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That is, of course, why what finally bursts out of me is the truth.
“I’m gay.”
She blinks and sits up a little straighter. “I mean, okay, but…”
“Sorry. I… That’s why I didn’t want to help. That’s why I’m here tonight. I’m … I’m fucking it all up.”
“Slow down. What are you fucking up? Luke, you haven’t fucked anything up. The display is great.”
“It’s not the display.” I take a breath. Now that the confession has begun, every word gets a little easier. “I’m seeing someone. Or I was. I think I ruined it tonight, ruined it because I’m scared. He invited me to see him, but it’s public and I…”
Virginia’s confusion softens. “Luke, if this is about your job, you have nothing to worry about.”
“It’s not. I mean, it sort of is, but it’s also not. I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m still running. I don’t know why I’m ruining the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
She sets her hand on my arm, and her steady touch calms down my rambling. “Then you better get to work on un-ruining it because it looks like this matters to you. It looks like it matters a lot.”
I swallow. My heart is racing, but Virginia’s lack of reaction to my outburst leaves me a little less shaky than I’ve felt the rest of this night.
“You’re right,” I manage eventually. “You’re right. I need to go.”
She gives me a smile as she squeezes my arm. “If you can’t make it in tomorrow, let me know. We have subsavailable.”
“Right. Yeah. I will. I… Thank you.”
She nods as she sends me on my way, but I can’t feel my legs under me as I race to my car.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sebastian
THE MOMENT MY SHIFTS are over, I rush back into the dressing room. It’s empty, as it will be for most of the night, but regardless, I grab my bag and head into a more private area to change out of the tight shorts and wipe off some of the glitter. It’s not because I actually need the privacy; all of the dancers here have seen each other in all states of undress. I’m not hiding my body from my co-workers; I’m hiding my heart.
As much as I’ve tried to dance it away or shove it aside all night, that hollow place in the center of my chest has steadily opened into a chasm. I kept hoping against hope that I’d look out at the crowd and see Luke, but of course I didn’t. Of course he didn’t come. How could I have been such a fool?
I’m over-reacting, I tell myself. It’s one night. He’s working on things. There will be other nights. Maybe he’ll come see me some other day.
My head wants to believe in the logic of that, but my heart is quaking, the reverberations trembling through my whole body. He won’t come. There won’t be a “some other day.” He’s going to run. He’s going to give up on me like everyone else has. I’m not worth the risk, and I never will be.
I squeeze out of my stupid little shorts. Usually, they make me feel sexy and powerful, but tonight I kind of want to hide in sweatpants and an oversized sweater.
No. I can’t give up on my life because of one guy. It’s not like this is the first time this has happened.
I force myself to dig through my bag for the change of clothes I brought: A sheer shirt that seems like it’s made out of sparkles instead of actual cloth and black too-tight pants with artistic rips in them. It’s more covered up than I was while I was dancing, but still plenty sexy enough to attract the attention of someone out in that bar. Hey, there’s always the guy who was making eyes at me while I was onstage. If he’s still here, I’m sure I can reel him in by sauntering out there and loitering near the bar.
I drag myself from the dressing room intending to do exactly that. I look God damn good tonight, and I’m not going to waste that because one particular guy doesn’t want me. (Yes, I know I’m being kind of a bitch about this, butI don’t care. I’ll wallow in my hurt feelings tonight and rationalize and be an adult tomorrow.)
I strut to the bar, making a show of ignoring everyone around me, like I couldn’t be more disinterested in the crowded nightclub full of gyrating bodies and whirling lights. The dance floor is overflowing onto the sparse free space around it where people typically linger and drink. I have to shoulder through bodies before I get all the way to the bar at one side of the room.
The bartender recognizes me immediately and gives me a nod, but I wave him off for now. This won’t work if I already have a drink.
Sure enough, I don’t even have to wait through one full song before the tall, dark-haired guy from earlier is sidling up beside me, eyes roving over me. He stands far closer than necessary and bends toward me to speak into my ear over the throb of the music.
“You’re the dancer,” he says.
I give him a nod and a smile.
“You were good,” he says. “Can I get you a drink?”
