Thick Love (Thin Love, #2)(65)

“Give him a good show,” he’d said.

But that orto had no idea what it would take to make Ransom happy. Ironside didn’t know that Ransom was stuck in perpetual numbness and not even me dancing for him, hidden again behind that tight blonde wig and the large fanned mask, would pull him from it. What I didn’t say to the bata as he watched his girls disguising me with thick makeup and long fake lashes, was that I wanted Ransom happy. It’s all I wanted. I wanted him to smile, to laugh and mean it. I wanted to take that shade from his eyes. I wanted him to kiss me and not feel guilty for doing it.

Ransom wanted the dancer. Ironside had said as much to me as I stood behind a thick bamboo screen and slid into the corset. “He badgered me for weeks about you.” But it wasn’t me, was it? It was the dancer rubbing against him, the one Ransom probably thought couldn’t get inside his head. The one he didn’t have to look at in the daylight. The one he could sex up and then walk away from.

I had been told my entire life to sacrifice what I wanted for everyone else. It was expected. It was something that I thought was normal, that I believed was just the way of things—that women submitted, and were glad to for the men that took care of them. But my father hadn’t taken care of me because I reminded him of what he’d lost. So I stopped believing that submission was what all good women did. If that’s what they did, then I never wanted to be a good woman.

But I would be. For Ransom. As stupid as it sounded in my head, he was the only person who’d deserved my sacrifice. That was a one-sided, unbelievable decision that I hoped he never discovered. I would dance for him if it meant he’d find a release. If it meant he could step away from the punishment he subjected himself to, and smile a real, honest smile, just once.

“You set?” Ironside asked, leaning against the door.

I managed a final glance in the mirror, shaking my head at the long, fake curls on the wig and the deep red lipstick. It was all smoke and mirrors, meant to hide me from Ransom. Meant to give him the illusion of seduction that he could feel blindly, without any thought. It was an art form expertly executed, but I still hated it, hated why it was necessary.

The auditorium was packed as I walked through it, avoiding the crowd brimming with happy football fans still reeling from CPU’s win. The smoke was thick, the laughter like a buzz in my head that echoed. My heart raced, pounded hard as I moved around the crowd, catching no one’s gaze but the woman overhead, swinging from the rafters like a half-drunk green fairy.

No one stopped me as I walked backstage toward the private room and only the faint, quiet buzz of that crowd greeted me behind that curtain. This was the moment Ransom had craved, the same moment I dreaded. He would touch the dancer, not me. That anonymous face would greet him because it’s what he wanted. And as I twisted the silks around my arms, it was Ransom’s desire I thought about. That and the small hope that this hidden dance would heal him, if only for a little while.

The deep, electric vibration of a bass guitar, those slow, seductive moans of a sultry alto voice and I closed my eyes, tried to push away the thought of Ransom as I’d known him for over a month. I didn’t want to think about how wide his smile became when his little brother jumped on his back and weaved his arms around Ransom’s neck, refusing to let go, or how he’d stare after his parents like they amazed him. They had real love. And I guessed, as I took a breath, waited for the curtain to rise, that this small thing I did for Ransom was something like love too.

Maybe it was the thing I’d told him I never wanted starting to brim and grow inside me. Maybe I did love him. Just a little.

Ransom sat in that plush wingback, slouching like he had no energy left. He let his legs splay open, was relaxed and held his loose fist against his mouth. But his eyes were eager, hungry as I spun around on the silks. I caught the bright, anxious light in them and how steadily they followed me as I flew over that small stage.

Tonight, Ironside wouldn’t watch, I was going to make sure of that: as the beat continued, more of The Weeknd’s “Same Old Song,” I glided to the front of the stage and let the silks fall behind me. That fabric whispered over my skin and I moved, offering Ransom one glance, to the bar console and pulled off the tablecloth spread out there, walked to the small window next to the door and fitted the cloth around the molding, never once glancing at Ironside standing on the other side.

Ransom had turned to watch me as I ensured our privacy, and now that eager light in his eyes shone brighter as I moved back to the stage, to stand in front of him. That gaze didn’t dull. He expected me to take control, likely wanted me to and so I took up my position again in front of him, swaying, letting that music move me, hoping that he enjoyed the small show.

“Thank you,” he said, nodding toward the window.

That voice was low, deep and as he spoke, Ransom’s gaze caught on my subtle dance, moved with each slow grind of my hips. He was distracted, lifted his eyebrows toward me as his eyes focused on my body and with one deep dip that brought me closer toward him. Ransom’s eyes slipped up and over my body, then finally came back up to my face.

My heart raced when he licked his lips, when he rested one hand on my hip and slumped back like he needed something he couldn’t voice. “Come closer.” His voice was off, deeper than normal. “Please,” he said when I didn’t move. “I need you closer.”

I blinked, inhaled, trying hard to remember the deflection I desperately needed to keep my mind from flashing to the memory of his kiss or how Ransom was when I was Aly and he didn’t expect me to perform for him. This wasn’t how I wanted things to be with him. This wasn’t how anything should be for me at all.