Happy Sunday, everybody!
So, I would usually wait until the afternoon to post, but after being told yesterday that it was already Sunday in Australia, I decided I wouldn't make you wait so long for this chapter ;)
Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the support you showed after chapter one! I am so happy to see that you guys are as excited about this story as I am!
Let's jump in and see what Edward's brunette showgirl has to say...
BPOV
I'm running late. Crap, crap, crap.
I'm running late on the first day of a new gig; the gig that I need more than the groceries I ordered for pick up later tonight.
Okay, no. I need the job to pay for the groceries. Three meals a day is expensive, and my morning job as a waitress at a diner on the bottom of the strip is not paying enough for rent, utilities, and everything else. I still owe my landlord four hundred dollars from when I was short last week. The old, balding Albanian man was nice, though. He said he'd give me a two-week extension. He also offered to completely negate the debt if I gave him a blow job.
I did not take that offer.
Someday, I'll move and get my life on track. Someday, my inability to achieve my dreams won't haunt me at every turn.
My old Chevy truck is dying a slow, torturous death, and it rumbles as I turn on Sahara Ave. Four miles to La Bellissima, maybe it'll make it if I pray hard enough.
Yeah, right. Who's gonna listen to my prayers?
I roll my eyes, admonishing myself for my ridiculous internal monologue as I spot the employee entrance to the bougie casino.
Il Bellissimo is a Vegas staple. It's one of the few hotel and casino establishments fortunate enough to have kept their doors open thanks to constant upgrades and a new hotel wing built ten years ago. The family that owns it, the Cullens, only work with the best, making their businesses the most sought after for the Vegas nightlife, tourist hot spots, and employment. My new role as one of their headlining show's dancers pays twenty percent more than every other place I auditioned. I was lucky. I had an in with a girl from a studio downtown where I've taken jazz classes. Jessica talked me up to the director until he offered me an audition to fill in for someone who had to leave suddenly. Jessica said something about a horse… I'm unclear, but whatever. I'm thrilled if the absence means I get a shot to be on stage.
I park, check my makeup quickly in my mirror, and grab my rehearsal bag. It's bigger than it should be, filled with the things I can't part with—toe tape, wrap skirts, a pair of tights I haven't worn for a year and a half. Hell, they probably don't fit me anymore. When my rigorous training stopped, I gained fifteen pounds and, along with it, breasts and hips.
I shouldn't complain. Those breasts and hips are part of what got me a showgirl job in the first place. Vegas doesn't hire classical ballet dancers for a reason. Our bodies are meant for arabesques and pas de deux, not kick lines and skimpy costumes.
Running through the beige-painted employee halls of the casino, I watch for signs of any sort pointing in the direction of the theater, but all I find is the kitchen of a restaurant. A very irritated chef shoos me away, telling me in a thick Italian accent to go right, left, then straight, and I'll find the backstage area. By the time I rush through the dressing room doors, I've got my strappy silver rehearsal shoes in my hand, ready to throw them on in a second flat. Although I know that's a bad idea. I should warm up my foot before I dance.
A door on my left swings open, and another dancer strolls out, talking casually on her cell phone. I slip into the room, immediately spotting Jessica, her dark, red-dyed curls pulled into a high ponytail that pours from the top of her head like a fountain. Her spray tan works to hide her naturally pale complexion that matches mine.
"Hey, am I late?" I hurry over, dropping my things at the dressing table beside hers.
"Nope. Jacob is never on time. I saved this spot for you. It was Gianna's. Tia wanted to take it, but I told her I'd text her boyfriend and let him know she's got a sugar daddy that comes to the shows if she didn't leave it for you."
I scan the other dancers as they touch up their makeup while gossiping in front of brightly lit mirrors. A collection of glitzy sequin-covered costumes hangs off racks in the middle of the room, and I wonder if any of them will soon be mine. "A sugar daddy?"
Jessica leans into her mirror, affixing a fake eyelash on her upper lid. "You know, an old guy who buys you shit. Half the girls in here have one." When I don't answer, she looks me over like she's wondering if I've malfunctioned. "Don't worry. You're hot enough to be able to find one soon."
"Um, okay… where's the stage? I've got to warm up." I'm also not interested in hearing more about sugar daddies. My landlord is already more than I can handle.
"Out the door, to the left, up the stairs."
