I pull back with only a moment to spare, making my near slip not just evident to Jet, but everyone surrounding us.
"Awkward," Jet murmurs under his breath, loving the snarled glances directed my way. "I might have to take two home tonight just to save your head from the cutting block."
"Haha. Don't blame me for your promiscuity," I reply, half-peeved, half-relieved.
After grabbing my handbag from my dressing station and securing a hoodie over my golden locks, I bump Jet with my hip then head for the back entrance. Anyone would swear the place is on fire for how fast my steps are. I haven’t been home before 4 AM the past three weeks, so my eagerness can’t be contained.
I push through the heavily weighted door with force, adoring the nip of freshness in the air. I’ve always loved Florida in the fall. Warm during the day, but perfect snuggling weather at night. Ideal!Well, it would be if I had a significant other to cuddle with.
Hearing my name being called from inside, I twist my torso. Jet is racing for the back door that is rapidly closing. His face is washed with concern. I try to stop the doors from closing, mindful of the alarmed locks Pete had installed late last month. Once the doors shut, they can’t open for another five minutes without inputting a safety code. The boost in security was implemented after two dancers snuck clientele in via the back entrance, pocketing their entrance fees as tips instead of handing them over to their rightful owner.
They didn't just lose their jobs; they nearly lost all the honest dancers their wages as well. Pete was pissed, so much so, he nearly doubled the cover charge. That would have been bad news for the entertainers, as the more money patrons hand over to enter, the less they have to share amongst the dancers. Considering one-third of the dancers at Vipers aren't paid a wage, they need those tips. Thankfully, Pete’s anger dulled when he was lavished with his employees’ attention. He kept the entrance fee at the agreed amount, instead opting for tighter security measures.
My endeavor to stop the door from closing is hindered by my shoe getting snagged in a grate. It slams shut, leaving Jet and his incoherent blubbering on the other side.
"I'll come around," I advise Jet when the thick door swallows his words. All I can hear is his muffled voice. Nothing he is saying makes any sense.
“His. . . out. . .front. . . wait. . .Savannah.” His clear words are separated by ones I can’t make out.
"Give me a minute. I'll be right around," I say with a groan, shocked by his eagerness to talk to me. I don't know what is so urgent it can't wait until tomorrow, but considering he went out on a limb for me tonight, I can't pretend I didn't hear him.
I keep my chin in close to my chest when I round the main entrance of Vipers. Although I wear a wig while performing, I've been caught out on three occasions the past week doing the most mundane tasks. Once, I was questioned at the laundromat. I was blinded by the client's eagerness to speak to me, even more so since he was standing next to his wife.
Deny. Deny. Deny. Then flee.That's the motto I've lived by the past three weeks.
My brisk pace down the cracked sidewalk slows when a familiar voice jingles into my ears—a voice I’ll never forget. A voice that sweetens my dreams as much as it blackens them.Ryan.
“I told you last month, Ma. He isn’t using the money to pay his rent. . . No, you don’t understand. Giving him a way out won’t teach him anything. . . You’re not hurting him by denying him, Ma. You’re helping him. . .”
I can’t see him, but I’m certain he has sensed my presence, as his voice didn’t lower because his mother interrupted him. It dipped like it always did when I tried to catch him unaware.
“Ma, I’ll call you back.” I hear a familiar beep, closely followed by the clearing of a throat.
Pretending I can't feel the world falling from beneath my feet, I glance around my location, seeking a quick exit. My choices are the packed parking lot on my right or returning down the dark, scarcely lit alleyway on my left. Neither option is appealing, but it can't be any worse than the predicament I am facing.
Deciding to wait for the alarm to unlock the back door is my best option, I spin on my heel and dash toward the alleyway.
My steps are stopped when a deep, gritty voice says, “Savannah?”
A million replies stream through my head, but not one seeps from my lips. I can’t command my legs to move, much less speak. So, instead, I keep my eyes planted on my shoes, pretending I am not who he thinks I am.
My pulse rages through my body when Ryan noisily huffs. It isn’t the huff of a man in shock. It is the gruff moan of an angry, tormented man. I don’t know what he has to be angry about? I’m not the one who tore his heart to shreds. He did that to me, not the other way around.
After clearing the anguish from my eyes, I raise my chin sky-high. “Ryan, hi,” I greet him, my voice as over the top as the grin on my face.
I saunter toward him like I have the world at my feet while chanting the same mantra on repeat:He didn’t break my heart. He didn’t break my heart. He didn’t break my heart.
“What are you doing here? I didn’t think these types of establishments were your thing?” I question, leaning in to place a kiss on his cheek.
What?Old Savannah would have done that. I’m not relishing his unique, manly scent or getting a better look at his soul-stealing eyes. I am being polite. That is all.
Yeah, right.
Ryan is wearing a suit. Not just a shabby old suit you see on a hundred men, but a suit that showcases every spectacular cut of his body. His hair is a little shorter than I am used to, and the scruff on his chin is a little thicker, but his panty-wetting face, mind-numbing eyes, and lips as soft as a cloud haven't changed the past ten years. This shames me to admit, but he is as reckless to my composure as he has always been.
Now I am even more annoyed. A cheater doesn’t deserve to have this hold over someone. He broke my heart. Not partly. Not just a smidge. Wholly. He destroyed me.He destroyed us.
“It was lovely seeing you again, but I really must go.” I bite the inside of my cheek, loathing that my voice is croaky, as if I’m seconds away from crying. I don’t cry—not for this man. I shed enough tears a decade ago to last me a minimum of three. I will not cry another tear for this man.
