Thick Love (Thin Love, #2)(14)

After a year of making myself seem small and invisible, Ransom had finally seen me. At least, some burlesque version of me.

He knew me, he just didn’t remember. Any memory of me, any recall that he’d scared my papa away with a shove into his old Chevy was lost somewhere in that haze Ransom lived in. When I passed him in the studio hallway or ran across him in the parking lot, he barely managed a momentary glance.

Tonight, though, his eyes were wide open. It was the mask, the wig, the corset, I knew. He’d have never believed the girl in the tight bun, no makeup, wearing baggy t-shirts and worn dance pants was the same one who danced for him tonight.

But then, Ransom had never seen me really dance. Tonight’s performance wasn’t me performing. Not like I did at the studio. Not like I did when it was just me and the music and the rare beauty of being lost and found all at once.

The lights, the crowd, the illusion of the dance all called for a different Aly King. Up there on the stage I transformed, swung into a world where no one could touch me, where my body was just another part of the show, no more important than the beat of the music or the light fracturing the darkness.

In front of him, hidden behind that mask, the music, the sensation conjured by the dance, the rhythm of that melody ripped away my reason. It was an echo of who I was, one that I’d never let anyone see but who nevertheless lurked below my carefully controlled exterior.

That dance with Ransom, the way he touched me, the way he felt against me…it was an accident, like drinking too much wine at a wedding reception and going home with your cousin’s groomsman. Not anything you want to repeat, not anything you want anyone to ever know about.

My skin was still flushed, leftover from my orgasm and the quick whip of pleasure Ransom had lit in my body. The vanity top in the dressing room felt cool on my skin as I rested my forehead against it and tried to rid my senses of the smell of him—the faint hint of his cologne that set my nose on fire, the memory of his large fingers over my arms, across my stomach.

Me zanmi! Don’t start, King.

In the locker Misty let me use, Ironside had left an envelope with what I guessed he thought was generous tip. Three-hundred and fifty dollars and the black business card with only a number. On the back, looped in thin, messy script was a note:

Call if you need another job. Plenty of cash to be made.

The borrowed corset landed on the dressing table, a casualty to my quick change, and I was back to myself, in my jeans and hoodie before the dancers on the stage had begun kicking their legs in a synchronized line.

Ironside’s envelope was in my back pocket, his card I left in the trashcan behind me. I’d take his money, once, for a few minutes alone with Ransom, but once was enough. I wouldn’t keep my head above water turning him down like that, but I damn sure wasn’t going to beat myself up for a one-time escapade while Timber Ironside watched through a darkened window.

It wouldn’t happen again. Watching Ransom disappear, the sadness consuming him had been enough for me. Tonight had been a mistake. I didn’t want more of him; I didn’t even want what I’d just taken tonight. After all, with Ransom in school and playing ball, I’d probably never see him again. That made things easier.

But things are never that easy, are they? You internally reconcile about how things must be, you make plans to accept reality and then boom! Something derails you. Or someone. When I thumbed through my text messages, I realized that avoiding Ransom was not going to be that easy. Typical. I could make grand plans, but seeing them through wasn’t how my life generally works.

Instructors: Be at the studio tomorrow morning at 8. There are only a few months of preparation left until the Christmas recital.

Volunteers: We have a planning meeting at two tomorrow. Do not be late! (This means you, Ransom)

See you all soon,

-Leann





3





“It was an accident.” I knew I was talking to a picture on my phone, I knew that wasn’t rational, but I had to tell her about what happened. Even if she couldn’t hear me, I had to confess.

Three in the morning. My private room. The dancer filled my head. I could still smell her on my hands, could still feel the brush of her body against mine. My stomach cramped from the jerk it made when those wide hips, those plump curves had me coming.

“I tried not to…”

She wouldn’t hear my excuses. I knew that. The face remained unchanged, sad. It wouldn’t change and I didn’t expect it to. My phone felt cold in my hands, the screen fuzzy as I pled with that face.

“It was an accident.” Because that’s what it had felt like. Thinking of the dancer, not Emily. Thinking of thick, blonde hair, not soft, fine ginger. I touched my chest, over my heart, precisely in the spot where I’d had Emily’s face tattooed. Still, that image hadn’t stopped me last night. I kept thinking of brown skin and wide hips, not faint freckles and long, pale legs. It had been wrong, touching myself back here in my room, thinking I’d never get hard. The lap dance had been a fluke. I couldn’t do it on my own, hadn’t been able to since…. But I tried, anyway. Stupid me. And now the guilt was overwhelming.

Three in the morning and had I touched myself without thinking about punishment. I had touched myself because I wanted to, because the dancer had made me feel something other than shame. And I wanted to feel that again and again. I wanted that perfect stranger to make me feel it.