She’s dropping hints like atomic bombs that sound both desperate and fake. I’m embarrassed for her and the person she makes me out to be to all of those watching.
She gives me a “come hither” gesture with her nails and jangling jewels. Dash’s grin is monstrous, wolfish, with his canines showing. He’s enjoying this victory. I stop breathing as I step into the bright lights and Mother’s empty embrace.
“Darling, smile big. I can’t believe you’re not wearing the lashes I bought you,” she seethes.
Dash licks his already shiny teeth and yanks me so forcefully that I almost stumble into him. Falling on the red carpet isn’t a good look for a dancer.
“I thought you’d never make it, Sam,” he growls.
“Isn’t that my line?” I ask.
He looks me up and down like I’m a meal, his eyes raking my body through my transparent dress. “Wow, Sammy Samwich, you look tasty enough to eat.”
All the while, we smile for the photos, and he holds me in his strong grip with the assurance of ownership and the mean heat of revenge.
Chapter Twelve
Dashiell
It’s only been a few months of media madness, but a man could get used to it. There’s a heady power to being sought after, to having your image plastered on every news outlet every time you step out of the house.
I can feel the surge in energy when I wrap my arms around Sam, and it’s not just me who notices. The crowd loves it. The media loves it. Our mothers love it. And I have to admit, I love how she feels in my grip, in my hold, her lithe frame, and the cold metal coupled with the soft satin of her dress. Her long pale neck and overdeveloped calves. The way her clavicle climbs forward like it’s trying to exit her flesh. The quintessential ballerina in her starving desire, her unrelenting quest for a kind of perfection that doesn’t exist in the real world.
She looks at me with hunger, and my dick throbs in my suit. Natayla Koslova has always looked at me with hunger.
“Will you be dancing together this season,” a reporter asks us.
“You’ll have to ask the director. We’re as much in the dark as the rest of you,” Sam replies.
For all of her tortured, meek appearance, Natayla is polished. I forget this is not a girl who’s been sheltered in an attic. Sam knows the fame game better than I do. She smiles and changes her foot stance, the angle of her head for each photo, never straying from my arms.
“What about Romeo and Juliet? The fans would love to see you two in those roles,” another reporter shouts.
Sam tips her head back and laughs like it’s the best joke she’s heard all night. It probably makes her uncomfortable because it’s too close to the truth. Her hand alights on my chest, and I can feel the cold of her fingers through the fabric of my shirt.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I murmur.
She nods and exhales, and I smell the sweetness of alcohol on her breath. There’s no fucking way I’m letting Lance the douchebot out of my sight. No way I can keep my fists from meeting his pretty-boy face if he tries to play finders-keepers with the one woman in this world who makes my blood roar as it rushes through my veins. I wrap my arms more tightly around Tayla, one slipping around her waist and the other around her neck as I slide behind her. The paparazzi and the fans eat it up, and the kids gathered around start to cheer. They like this familiarity, this static that sizzles between us and is, quite frankly, frying up the night air.
I let Natayla go once. I’m not doing it again.
“Do you know each other?” a Fox newsman asks.
Everyone is documenting our exchange, their eyes glued to our body language and our expressions.
“Koslova and I were at Haverton together a millennia ago,” I quip. I tuck my chin over her shoulder and place a quick kiss on her cheek.
“Careful,” Sam whispers. “It’s better if she doesn’t know.”
“Until I got kicked out,” I say good-naturedly.
Katerina’s ears prick and she looks up from her frantic posting on her phone. Lance is beside her, probably sharing the posts. I look at them and change my stance, removing my suit coat and throwing it over a shoulder, letting my hand graze Sam’s already absurdly erect nipple. She shivers in response.
“Baby ballerina Koslova and I used to share lunch. Now, if you’ll all excuse us, we have some catching up to do,” I say to the press.
I herd Tayla from behind the velvet ropes and throw my arm around her neck as we stride away from the crowd and back toward her building entrance.
“Thanks,” she says softly. “I wasn’t sure if you’d throw me to the wolves.”