I nod thanks, setting my bag on the shelf over my mirror before taking my shoes and heading toward the stage. I've still got sweats and a zip hoodie on over my booty shorts and sports bra, so I feel out of place when I make it to the wings, and everyone else is already stripped down and stretching.
Ballet dancers don't do that. In companies, we always joked that we looked homeless, wearing layers to tech class that we discarded as our bodies warmed. Most of us had old injuries that required a shrug sweater over a shoulder or a leg warmer over an ankle.
"Hey, you're the ballerina, right?" A tall girl with jet-black hair greets me as I stand awkwardly in the wings, looking for a warm-up barre.
"Yeah. Hi, I'm Bella." I stick out my hand and shake hers.
"Angela." She's got a kind smile, making me wonder how she ended up here. "There's a barre along the back wall behind the stage." She points behind the backdrop.
"Thank you so much," I gush. "Did I look that lost?"
"Nah, I just know ballet. I trained at the American Ballet School until I was nineteen," she nonchalantly says, as if dedicating that much of her life to intensive training and never seeing it cultivate is something you can brush off.
Moving toward the barre, she motions me to follow. "What happened?"
"Nothing, really." She shrugs. "Fell out of love with it. Even if you're good at ballet, you kind of have to have an obsession to get through those first few years of studio company and apprentice work."
I laugh, "Yeah, trust me, I know."
She pats the wood and tells me to have fun before she wanders off to flirt with a stagehand. I feel lighter as I start my plies, knowing someone here might understand me.
My foot is tight, and when I rise to relevé, I can't get all the way over the ball in a forced arch, so I have to settle and dance within my limitations. I loosen each part of my body, ending with my hips and the larger muscles in my legs, before I hear the director calling. I hang my sweats and hoodie on the barre, strap on my shoes, and hustle to the stage, where the lights are so bright I have to blink repeatedly until my eyes adjust.
The director, Mr. Black, claps and calls out, "All right, ladies!" He's your typical self-important choreographer dressed in dancewear, even though he will probably sit on his ass through most of the rehearsal.
"We've got fresh blood today." He points me out. I work to keep my head held high and not curl into myself from the attention as the group turns to stare. "Y'all help her because Lordy knows I'm not slowing down for anyone. Line it up, girls."
Jessica points to the spot next to her, and I hurry over, taking the position with one knee popped and hands on my hips. I've worked on the choreography for the past week, learning from videos and stealing time at Eclipse Studios, where Jessica and I take classes downtown. I'm a pro at memorizing dances, so I'm feeling confident as Mr. Black begins to count, and I do a quick sidestep into a pas de barre. We're working on the entrance piece. It's simple choreography with fast footwork and a few turns. After years of classical variations, it's beyond easy. Mr. Black barks out, "Good job, new girl." My chest puffs a little, even if he doesn't know my name.
We're about to enter a new formation when someone in the audience screams, "What the fuck?"
The dancers around me stop as Mr. Black turns with an excited grin. I squint into the audience, trying to make out what's happening while he waves to whoever interrupted us.
"Okay, formations," Mr. Black calls, returning to rehearsal and waving his hands to get us to move.
We start up only to be interrupted again when the man in the audience screams, "Why the fuck was there a horse?"
Mr. Black huffs and turns, propping one hand on a hip and snapping his fingers with the other. "The horse was an artistic decision that I stand by. It is not my fault that Gianna didn't know her choreography and spooked him."
The story Jessica tried to tell me vaguely registers. Should I know something about this horse situation?
The men, who I can now make out in the shadows, ignore Mr. Black, so he turns, rolling his eyes, and tells us to keep going.
My next move has me passing Jessica, so I whisper, "What happened with the horse?"
She sashays away and back, then tells me, "It wasn't a big deal."
"Then why are they yelling about it?" We split again, and I'm across the stage. I pivot, turn, and reach down, sliding my hands up my leg and body until they're over my head, followed by a hip pop.
The lights dim, my eyes finally adjust, and my breath releases in a whoosh when I spot the man causing issues from the audience. He's all square chin and fine tailored suit. Tall and muscular. He rotates a tumbler in his hands, and I wonder what he's drinking, what that drink would taste like on his lips. And…
What the fuck, Bella?
Jessica passes behind me. "It was Gianna's fault. She spooked the horse. It trampled her and broke her leg in five places."
"What?" I hiss, missing my step and kicking a tall blond beside me. She stumbles and curses, elbowing me in the gut.
Oh, shit. I'm going down.
