Audition

CHAPTER ONE

The novel Oliver Twist shone a light on the plight of poor children who were forced to work in harsh conditions much like a prison. They were fed primarily gruel and soup, only given tea when prescribed by a doctor.

Bethany

Blinding lights. Aching lungs. Thunderous applause.

The opening show ends the way we rehearsed for weeks, only this time with an audience. My muscles know the movements better than they understand the rest. The prospect of after, of anything outside this stage, makes my breath catch.

We take our bows together, as a single line. The avant-garde dance company doesn't have a strict hierarchy-no corps dancers or prima ballerinas. There's only this show, this moment, which suits me perfectly. No promises. No regrets.

The curtain falls.

Almost to the second, we break formation-a flock of crows startled from the woods. We prance to the dressing room, our bodies made springy by adrenaline. Euphoria clings to our sweat-dampened skin even backstage.

Grins and congratulations all around.

The show is titled Olivia Twist, a contemporary retelling with most of the roles gender reversed. Fagin has been reimagined as Fanny, the clever head of a group home for girls. The concept was mine, but the entire show is a team effort.

There's relief, too. The standard ritual of icing swollen joints or wrapping bruised tendons. We hurl our bodies through the air, forcing massive impact through tired joints night after night. We look strong onstage. Behind the curtain we're a jumble of never-healing wounds, held together by silk and spandex and Kinesio tape.

I catch my friend Marlena under my shoulder. Her face is white with pain.

"Ice," she says. "Or better yet-tequila."

I help her limp off the stage. "Don't sell yourself short. You can have both."

A delicate snort. "Not likely. We have to smile and flirt with the old men with big, fat wallets. As if I don't do enough of that at home."

We fall into our creaky chairs in the dressing room. The stage director tosses half-frozen bottles of Ozarka at each of us, and we both pause to gulp. I'm wearing an army-green leotard sewn with rags to highlight my part as the gender-reversed Olivia Twist, while Marlena wears a patchwork greatcoat for her part as Fagin.

I drip some of the cold water into my palm and smooth it across the back of my neck. "You don't have to. At home, I mean. You definitely have to flirt at the opening party."

"My body hurts too much to give up my whirlpool tub or two-thousand-thread-count sheets." Marlena has a sugar daddy who visits her a few times a week for an uncomplicated evening. In exchange he pays for an upscale brownstone once owned by a Hollywood actor, a Bentley and driver to take her to and from practice, and a 401K through his company.

"Does he have any friends?" I ask, though I'm joking-mostly.

"You know I'd find you a sugar daddy if I thought you'd actually accept it. We probably don't even need to. I've seen the way Scott looks at your ass. He has more than enough money to keep both of us."

I choke on a swallow of water. "Marlena."

She giggles. "He may be old, but he knows how to show a girl a good time."

"We'll call that plan B. Besides, I like my apartment." The dance company doesn't pay very much. Less than minimum wage. They get away with it because it's considered a part-time job. We're only paid for the time we perform, even though we practice eight hours a day.

I don't precisely like my apartment, but it's all I can afford.

Marlena rolls her eyes. "Let me know when you get tired of the rat droppings."

For that comment I flick my fingers, spraying her with ice-cold water. She squeals and spills some of her water on my thigh, making me gasp. She thinks I'm too uptight to accept a sugar daddy, like maybe I look down on her. That's not it. I learned early on the risk of belonging to a man. The danger of trusting one.

Being a ballet dancer is a terrible business model. My only commodity is my body, and between injury and age, it depreciates quickly. Still, it's managed to keep me off the streets. It's managed to keep me independent from my brother.

For that I'm grateful.

I remind myself of that as I sit at my bench. We're contractually obligated to attend the ball. Like Marlena said, we should smile and flirt with the rich people who attend. Both the male and female dancers have to. It's what convinces the sponsors to write checks that will fund the next season. Ticket sales don't even cover our tiny paychecks.

Fresh lipstick. Powder. I smooth a hand over my bun, but it's perfectly tight. The truth is that I look composed most of the time. People assume I must feel that way, too. It's an act as surely as I dance on the stage each night. A performance.

