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“I don’t know what to say. I wish I’d known. I would have tried to help.”
Stacy offered a resigned smile. “You couldn’t do anything. They would have torn you down too if you’d tried. Anyway, it didn’t really matter. By then I knew what I wanted to do with my life, and I didn’t need my high school degree to do it. My soul goes into performing, and people say it’s good. Even dancing at Deuces is fulfilling in its own way. It’s challenging.”
“I know,” Kylie quickly agreed, “and also really hard work. I have a new respect for you after walking in your stilettos these last two weeks.”
“Nice of you to say, but I don’t pretend to be the respectable twin.”
Kylie sighed, realizing she and Stacy had more in common than she’d ever suspected. Inside, they bore similar scars, in different places. They were both fighting to overcome the insecurities inflicted from their wonderful upbringing.
“You know, Stacy…growing up, I always wanted to be more like you. I longed to be the brave, fun, free twin.”
Stacy’s eyes widened. “I always wanted to be like you. I admired you for being so smart, sensitive, and disciplined. You never gave in to impulse, never acted out, and never, ever lost control.”
“The control is an illusion,” she whispered. “I’m losing it, big time.”
Stacy slowly inspected her face. The corners of her mouth tipped up in a smile. “Better late than never, Saint Kylie.”
Chapter Twelve
When Kylie walked into the dressing room at Deuces, all conversation stopped, and three sets of highly made-up eyes turned to her.
Unsettled, she placed her bag on the vanity and cautiously returned the curious gazes of her fellow dancers. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, Snowflake, don’t be coy.”
“Yeah, honey, we heard you had a guest with you when you left last night. Did you give your favorite client a lift?”
“Or maybe he gives you the lift, no?”
Trevor was right. Word traveled fast. Not two minutes in the door and she was getting the third degree—and the perfect opportunity to advance the plan. A plan she hated. But she owed Trevor her cooperation. She’d given her word. Dropping to her chair, she slumped and sighed. “I’m sorry, girls. I really don’t want to talk about it.” Anxiety brought an authenticity to her voice.
Lee Ann took the bait. “Aw, honey, what happened? Don’t tell me that big, hot stud turned out to be a dud?”
Kylie shrugged. “He was fine, at first. But later he got all bossy and possessive. He said if we were going to date, he didn’t want me doing private dances anymore. I explained Deuces would cancel my engagement if I refused to do private performances and I’d be out of a job. He said…” She let her words die away, as if they were too painful to speak aloud.
“What does he say?” The protective outrage in Ariana’s question was as thick as her accent.
“He said a private dance is nothing but a fancy name for hooking,” Kylie whispered. “And he didn’t date hookers.”
Three sharply indrawn breaths practically sucked the air out of the room.
“That bastard,” Ginger snapped, breaking the silence. “I hope you kicked his ignorant, judgmental ass to the curb.”
Kylie nodded. “I did.” Channeling Stacy, she wound herself up for an indignant rant. “I told him I made it through three extremely competitive auditions to get the gig at Deuces and not one of them involved screwing anyone, for money or otherwise. Then I told him I never wanted to see him again.”
“Good for you, Stacy, giving him a piece of your mind. If a guy had said that to me, I’da been speechless.” Lee Ann patted her shoulder on her way out.
“Yes,” Ariana agreed, following Lee Ann. “You treat him as he deserves. I am proud.”
When the door swung shut, Ginger slid into the chair next to her and gave her shoulders a quick squeeze. “I’m sorry, Snowflake. I can’t put my finger on why exactly, but I could have sworn Mr. Strong, Silent, and Sexy as Hell had evolved beyond the run-of-the-mill caveman hypocrite we get around here. If it’s any consolation, he had me fooled, too.”
Kylie offered a weak smile. Since when had she become so adept at manipulation? She hadn’t counted on receiving sympathy and solidarity from her fellow dancers. Playing with their emotions made a rotten situation worse.
“Worse” was a relative concept, she realized over the course of the evening. As word of her disastrous date traveled the Deuces grapevine, she endured a scolding from Vern about going home with a client, a gallery of pitying looks from the waitstaff, an offensive proposition from Gary, a creepy fish-eye from Ramon, and a worried look from Benny. By the last half of her shift, she found the glazed lust from the customers a distinct relief.
Relief was short-lived. Vern strode up to her after her second stage dance and said, “Okay, kid. It’s time for lesson number one on why we don’t date the customers. Your boy is in the VIP room, requesting a private dance. Now, I know you two had a little tiff last night, and you may not feel like entertaining him right now, but I’m not in the business of turning down money. He says he just wants the dance and isn’t looking for trouble.” Vern paused and gave her a hard stare. “You don’t usually bring personal drama to the job, so I figure you get one free pass. You want to use it tonight?”
She swallowed the urge to say yes, and dug deep for the Stacy cockiness. “Absolutely not. I’m a professional, and I’m also not in the business of turning down money, either. He wants a dance? I’ll give him a dance. He gives me any grief, I’m having him bounced.”
