“Mom, you’re in the middle of hosting a fundraiser. Now’s not the time to sit down and gab with me about boys.” Now wasn’t the time, but he appreciated the offer. He expressed his thanks with a quick squeeze to her hand.
“Well, tomorrow, come by and we’ll have a couch cuddle.” She leaned up and kissed his forehead. A real kiss, followed by rubbing his forehead to remove any lipstick marks. As if any of her expensive, imported from Korea cosmetics would dare to smudge and come off. His father gave him another hug as well.
Aiden accepted a drink from a server—something bubbly and cranberry flavored as he lingered for a few moments of small talk with his parents and the two couples they’d been conversing with when he’d arrived. He was about to excuse himself when someone new approached. Aiden recognized the silver-haired man immediately. Anderson Pruitt. Of course, the most important man in the city would be here where all the other important people had gathered. Aiden went still, reminding himself to keep control of his face so his hatred wouldn’t show and embarrass his parents.
“Anderson. I’m glad you could make it.”
His mother gave their guest an air kiss and his father followed up with a hearty handshake. Aiden merely offered the man a polite smile—his teeth clenched behind his closed lips.
“Of course. I love supporting the arts,” Pruitt said with perfect graciousness. He turned gray eyes so light they almost appeared clear to Aiden. “And this is your son, Aiden, correct?”
“Yes. Our youngest of three,” Halima said proudly.
“Your mother talks about her three sons whenever we meet. You’re the one who works as an exotic dancer.”
“That’s right.”
“It’s a shame about what’s happening in the Playground.”
Aiden doubted the sincerity of Pruitt’s concern. Considering he was the one responsible for the entire situation. And even if he wasn’t directly involved and it was his company acting without his direct edict, it was unlikely that someone as highbrow Pruitt cared about anybody in the lowlands of the red-light district. “It is. But we’ll get through it. We survive and thrive no matter what,” he firmly stated while staring into those glass-like eyes.
And that was all the conversation he was willing to exchange with this man. Aiden excused himself and left their group.
He moved through the crowd, eventually ending up with a small group of people that included his brother, his wife, and several young dancers from the Metropolitan.
After Aiden greeted the people he knew and introduced himself to the ones he didn’t, a tall, dark-skin dancer addressed him.
“Tell us about working in a strip club. What’s it like?”
“Why? Are you thinking about auditioning?”
“Goodness no! I’m a real —.” His eyes went wide and he cut himself off before finishing his sentence.
Aiden finished for him. “A real dancer?”
The man pressed his lips together and glanced to the side, clearly embarrassed over his tactless remark.
“I meant to say that it’s a different discipline than the one I’m trained in.”
Since the man seemed genuinely curious and Aiden wasn’t ashamed of what he did, he disregarded the snobbish verbal slip and answered. “Take it from someone who’s done both. The disciplines may be vastly different, but one thing they have in common is that you have to work hard to be good enough for the stage. Your stage presence is crucial as well. In ballet, if you know the moves, but perform like a wooden marionette, you’ll be in the corps forever. In the club, if you get up on that pole and spin without any passion, the pile of dollar bills thrown your way will be thin at best. And nobody likes a pity tip,” he said with a grin.
The guests in their small group laughed and the man who’d asked the question relaxed and laughed as well.
“As for differences. Costumes obviously. We strip right there on stage rather than in a mad dash behind the curtain. Our music is a touch more lively. And lifts for ballerinas are aided by a human partner, while for exotics we get air with a pole.”
A South Asian woman with tawny brown skin, her curly black hair pulled up in a classic ballerina’s bun spoke up.
“I imagine the foot pain is another commonality,” she said in a soft, lilting accent.
Aiden smiled at her. “Yes. My feet are completely wrecked.”
The lovely dancer guided the conversation to a new topic. Aiden joined in on occasion but was content to remain on the edge, letting his attention drift as they talked about the stages for their upcoming season. It was strange to think this would have been his life if he hadn’t turned out to be an enhanced human. He might not be here in St. Louis with the Metropolitan, but he would be somewhere in the country, at a cocktail party just like this one, mingling with high rollers to encourage their continued patronage of his company. Aiden realized now that although he would have thrived as a danseur, he was probably better suited to life outside the structured, insular world of classical ballet.
As he tuned out even more from the conversation, thoughts of Mike and their fight started to creep in. Thankfully, his ACG watch beeped, interrupting before he could get to melancholy. Relieved, Aiden raised his wrist, turning slightly to the side to read the screen without anyone seeing.
We have a situation. Report to HQ first for a quick briefing.
“Is that Pruitt, Inc. tech?”