I'd love to change into a fresh leotard and shoes, but Rio would complain. They like us sweaty, the stage manager says. It adds to the authenticity. Five hundred rich people of New Orleans will be wearing gowns and tuxedos. Meanwhile I'm damp with sweat and the remains of our impromptu bottled water fight, wearing an army green leotard with bits of frayed fabric forming a ragged tutu.

Chandeliers blind me. The chatter is a physical sensation, like hitting a wall.

Rio hands me two glasses of champagne. "Dunn's on stage left."

My stomach sinks. Trevor Dunn is a real estate mogul who thinks his corporate sponsorship gives him the right to grope the dancers. Unfortunately he has a particular liking for me. I look around for Marlena, but she's already with Scott Castle. He stands in a black suit with silver-blond hair, a stern expression on his face. They met at one of these events last season, and he hasn't missed one since. He wants the other men to know she's taken. His hand on her ass doesn't leave any ambiguity.

From all the way across the room I hear Trevor's over-hearty laugh. God. He probably wants to become my sugar daddy. The idea makes my throat clench. My eyes burn.

Mamere's voice rumbles through my head. You come from priestesses and warriors, child. Why you want to take off your clothes and dance for white men? She's never thought ballet was different from being a stripper. As I approach the drunk men on the left side of the ballroom, the knot in my stomach tightening with every step, it feels like she's right.

It might seem like being onstage, but for me it's completely different. When I perform, my footwork is predetermined, the choreography practiced so well it feels like second nature. This? I try to avoid the boisterous crowd. People jostle me. They bump into me.

They make the champagne slosh against the glasses.

Golden liquid slips over the rim. It spills between my fingers. When I arrive at the group of men, they're caught in the grip of belly laughs-most likely over something lewd or offensive. These are the quintessential frat boys all grown up.

I'm the girl from a family where no one's been to college.

"Bethany," Trevor says with what I suppose is a charming smile on his perfectly tan face. He's aggressively fit, the kind that must take hours in a gym every morning. He's also aggressively styled with slick hair and expensive clothes and a gleaming male manicure. "You looked great tonight. I can pick you out of the lineup every time."

Heat rushes to my face. He can pick me out of a lineup because of my skin color. It's not really a commentary on my talent or his skills of observation. "I brought champagne."

Only as the words leave my lips do I realize how strange it is for me to bring a glass only for him when he's standing in a group of other men. It's something a girlfriend would do.

I don't want him to get romantic ideas about me.

"Thanks, sweetheart." He hands me his empty beer stein as if I'm a server.

It would be less humiliating if I weren't half-naked. The leotard that feels so natural onstage seems obscene as I stand here holding a glass smudged with Trevor Dunn's fingerprints.

I'm the high-society equivalent of a Hooter's waitress.

"That must be for me," comes a low voice I remember from my dreams. Green eyes. A face so handsome it belongs on some kind of movie star, not a soldier for hire. A mercenary. He wears his muscles with an ease that Trevor can't match. Those hands have done things that would make society matrons gasp. That body has moved through the darkest places on earth.

"You." My mind supplies only that word: you, you, you.

He gives me a cocky half smile that promises a wicked night. It's the smile that could lure Eve out of the garden. He's not Adam. No. He's the serpent with the dark temptation. "Hello, Bethany."

Trevor frowns. "You know her?"

"We've met," Josh says, taking the other champagne glass from my numb fingers. He takes a gulp before passing the flute to Trevor. He takes the beer stein, too, putting it in the crook of Trevor's suited elbow. That's how he leaves Dunn, holding three glasses, unable to move his arms without spilling. "Be a good pal and walk that over to the bar," Josh says, not taking his eyes off me.

It seems impossible that Trevor would obey. He does. His friends drift away, too.

Then it's only Joshua North standing in front of me.

"Why were you bringing that fucker a drink?"

His harsh tone makes me flinch. Which annoys me. I don't answer to this man. "It's not any of your business...