I guess we’ll find out.

Hours later, his words still ring in my mind as I pace the cramped dressing room backstage at X-tasy. There are five of us squeezed in together, surrounded by fogged mirrors, dim lighting, and the stale miasma of sweat, body oil, and desperation. Behind a black curtain, music blares as the first contestant is out there shaking her groove thing.

I’ve been here only once before, but never backstage. Nia’s friend Gerrie—a struggling fashion designer—was about to marry the lawyer who’d negotiated her deal with one of the home shopping channels. Since Nia was in charge of the bachelorette entertainment, we’d all been dragged to X-tasy for the Naughty Girls Amateur Hour, where Gerrie was goaded into signing up to perform, with the aid of about five Cosmopolitans and three test tube shots.

She’d put up a protest, but ultimately conceded, saying that the cash prize would come in handy during their honeymoon in Monaco. And because she’d promised her husband-to-be that she’d act out some of the dances she saw on her girls’ night. “And maybe it sounds a little fun, too,” she’d added, before scurrying off to cull together a costume from the bag of lingerie that Nia had brought for that very reason.

I’d watched, a little bit jealous, telling myself that I was only envious of the fact that she was dancing, the thing I love most in the world and have so little time for except when I’m teaching it during the summer.

But it was more than that. It was the way the audience responded, and the buzz that I knew she must be feeling because of their energy. It was the sensation of moving through space, and of controlling that space and your own body, and creating something that other people find sensual or thought-provoking or enticing or just plain lovely.

Most of all, though, I’d been jealous of the fact that she’d owned what I couldn’t. That she’d stood up and admitted that it would be fun to dance on that stage. To be a little drunk and a little wild and just have a good time. To be raw and let loose.

To dance for the express purpose of getting a man hot and bothered.

The music fades, giving way to catcalls and clapping. The voice of the bartender-turned-emcee blares out through the sound system, encouraging the men in the audience to cast their vote in hard, cold cash deposited into the buckets that the club’s waitresses were bringing around.

Normally, the men would show their approval by tucking a bill into a dancer’s G-string, but that’s against the rules during amateur hour. Each girl has an assigned bucket, and whoever has the most money at the end wins the entire pot.

I intend to win, of course. Even though I came here to audition for Wyatt, until Griffin’s officially on the protocol, I’m scrounging every penny I can.

And, also, as far as dancing goes, I might be a teensy bit competitive.

The amateur hour theme music starts up—an unpleasant electronic tune—and a moment later the curtains flutter as the girl who just finished slips backstage.

Her skin glistens with the sweat of exertion, but she’s smiling, so I have to assume she thinks she’s done well. She has long, lean thighs and a dancer’s body that’s pretty similar to mine, and I frown, because she might be real competition for me.

I also can’t help but notice that she’s essentially nude, having stripped down to nothing—seriously, nothing—but a pair of black thong panties.

The butterflies that have been pirouetting lazily in my stomach for the last hour morph into badgers, clawing and twisting and fighting.

I don’t think I can do this. How the heck can I do this?

I take a deep breath. And then, for good measure, I take another. Because I can. I can, and I will. It’s for Griffin. It’s for the money. And I just need to keep my eyes on the prize.

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.

“X-tasy? I know I’ve been saying that you need to let go, but are you sure about this?” I heard genuine concern in her voice. “I mean, think about it, Kels. What kind of door are you opening? And can you handle whatever’s on the other side?”

I knew the answer then, and I know it now: I’m opening a door that should stay closed. But what choice do I have?

I need this job. I need to help my brother.

Besides, I’d kicked that door wide open the moment I agreed to go to the audition in Nia’s place. I hadn’t known it at the time. I hadn’t planned it. But now that it’s open, I can’t go back.

All I can do is hope that he’ll help me.

All I can do is try to protect my heart.

I exhale slowly, then shift my torso to stretch out my other side, trying to concentrate on my body instead of the mish-mash of thoughts in my head. I’m successful for about seven seconds, then Madonna’s voice starts to fade out and the audience applauds and shouts a few catcalls. Moments later, the girl bounces back into the dressing area. I hadn’t been watching, but from the way she’s smiling, I’m guessing she did okay.

That’s two so far I have to beat.

The girl who’s performing immediately before me wrings her hands as she stands in front of the curtain, then turns and looks in my direction, her eyes wide with fear.

I smile sympathetically, but the truth is that I don’t understand that kind of stage fright. The fear of making a mistake, sure. But being on stage is like being alive, but in a world that’s perfect and beautiful, and where I’m always in control.