I reach out for anything that can keep me upright, but all I find is the hair of the girl in front of me. With a symphony of yelps, we all fall into a pile on top of each other.
Laughter rings out from the theater—the stage crew, the lighting and sound guys, and even the other girls. But the laughter that stings the most comes from the handsome man slipping out the door to the casino.
"Oh, Jesus H. Christ!" Mr. Black throws his head into the air as Angela rushes over to rescue me and the others. "Can't I get anyone decent to work with these days?"
"I'm so sorry," I apologize to Mr. Black, the girls I took down, and the entire fleet of dancers because I'm pretty sure I just ruined rehearsal.
Angela squeezes my arm with a sympathetic look. "It's okay. Things happen."
"You messed up my weave." The girl whose hair I pulled bitches.
"I'll pay to get it fixed," I offer. There goes my first paycheck.
She rolls her eyes and says, "Whatever."
For the remainder of rehearsal, everyone gives me a wide berth. At a water break, I hear comments like, "I thought ballerinas were supposed to be graceful," and "Where did she learn to dance?" I cringe away, hiding by the barre until the last minute.
Mr. Black forces us into overtime to run through the first number since I messed it up. The furious glances I receive when we're finally released leave holes burning into my back. I tell Jessica I've got to run and grab my bag from my dressing area, rushing from the room. The other girls can talk behind my back. I don't want to hear what they have to say.
I picked up an extra shift at the diner since I knew the show was dark tonight, and we don't have a performance until tomorrow. I need all the income I can get. Initially, I hoped to grab dinner on the way to work, something healthier than the fried crap they sell there, but I won't have time.
Needing to find somewhere to change, I peek down every hallway I pass, looking for a restroom or a storage closet I can jump into for long enough to strip down and get into my old-school diner dress. Finally, after walking what feels like a mile through the employee-only halls, I spot a restroom. It's unisex and a single, so I slip in, twisting the lock on the door.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror and groan. After sweating under the hot lights, my makeup is caked and runny, and my hair is frizzed from all the shaking and tossing done in the choreography. For someone with short hair, Mr. Black seriously enjoys working hair flips into routines.
Wetting a paper towel, I run it along my forehead and cheeks, relieving myself of the heavy foundation. My eyes still look okay, so I leave them alone. I pull a brush from my bag and tame my hair back into the standard ponytail style for waitress work.
I never put my sweats back on, so I shoved them in my duffle with everything else. Balancing the bag on the top of the sink, I strip out of my sports bra and toss it in. But now the bag is stuffed, and I have no idea where my regular bra is.
I'm digging through, trying to find it, when I hear a voice outside the restroom. Someone reaches for the handle, and I'm about to yell out a courtesy, "Occupied," when the door flies open. Not thinking, I turn, my bag clattering to the floor, and I come face to face with the drop-dead gorgeous man who had my panties incinerating in the theater.
"Holy fuck!" He doesn't blink as his gaze travels my body, from the practice heels I'm wearing, to my tiny booty shorts, before stopping on my bare breasts.
He stares at me while I stare at him, and- oh, dear God, is he getting hard?
A door slams down the hallway, breaking us out of our trance. I scream and turn to face the mirror while he closes the bathroom door.
Except he's still inside.
"Leave!" I shout, bouncing up and down.
He tugs at the door, but it's busted. Something's wrong with the latch, and it won't budge. "We're stuck."
"Oh, my God." I'm still bouncing, facing away from him. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I need to put on clothes, but my stuff is all over the floor, and I'm too stunned to move.
"Will you stop jumping?" He grits out. "It's not helping."
"What?" I whimper, wishing the floor would swallow me whole.
In a strained voice, he admits, "I can still see you in the mirror."
I look up at his reflection and make eye contact with emerald green eyes so clear I'm sure every jeweler in Vegas is envious of the color. Wait. I can see him. He can see me. "Turn around!"
"Shit." He spins to face the door as my wits return, and I search through my stuff until I spot my bra tucked into my work dress. I snap it on, then pull the dress over my head without removing my shorts. In this situation, more clothes are probably better than less.
Shoving all my items back into my bag, except my work sneakers, I say, "You can look now."
And he looks.
I'm not at a flattering angle, squatting down, trying to unhook the strap of my practice heels, but the way his gaze falls over me- as if he's a lion and I'm a juicy steak- makes my skin break out in goosebumps. My heart thuds in my chest, and my cheeks rush with heat. I allow my hair to spill over my face to hide my reaction as I focus on switching shoes.
