I’VE NEVER THOUGHT twice about watching the girls dance. I own the club; I pay their wages, and I’m around when they practice. I observe them with my business head, looking for ways to tighten their acts, give the customers what they want and ultimately maximize profits. Viewing for pleasure has never been my thing. Sure, in the early days I got my fill of the privileges of owning a burlesque club, but it quickly aged. The enjoyment gave way to analysis, the luster rapidly dulling. The extraordinary soon morphed into the ordinary, and it became commonplace to talk to the girls in various states of undress without the awkwardness of any underlying sexual tension.
Today is the exception.
The new girl is stretching on stage, waiting for the others before their rehearsals begin. She’s in yoga pants and what appears to be a sports bra and nothing else. I haven’t been able to look away since she walked in, set her bag down, removed her sweater and began her warm up. I’ve wiped down the same spot on the bar now for the last ten minutes and I’m continually cursing myself for the lack of willpower to go back upstairs. I swear I’m getting high from the polish fumes. It was a knee-jerk reaction employing her, but I’ve never seen anyone so immersed in what they’re doing. She wasn’t just dancing; hell, I don’t know what I’d call it. She was mesmerizing to watch. Her movements fluid, full of grace and completely in tune with her body.
I know better than to place temptation under my nose, and Tweet embodies it. I called her Tweet aloud by accident yesterday when she was here; it wasn’t one of my most professional moments. When she talks her voice is almost musical, she makes everything sound like a song. She’s also small and dainty so the name kind of just fit. In my mind anyway…I’ve been calling her Tweet to myself ever since the first time I heard her speak. I couldn’t tell her that, though, and when she’d laughed and asked me why I’d referred to her as Tweet I panicked. All I could come up with was to say that she’s named after a bird, and I’d forgotten which one. She looked at me like I’d been smoking crack, so I confessed I’ve been calling her Tweet since the first day we met. It was one of those moments when you sound dumb as fuck, even to your own ears, but you’ve run with it so you see it through instead of admitting you’re full of shit. Declaring that her voice sounds more beautiful to me than the sweetest of symphonies would make one hell of an awkward working relationship, and no doubt make me sound like a dick.
“There you are.”
I glance over to see Annie rounding the bar towards me. I risk a quick glimpse back to the stage only to discover Tweet looking at us. I catch her eye and we both look away at the same time, embarrassed that we’ve caught each other staring. I really shouldn’t admit how pleased I am about that fact.
“Zane asked me to come find you; he wants to know if you managed to replace Maggie on Saturday night?”
I stop cleaning, throwing the rag under the bar and rest my elbows on it, looking down at Annie.
“You’ve lost me, sweetheart…who’s Maggie?” My face feels hot, and I bet if I were to turn around now, it would be Tweet’s stare causing the heat.
“Maggie…Mystic Maggie, you know,” she urges, rolling her eyes.
“Oh, the tarot reader for carnival night. Yeah, I’ve got a replacement coming. The lady at the agency said her name was Athena or Adelina…something like that. She’s supposed to be good, and that’s all that counts. You can tell Zane it’s all taken care of.”
“Will do,” she says, spinning on her heel and returning to the direction she came from.
I turn back toward the stage and Tweet is standing at the bar in front of me.
“Jesus!” I practically spit. “You crept up on me!” My heart’s hammering at an insane rate inside my chest from the shock of having her so close. I was expecting to turn and resume staring at her from a distance.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you…I…um, would you mind filling me up?”
“What?” I know she doesn’t mean it in the way I’m picturing mentally, but it’s taking all my energy to suppress the groan I have trapped in my throat. God, what I wouldn’t give to fill her right now.
“My water bottle.” she jangles the clear bottle in front of me. “Can you fill it, please?”
“Sure,” I tell her making absolutely no attempt to move and take it from her. I’m too busy looking at her eyes. They’re enormous, dark, almond-shaped orbs, cat-like. Sexy. They narrow, pushing me into action.
“You sure you only want water? I can grab you something else—soda, juice?”
“Water’s fine, thanks,” she lilts and pushes the bottle toward me. I take it to the fridge, filling it with a bottle of chilled San Pellegrino.
“Oh, I um…I don’t have my wallet with me. I meant just tap water,” she calls. Her words are rushed and panicked like it’s some massive problem that I’m serving her bottled water.
“No sweat, it’s on the house. I’m not about to charge you for water,” I tell her. She’s biting the corner of her lip, and she may as well have her hands down my pants, the effect would be the same. I physically have to shake my head to dislodge the thoughts.
I pass the water over and our fingers graze for the briefest of moments. She pulls back so suddenly that the water slushes out the top of her bottle. Am I having the same effect on her that she is on me? Or maybe I just intimidate her. I’m her boss and so far we’ve barely spoken, but every time we’re in the same room she catches me watching her. Okay, so intimidate might be the wrong word. Stalk would probably fit better. I’m pissed at myself for how eaten up this girl has me.
“Is that everything?” I ask. My voice has an air of impatience to it, and I almost want to wince at the iciness of my tone. I watch as she flinches.
“Yeah, thank you.”
She hurries back to the stage where a few of the girls have congregated and immediately I feel like a dick. I’m blowing hot and cold; I really need to get a grip and stop acting like a teenager with a crush. I’m her boss, and she’s an employee. It’s staying like that…period. I grab myself a bottle of beer and head on up to my apartment, putting some much-needed distance between us. What I genuinely need to do is distance myself from my own thoughts. I’m repeating the mantra: don’t get involved with the staff, over and over in my head as I climb the stairs. By the time I’m at the top I’m almost convinced that I won’t, until my hearing focuses in on the sound of her laughing with Rae, and I know I’ve screwed myself over this time.
There’s a soft knock on the door as I’m sitting on the sofa doing paperwork. Zane lets himself in, invited or not, so I know it’s not him. I flick the music down low and go to answer it. For one terrifying second before I open the door I imagine it’s Sam coming back to either a) kick my ass for the shitty way I treated her (and to be fair I’d deserve it); or b) attempt to reconcile and get something going between us again.
I’m seriously contemplating not answering, but I do anyway against my better judgment. Only it’s not Sam standing before me in the dimly lit hall. It’s Tweet.
“Hi, I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you, Mr. Speight—”
“Callum,” I correct.
“Pardon?”
“It’s Callum,” I repeat. “Mr. Speight’s my pop’s name.”
“Oh, right. Callum, I stayed late to go over the choreography for the carnival night, and I’ve kind of been locked in.”
There’s a hint of an embarrassed flush to her cheeks and she’s biting her lip again, bouncing on the balls of her feet. I check my watch and notice it’s 2:30 pm. I’ve been holed up in here for the last three and a half hours since bailing on the rehearsals this morning.
“I was going to leave, but I don’t know how to set the alarm codes, and Zane said he’d be back an hour ago, but isn’t.”