I turn to look at him, eyes snagging on the bills bulging out of the pocket of his jeans. “I will always be grateful that you did.”
But it’s clear he’s stopped listening to me, the facade of theCandelabra’stalent manager taking over once more. As he stalks back to the door, a sinking feeling settles into my stomach.
“I need you to go out there and close the show better than ever. The Italians are here, and they’re going to be pissed that they missed Daniela’s performance.”
“Right.” I nod absently but can’t tear my eyes from his pocket.
“I mean it, Cas. You need to make this up to me, remember?”
He lingers at the door, and I try to persuade myself that he’s just forgotten. That asking my next question isn’t unreasonable.
“Before you go, could you give me my tips back?”
Claudio stares at me blankly. “You owe me rent.”
It feels like he’s just punched the air from my lungs. “Right.”
His gaze rakes over me once more before he leaves. The act sends a shiver down my spine that I convince myself must be derived from desire. Because what else could it be? My heart thrums rapidly in my chest at the truth in that stare.
He is gorgeous, passionate, and committed to my success. He’s the angel who swept into my boring old life in Ohio and promised me the world was ours for the taking.
It’s so easy to convince myself that I love him, because he’s already done so much for me. He got me this job, housed me, clothed me.
If that’s not love, what is?
“Fuck.”
I examine my arms in the mirror with a gnawing sense of dread. Hand-shaped bruises are already forming on the tops of my arms, and my strappy black dress does nothing to conceal them.
The intercom buzzes. “Cas, you’re on in five!”
There’s nothing else I can do. I don the worn leather jacket hanging on the back of my chair and allow the familiar musky scent of it soothe my rampant anxiety. Danny will give me so much crap for wearing it on stage, but I don’t care.
The woman in the mirror stretches her face into a smile, and we rise as one, ready to take on the world. Seven thousand dollars lighter.
As I walk backstage, my heels click against the floor, providing a beat for my vocal warmups. My throat snags more than I’d like it to, but it’s already two a.m., and most of our patrons will have already sailed past sobriety.
I just pray that the “Italians” are firmly on that list.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Claudio’s voice booms as I wait in the wings. “I present the most darling, most talented thing to come out of Ohio in the last twenty years. Please give a round of applause for Miss Cassandra!”
I breathe before I step out onto the stage to the chorus of applause.
As usual, the lights are far too bright. I can just about see Claudio’s outline as I approach the microphone. He reaches for me, squeezing my arms as he goes to kiss me on the cheek.
“Don’t fuck this up,” he whispers.
I smile as he leaves me, the clapping trickling into expectant silence.
Showtime.
“How are we all doing here tonight?” I say into the free-standing microphone.
The question is met with a generous amount of cheering, but I have to squint to determine where it’s coming from.
“Could we turn down the lights a little? I want to see what kind of motley crew waited all this time to listen to little old me.”
Thankfully, the blinding spotlight eases, revealing a surprisingly strong turnout.
