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“No,” I lie, hoping there’s conviction to my tone, “because right now, I’m taking you backstage where I know you’re safe. Then, for the rest of this weekend, you won’t be out of my sight unless you are on that stage with Dante. As soon as the family leaves for the airport on Sunday, we’re checking out and going to your place. I’ll call and see if we can get into the apartment this week, too. Karen and Marco flying across the country this weekend to see a pre-season game makes little sense. But we’re not taking any chances of running into them.”
“Always in control.”
“Not always. My flawless bohemian beauty has the power to strip me of all logic.”
The concern wanes from her features, and she gives me a thoughtful smile. I return the sentiment, even though my internal instincts are on alert. Natasha Bindel came here on a mission.
And that fucking terrifies me.
Chapter 22
Poppy
Dante stares at me, hands propped on hips and eyes scorching with fury. He’s in full makeup and costume, but it’s obvious he’s about to lose his mind. This is the first time we’ve seen each other since he returned from his trip. He came off the stage, overheard the tail-end of my conversation with Ryanne, then demanded the story.
I gave him the condensed version, hoping it would satisfy him.
Wrong.
“Anything else?” Anger radiates from his body.
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“Yes, we will, because later, I can get blow-by-blow details. But now, tell me, anything you’ve left out?”
“She hit on my husband and he didn’t take it well.”
This gets me a small lip twitch.
“In the brief period, she was rejected twice. Evin and Isaac had no problem laying her out.”
Lip twitch again.
“I slapped her, twice. One time spilling wine all over her.”
This gets me a full-out smile.
“Isaac said her,” I lean in, whispering, “cheap piece of pussy has more miles than his vintage mustang.”
“Nice.”
“She was savagely jealous of Evin.”
“Aren’t we all?”
I punch his shoulder playfully. “Stop fantasizing over my husband.”
“Impossible.”
“Evin trusts me with you.”
“He fucking better.”
“Said if I’m not with him, I’m with you.”
“Not an issue.”
“I’m moving out of the Bellagio this Sunday and probably going to the apartment this week if Evin can make it happen.”
“He’ll make it happen.”
“Even though it’s a temporary place for when he’s here, I’ll need you and Ryanne to help me make it comfortable.”
His eyes soften, and his posture relaxes. “We can do that.”
I take this as a good sign that we can move on from the Tasha drama.
“Ryanne’s coming to the second half of the show.”
“I figured she wouldn’t stay away.”
A whistle cuts through the air, signaling our pre-show ritual is beginning. Our cast stands in a circle, holding hands silently. The goal is simple. Focus, concentrate, and trust. For the next hour and a half, our lives are in each other’s hands, in some cases literally.
Usually, this pre-show ritual takes me straight to the zone, but my head is scrambled. I close my eyes, searching for lucidity, and Evin’s face comes to mind. Slowly, the tension drains and a sense of Zen takes its place.
Our circle breaks when the production assistant notifies us it’s time.
“Let’s light it up.” Dante squeezes my hand,
“Showtime.”
For now, all thoughts are on the performance.
My adrenaline spikes again, and when I hit the stage, my eyes immediately find Evin. He’s seated between Maya and Annie. Maya’s now wearing a crown of flowers and grasping the necklace I bought her with stars in her eyes.
That’s the last thing I see before being swept off the ground.
Friday night crowds are usually enthusiastic, but tonight is extraordinary. Even with the electric energy fueling the stage, something is off. My body goes through the motions, never missing a step, and those around me don’t seem to notice. Except Dante, who’s eyeing me wearily. I avoid glancing back into the audience for fear that Evin’s expression will be the same.
By the time I hit my last break before the finale, my right ankle is aching.
Fight it out, Poppy, you’re tougher than this.
I twist, twirl, and flex my foot, working out the kinks. Luckily, my last set requires more strength than dance. Only a few high-impact moves and one leap.
A leap I learned at eight and perfected by eleven. It’s my ace that never fails.
The change in tempo is my cue, and I join my team, parading back on stage. The throbbing in my ankle increases, spreading around my heel and protesting every step.
Broken bones, sprained muscles, torn tendons, I’ve experienced them all, but this is different.
Just a few more minutes.
I steal a glance at the third row. Evin’s not fooled. He’s leaning forward, eyes leveled on me.
My gaze slides to the side, prepping for my finale. The instant my turn transitions into the leap, there’s a loud pop. I’m helpless to what happens next when I come down, unable to support my weight. My knee and foot go in opposite directions with another loud pop, followed by blistering pain.