Her music starts, and she makes a little squeaking noise before bounding onto the stage when her name is called. As soon as she’s through the curtain, I hurry over to the dressing area and sit at the sticky, stained dressing table I’d claimed. I know I have time. The staff already told us that after she dances, there will be a ten-minute break for the audience to order fresh food and drinks. Then I’ll perform, followed by the rest of the girls.

I dig in my purse for my lip balm, and as I do, I see my phone light up with a call. It’s on silent, and I consider letting it ring through to voicemail, but it’s Griffin.

I press the button to connect, “Hey, make it fast. I’m in the middle of something.”

“No prob. I was just hoping you could come over tonight. There’s noise on the tracks during the chase scene.”

“Really? That sucks. We nailed that scene.” Griff’s a voice actor. Or, at least, he’s a struggling part-time voice actor, although he’s starting to get more work as his reputation grows. But my brother’s also scrappy, and so he’s written and is producing his own podcast. Kind of a modern day Beauty and the Beast meets The Count of Monte Cristo. I’ve read all the scripts, and it’s brilliant.

He hasn’t aired any of the episodes yet; he wants to have the entire season finished before he puts it out. He says it’s so that he won’t lose steam if it sucks and gets no subscribers. I say it’s smart because he’s going to be doing so many media interviews and fielding so many job offers that he won’t have as much time to spend in the studio.

His cast is made up primarily of other voice actors he’s met over the years, but he really wants me involved. So he’s given me a bit part in every episode. In the one he’s talking about, I’m a homeless girl with three scenes. I’m not an actress, but I can’t deny it’s fun, and I love the idea of having been a part of something I’m sure is going to put my brother on the map.

“We’ll nail it again,” he says cheerfully, because nothing ever gets Griffin down. Well, almost nothing. “But I want to get it redone now so I can edit it tomorrow night after that cocktail party. You’re still going with me, right?”

“Honestly, I should bail. You ought to take a date.”

He sighs, then repeats. “You’re still going with me, right?”

I roll my eyes and mimic his sigh. “Of course. Do you honestly think I’d miss a party where there’s free food and alcohol? I’m totally there.”

I’m joking, of course. Well, mostly. The salary of a kindergarten teacher is not a shiny treasure chest of gold, and that’s even when you throw in the extra money I earn teaching dance during the summer. Which means I pinch pennies as a matter of course. Only now that I’m saving for Griffin’s treatment, I’ve been pinching them so hard the little copper devils are practically disintegrating between my fingers.

“Anyway, I can’t come tonight,” I continue. “I’m tied up for a while. But I’ll come over tomorrow after I teach my Zumba class. I’ll just change at your place and we can leave for the party after we redo the recording.”

“Sounds good.”

“Great. I’ll be there. Unless you decide to take a date in the meantime.”

“Give it a rest, Kels.”

I know I should shut up, but my brother is awesome, and if he’d just put himself out there more, I know he’d find someone. “There are a couple of girls taking my Wednesday Barre class who I think you’d really like.”

He mutters something I can’t make out, which is probably a good thing. “Tell you what, when you come over, you can give me a list of all the dancers you think are perfect for me, and then I’ll tell you the reason why they’re not. There’s just the one reason, Kels. And we both know what it is.”

I grimace, knowing I’m poking his one sore spot, but I can’t seem to help it. “Griff—”

“Don’t even start.”

I want to argue, but the intro music starts up, meaning the break is almost over. “Fine. As a matter of fact, you’re in luck, because I can’t. I have to go. I’m trying—”

I cut myself off, realizing this really isn’t the time to get into it.

“What?”

“Nothing. I really have to run. But I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Is that music? What? Are you auditioning? Is it for a show? At this hour?”

“No, it’s a—doesn’t matter. I have to go. Seriously, they’re calling for me.”

“Right, right. Tell me about it tomorrow. And break a leg, okay?”

I’m grinning as I hang up. Griffin has always encouraged my dancing, telling me I need to audition more and get out of the teaching grind and into performing. Somehow, though, I don’t think this is what he had in mind.

I draw a deep breath and step up to the curtain as the emcee announces me. The pounding beat of Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me” fills the club. The music swells inside me, and I travel across the floor in time with the beat, then leap onto the pole, hooking one leg around it and holding on loosely so that I spin around, my back arched and my breasts high.

It’s a move designed to grab attention, and from the rising applause, I know that it worked. I hold the pose for a moment, then rise back up until my breasts rub the pole and my feet are firmly on the stage. I plié down, the pole rubbing between my legs as I add in a few sensual gyrations for good measure.

