Ripped (Real, #5)(36)
Now I’m grumpy because he didn’t seek me out, like I—even if I hate myself for wishing it—still wished he would.
He’s managed to make me restless, to the point where I considered taking my clonazepam at midnight. But I only have two more pills, and what if we need to fly again? I’d die of cardiac arrest, if the stupid plane didn’t fall on its own.
Groggily I pour a steaming cup of coffee from a small buffet table on the side, sipping it as I study the two girls at the front of the room. One dark-haired, and one blonde.
Tit and Olivia.
Oh, yes. They’re like ringleaders, those two. I can recognize them instantly.
Tit is the blonde, not natural blonde like Melanie is, but a salon blonde with dark eyebrows. Olivia is dark-haired, almost like me, but her face is rounder and her expression, I guess . . . softer. But the look in her eyes? Nothing soft about that.
I meet her gaze square on, because you can’t ever look away from bullies. I practiced this to perfection when my father died and my mother intimidated me, and at school, where I was laughed at until Mackenna made sure I wasn’t laughed at again.
Now a dozen twenty-year-olds look at me like I’m bound to be their entertainment for the day. The choreographer claps her hands to pull every dancer’s eye from me over to her.
“My name is Yolanda,” she tells me. “And I’m in charge of getting you to move that body as if you’ve trained professionally your whole life. Not an easy task, so I warn you, your baths? Should be ice cold after this. You will never in your life be as stiff as a two-by-four and as awkward as a newborn giraffe. You will stretch with us now, and watch, and learn!” She snaps her fingers, and the other dancers start to stretch. Olivia seems impressed I’m even trying to stretch. Can I touch my toes? No. I’m as unbending as a stick, and I almost grunt as I keep trying.
“Gently! Or you pull and break the muscle and it’s no use to us!” Yolanda chides.
She’s Latin-blooded—I can tell by the passion in her voice and her thick accent. Her body is beautiful, with perfect curves in all the right places. The other dancers’ clothes cling to their beautiful bodies. Unlike mine. I’m a bit too flat-chested, and my ass could use a little meat too. I don’t have many curves. I do have big nipples that poke out too much, calling way too much attention to themselves, which is why I’m actually glad my boobs are small.
The outfit I’m wearing, sent to my room on behalf of Lionel, doesn’t really help my small boobs and small ass.
Trying not to watch myself in the mirror too much—and therefore avoiding a reminder of just how flat-chested I am—I make my way to the center. Yolanda calls me over.
“You. You and Olivia are both choreographed differently than the others. Pretend I’m Jones. Now you walk up to me, your moves sensual. Hypnotic. Sexy. Make contact with your inner mermaids . . .”
I feel stupid. Ridiculous. But I try to walk with a little sway of my hips. I hear snorts all around and I stop and scowl, swinging my scowl across the room so every woman here gets the full blast of my displeasure.
“Ignore . . . girls!” she chides, clapping, then to me, “Now . . . sensual. Not so stiff. Like making love. You will make love to Jones with your clothes on, onstage. Everybody wants Jones. Imagine his body, moving sinuously against yours. Mackenna Jones has the best moves—Magic Mike has nothing on him. Are you prepared?” She reaches around me and grabs the small of my back, undulating her body against mine.
Our tits are pressing. She’s pretending to be Mackenna and looking at me with an expression I believe she believes is Mackenna’s. Just thinking about being like this, in front of an audience, makes me want to gag. “I can’t—”
“CAN’T! That word does not exist here. We are all doers here. Now circle your hips. Hands on waist. Side to side, front, back, side to side. Just loosen it up!” She goes to turn on the music while all the other dancers stretch and I’m humping the air like a ridiculous little shit. “Good!” she praises. “Very good! Now add your arms . . . circle them to the side . . . up above . . . loosen that stiff little body of yours.”
We’re dancing to the group’s song, and the music starts reverberating in me. The girls swing their heads, and I pull my hair loose and follow suit, going up to Yolanda and rubbing my hands up her sides.
I am suddenly skating, my feet in charge under me, and Mackenna’s hands are on my waist, and I know he’ll catch me. If I fall, it’s not embarrassing but an excuse to get him to touch me and hear his low, rumbling laugh. I like when he laughs. I like his chuckle, how he picks me up, dusts my ass with his gloves, kisses me on the cheek in case anybody recognizes us, and whispers, “Enough?”
And I say, “Never!”
And he spins me like a top with another, deeper laugh, and pulls me down the rink, skating close to him. Suddenly dancing is not that different. I’m swept by the music, following the lead of the girl in front of me, letting my legs repeat the steps I’m shown, my hands moving and tracing my imaginary man. Yolanda silences her instructions as I start rocking, losing myself, picturing the way Mackenna had been up on stage with the two women. Now the one right in front of him will be me.
Reminding him what we had.
This is what you want, remember? Make him lose it. Remind him of the girl he used to skate with. The one he used to twirl around like a top. Remind him that she’s gone to him. Gone because . . . HE left HER.