hard to miss because it was a bold yellow. Wardrobe liked to put her in happy colors because it was a morning show, and the short dress was cute with scalloped edges. The color was good on Morgan. Her skin looked tan and her blonde hair was a softer hue, complimenting the dress color instead of clashing with it.
She pinched the dress at her side, her pretty face filled with irritation. “It’s huge on me.”
It wasn’t. There was barely a millimeter of fabric between her fingers. “I think it looks fine.”
“Fine?” Her face flooded with alarm.
“Great,” I said quickly. “It looks great.”
She turned to face the mirror and reevaluate, her expression dubious. “I just want clothes that fit me. I mean, I’ve never been an eight in my life.”
Except I’d instructed the wardrobe department to switch out the labels of her dresses before fitting. The sizes seemed to be arbitrary. One brand’s size four could be a two or a six in another. What difference did it make what was on the label? I’d never understand why it mattered so much to her, but then again, she was Morgan. Everything mattered when it came to appearance.
I pinched the bridge of my nose as I mustered up the strength. “It looks perfect to me. It’s very flattering.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
Satisfied enough, she lowered back down into the chair. Crisis averted, I turned to leave—
“Wait,” she said. “How are you? How was your weekend?”
My lungs tightened in my chest. In our professional life, the breakup had gone as well as one could hope for, given that she’d sent nudes to half of the guys we worked with. It was a miracle she hadn’t been fired, but it might have been part of her plan. She craved attention, and it didn’t matter what kind.
“It was fine.” I used a clipped tone to show her I didn’t want to have a conversation.
She ignored my signals and asked it casually. “What’d you do?”
I narrowed my eyes. I knew what she was doing. Morgan didn’t care what I’d done—she was fishing for me to ask about her weekend. Whatever she was excited to tell me about, I wasn’t interested. It was ridiculous I had to constantly reassure her on her looks, and I was fucking tired.
“I went on a date.”
There was a spike of surprise followed by jealousy in her expression that she unsuccessfully tried to disguise. “Oh? With who?”
Morgan’s mouth fell open. “You went out with a stripper?”
“What? No, ballet. We met when I had an orchestra thing.”
The sunny yellow dress wasn’t enough to brighten her frown. “You’re dating a ballerina?”
It was petty to want to hurt Morgan, but I couldn’t help it. Her betrayal still stung, and I wanted her to feel some discomfort too.
“Yes,” I lied and then switched to the truth. “You should see her dance. She’s absolutely beautiful.”
Morgan looked the way she did when the teleprompter stopped working. A vacant smile was frozen on her face, but her eyes were pure panic. I left her like that and went back to the set, needing to do some actual work.
Justin, my boss, was talking with one of the anchors, but when he saw me, he waved me over and dismissed the anchor. His stern expression made the coffee in my stomach churn.
“Grant, we need to talk about your segment proposals. What is going on with you? You’re all over the place.” He put his hands on his hips, and his tone was serious. “When you first came on, your stuff was so edgy, but now you’re giving me nothing but fluff.”
My stuff had been too edgy, he’d lectured. Frustration boiled inside me. There was no pleasing this man. “It’s a morning show. You told me to tone it down and that viewers love fluff.”
“They do, but we have to find a balance, otherwise we become a joke. I can’t have that.”
“Of course not.”
“Tell me you’ve got something good in the works.”
Unease crept over my skin. I knew I should keep my mouth shut, but it spilled out anyway. “Maybe.”
Interest piqued through him. “Yeah? What is it?”
“It’s not ready.” I tried to walk it back. “It could be nothing.”
He scowled. “Well, let’s hope it’s something, because people aren’t going to keep watching if we’re giving them nothing. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t love my job, but I needed it, and if I didn’t give Justin something he could work with, he wouldn’t keep me around. Then, I’d have to find a new job or go crawling back to my wealthy family in Johannesburg.
Neither option was appealing, and I wasn’t going to let it come to that.
“Next thing I turn in will be huge,” I said.
“Excellent.” He brightened. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”