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I casually lift a shoulder. I’ve advanced in the game of cat and mouse. “Jake and I are tight. He came from nothing and made something of himself. But guys like him don’t get it. He has a talent he can monetize. I’m a washed-up soldier. You think an Army pension will get me a place in Malibu?”
A brow ticks up. “I’m sure you know Penni’s asked for a divorce. Why now?”
“The divorce has brought up an interesting opportunity.” I sit forward and lean my elbows on my knees. “I’ve been asked to be her bodyguard. Whatever it is you have going, I want some.”
“I’m not paying you to guard the wife who’s leaving me.” The crisp tone at the end tells me enough. He’s seething that Penelope moved forward with the divorce. Was his plan to get her to lean on him? To withdraw from society until…what?
What are you planning, Roman?
“She’s paying me. Eventually.” Calculation enters his dark eyes again, and I amend, “Not with sex. No offense, but naive socialites don’t do it for me. I’m supposedly a good friend of Jacobi’s wife. It’s not like I could say no.”
“How generous of you.”
I nod like I agree. “I don’t have anything against women like London and Penelope, but what struggles have they had, really? Someone’s always there to take care of them. Someone will always be there to take care of them. I’ve got no one. All I need is a little retirement.”
He’s starting to buy it. I can be convincing when I need to be, but he’s looking at me, thinking the story fits perfectly. And it does fit a lot of guys I know. Guys like me who gave years of service but didn’t stay in long enough for a full retirement. Veterans who find themselves in their thirties, starting over again. Veterans who joined as soon as they turned eighteen and dedicated their lives to service, long before they learned about IRAs and the stock market and mutual funds.
“If you’re guarding my wife, I’m still obligated to do a background check.” He leans forward, the most movement he’s made since I walked in. Why is an office jockey who moves money left and right so calm under these circumstances? I’m using both blackmail and extortion, but he either thinks I have nothing on him or he has menacing ways to deal with me. “My background checks aren’t your ordinary internet search.”
“Anything you find was done with the approval of the US government.” The bravado nearly chokes me. Alluding to my lack of funds because of the military is one thing, but I’m pretty fucking proud of my service. I wasn’t some renegade, running through a foreign country doing whatever the hell I wanted because I had a uniform and a weapon. The people I served with were just like me. Honorable. Loyal. A little fucked up, but we took pride in being able to serve. We weren’t criminals. We were soldiers, and I hate making it seem like the two coming together is more common than not.
“Leave your info, in case I need to contact you,” he says as if I’m a door-to-door salesman.
“Nah, man.” I rise and straighten my suit as if I work on the sixtieth floor like Peter Cowles. “I’ll contact you soon. Give you time to check me out.”
I walk out and he doesn’t say anything. To speak would be to acknowledge my power move. Roman would saw off a limb before he gave up power to someone he assumes is so far beneath him.
I continue down the elevator and out of the building, knowing Roman will have his security watch me the entire way. The first phase of my plan is in place.
* * *
Penelope
Pierre keeps countfor the two children doing the foxtrot across the floor. Ten other kids sit and watch. When the song is over, he turns to me, his move elegant even in the black fitted shirt and black dance sweats he wears for practice. His gaze is expectant, but a smile hovers on his lips. The kids have improved so much. We take turns like this. He’ll run them through steps and parts of a routine while I watch and can offer praise and advice, then he’ll take the next round.
“Good.” I wander toward the young couple. They’ve been dancing together for three years. Either one could move to a more prominent coach, a more well-known name in the industry. Some of these kids were already on track to go professional. But their parents are happy with me and the progress their kids are making under my tutelage and Pierre’s. There’s no better sign that I’m hitting my own goals than when parents choose to stay at Moving Grace.
My competition days aren’t over, but professional ballroom dancing isn’t going to support me like a thriving coaching business will. As much as I enjoy competing, my passion is in teaching. The kids are full of enthusiasm and boundless energy, and watching the shier ones emerge from their shells during a performance is one of my favorite experiences.
I can coach without my insecurity about college blocking my way. My mother jumped me from coach to coach until I was at the top and winning. I worked with rookie coaches, high school gym teachers doing it as a part-time job, all the way to the top coaches before Mother stopped paying for lessons, claiming that if I was adult enough to quit college and get married, I should also be able to figure out how to pay for them myself.
I opened the studio, found Juan Pablo as a partner, and continued. I’ve been around dance instructors since I was old enough to put on ballet slippers, and I put that experience to good use. Mother has reached out to me, called over the last few years to talk about how the studio is doing, but I haven’t been receptive to her. She probably thinks Roman funded everything anyway. I’m not sure whether what’s happened will make her think differently, but I’m trying not to care.
I use the couple to demonstrate teaching points for the less-experienced kids, but I keep glancing out the windows. Giving one hundred percent in class today is impossible when there’s a stalker and a divorce yanking my focus away. Elsa has been with me since this morning, and I’m thankful for her presence. An extra set of eyes can’t hurt. Cannon hasn’t returned.
I gave Pierre a quick summary—Elsa’s helping me out and I’ll tell him everything after class, but it’ll be different from what I’m telling the kids and the parents. I introduced Elsa to every class as a close friend they’ll be seeing with me once in a while. Elsa played it off like I’m teaching her the ropes for her own studio someday, but played coy, answering Texas two-step when the kids asked her questions about her favorite style of dance. Between sessions, she walks around and checks the entrances and the parking lot.
When she showered at her place, which was small but clean and sunny, lacking all edginess I assumed would be present, she changed her hairstyle to a sleek bun similar to mine and leggings with a baggy off-the-shoulder shirt. She blended.
I didn’t expect her to be as serious as she is. As professional. She must get underestimated as badly as I do.
“Okay.” I clap my hands. “Our finishing dance today will be…” I smile, and excitement vibrates through the kids. The last dance of the day is always an unconventional dance that still requires skill and coordination. The hokey pokey is even on the list. “A polka!”
There’s a couple groans, but more cheers as the kids jump up and Pierre starts the music. The sounds of strings and accordions fill the air. I laugh as I’m circled by the couples. This is my happy place. When the kids are uninhibited, and Pierre grabs me to twirl me among the young couples. It’s our version of freestyle, and I wouldn’t change a thing.
When the song’s done, they rush to leave. I chat with a few parents. Some are concerned about the sudden closure yesterday, but I blame it on a leaky pipe and bite my tongue before spilling the truth. I’m not a liar, but I also don’t want to worry anyone. If I didn’t think the kids were safe, I’d shut this place down in a heartbeat. I’d die more than a little inside, but they’re why I’m here.
After the last parent leaves, I lock the door and turn around. Cannon’s standing by the office. My pulse jumps and my hand flies to my chest as if I’m going to catch my runaway heart. How did he get in? I didn’t see or hear him.