The men applaud, and I can only assume that they’re imagining me doing that very move with them. But it’s not anonymous men I care about. It’s not even their vote or the money they might put in a canister for me to win.

It’s Wyatt. And not just the job, but the man.

That simple truth twists inside me, as raw and wild as the music I’m dancing to, and I straighten up, then hold on tight as I slide one leg up until I’m in a sideways split. I search the crowd for him, arcing my body as if that’s part of my dance, when really all I’m trying to do is see the crowd.

But he’s not there, and a bone deep disappointment rushes through me. He’s the reason I’m here. The reason I’m dressed in a filmy skirt made of four different colored scarves stitched loosely to a ribbon tied around my waist. The reason I’m wearing a fragile silk blouse that I fully intend to sacrifice as part of my dance.

I’ve come here ready and willing to put my whole body on display for strangers to prove to him that I have the gumption to handle his job, and yet he’s not here.

He’s really not here.

I’m still lost in the dance, though. Lost in the performance—because a true dancer doesn’t let her emotions stall her. Doesn’t let real life interfere with either the movements or the fantasy world through which she’s moving.

He’s not here, I think again. And the truth is that I don’t care.

It’s a heady realization—and a scary one. But in that moment at least, I’m exactly where I want to be. I’m dancing. Wildly. Provocatively. Seductively.

That basic reality overwhelms me, and I gasp, then cover my unexpected reaction by dropping to the ground and starting my floor routine early. A series of overtly sexual moves that perfectly match the music, and end with me arching my back as I face the ceiling, then ripping open the shirt, sending buttons flying. The shirt slips off, baring my shoulders while my arms remain in the sleeves.

I’m on my back on the stage, my hands pushing me up so that my torso is elevated and my back arched. My arms are bound behind me by my own shirt. For a moment, I’m vulnerable, both on this stage and in the fantasy of the dance where I am bound and helpless in my lover’s bed.

I roll my head as I improvise a struggle, my dance comprising both movement and a story.

And that’s when I see him.

He’s standing at the back of the club, leaning against a pillar. The dim light from a nearby fixture illuminates his face, so that I can’t escape the weight of his gaze—or the intensity of his attention. He’s watching me.

He’s entranced by me.

The power of that moment flows through me. I’ve captured him. For this moment at least, he’s mine.

That’s when something shifts inside me. I’m no longer dancing for my own pleasure. And I’m certainly not dancing for the anonymous men in the audience.

Now I’m dancing for Wyatt. For only Wyatt.

I roll over, and as I do, I let the shirt slide off, freeing my arms. I place my palms on the ground in front of me in child’s pose, then lift my rear until I’m in a pike position. Now my body forms a triangle, with my butt at the apex. I hold that pose for a moment, then rise up, my movements always in time to the music.

I’m almost bare on top now, something that is obvious to the audience now that I’m standing in front of them wearing only a tiny flesh-colored bra. I kick up a leg and twirl, thankful the stage is polished. With each rotation, I pull off a scarf from my makeshift skirt, holding onto it long enough so that it flutters beside me for dramatic effect. I release it after a full rotation, letting it pool on the ground beside me.

When all the scarves are gone, I’m left wearing nothing but a pink ribbon around my waist and a G-string that matches the bra. I pull off the ribbon and let it fall to the stage with the scarves.

The song starts to wrap, and I draw a breath. I’m lost in the dance, but somewhere deep inside me, I know I ought to be nervous. I’m revealing myself. I’m being bad, getting my naughty on. It’s scary stuff, and yet I’m really not scared.

On the contrary, I want it to go on and on. I’m on stage—a real stage—and I’m not only dancing for an audience, I’m dancing for Wyatt.

I tell myself that the only reason I can do this is because there’s a good cause behind it, but that’s just not true.

It’s everything. It’s the way the music fills me. The way the audience watches me.

Mostly, though, it’s the heat in Wyatt’s eyes. The desire I see on his face. The memory of his touch.

I remember everything—and I’m fantasizing about even more. I don’t want this feeling to end. This exultant thrill. This wild ride.

I look out into the dark of the club, and the men at the nearby tables seem to fade away. I’m seeing only Wyatt now.

I slide my hands over my hips, my waist, my breasts. I do that, and I imagine it’s his touch. His seduction.

I’m dancing for him, and only him.

I’ll get the job, I think. I’m certain of it.

But as I look in his eyes, I can’t help but wonder if that’s really a good thing. Because now I’ll be seeing him every day.

And in the end, that’s just going to hurt all the more . . .