"What's your name?" His voice fills with gravel, low and thick like honey. It's the kind of voice I imagine a man having when he moans my name in bed.
"B-Bella. Swan." I don't look up. If I do, I'm afraid he'll see just how attracted I am to him, and I'm not exactly feeling wild sex in a bathroom with a stranger. Although, maybe I should be. Just this once.
No. Absolutely not. I have no idea where this man has been. I'll just use the thought to spur on fantasies later when I'm alone.
But he waits to speak, and when I can't hold my curiosity anymore, I peek up. His lips curl into a smirk that tells me he knows how charming he is. "Hello, Bella Swan. I'm Edward Cullen."
Oh. Fuck me. I shoot up, standing in shock. God, no.
My boss's boss's boss just saw me naked in a bathroom on the first day of my job at his hotel.
"I'm a new dancer in the show," I blurt because I need him to know I work here. That I'm not some random girl he found half-naked.
He nods and purses his lips, the plump bottom one jutting slightly. "Well, Bella. You know the theater and dressing rooms are on the other side of the building."
"Yeah, I know. I, um, had to rush out of there and change for my other job."
"You couldn't do that in the dressing room?"
I sigh, having no desire to recap my humiliating rehearsal. "It's a long story."
"What's your other job?" He leans against the doorway, hands in his pockets, a picture of casual elegance. Minus the toilet in the corner.
"I'm a waitress at a place down the strip. Carmen's."
He nods in recognition. "Good fried steak."
"It's their specialty."
I'm getting antsy because, for fucks sake, I'm trapped in a bathroom with a very powerful man who is acting like this is a regular everyday occurrence and totally how you meet people. Plus, I'm about to be late for my second job.
"Hey. Um, can you call someone to get us out of here?" I ask, smoothing down my dress so I have something to do other than look at the strong line of his jaw, the masculine slope of his nose, or the auburn hair on top of his head that screams I just had sex.
Now I'm wondering if he just got laid- and what it would be like to be the lucky girl that fucked him.
And if I did let him would he fuck me in this bathroom while he bent me over the sink and pulled my hair as we watched each other in the mirror.
Holy God, I need to pull my horny self together. Eighteen months is too long of a period to go without sex. Clearly.
"Sure. Yeah. I should call maintenance," he mutters, pulling a phone from his pocket and scrolling through his contacts before selecting one and connecting a call. "Hey, Nahuel, you know the employee bathroom with the faulty latch near the Mare Di Sicilia restaurant? I need you to come unlock it." He hangs up without a thanks. I guess you can do things like that when you're the boss.
"Five minutes."
"Thanks." Glancing at my phone, I see I've only got twenty minutes before I need to be at the diner. My lip catches in my teeth in worry as I consider texting Carmen. Like she'd believe me.
Hey, running late. I'm stuck in a bathroom with a fuck-hot, rich-ass man that I did not have sex with.
She'd fire me for lying, then call me a loser in case my story was true.
"So, Bella. What brought you to Vegas?" The emerald greens watch my every move, and when I roll my phone between my hands, Mr. Cullen's eyebrow raises. He knows he's making me nervous.
"I'm a dancer. There's a lot of dance jobs here."
He cocks his head, studying my face like he doesn't believe my answer. "There are. But I don't know many little girls who grow up wanting to be showgirls."
I can't help myself. I snort. It's not sexy. "I didn't. I wanted to be a ballerina."
"That didn't work out?"
"It did."
"Then, why-"
The door handle jiggles, and I grab my bag, ready to escape the second I'm released. Mr. Cullen's brows dip, and his eyes flash to mine as he steps to the side.
I full-on yelp with joy when the door swings open and a middle-aged Hispanic man stands smiling at us. But that smile quickly turns into a knowing grin when he sees me in my short-skirted uniform as I rush out in front of Mr. Cullen. When I hear his "Nice," I scrunch my eyes closed, totally humiliated.
"Not a word," Mr. Cullen says before his footsteps chase after me.
"Bella, wait."
I turn, walking backward as I reach the exit to the parking deck. "Thank you, Mr. Cullen, for getting us out of there. I have to go. I'm going to be late."
"When will you be back?" His long legs have him by my side, and he reaches to hold the bar on the door, keeping it shut. His chest is inches from mine as I press myself against the doorframe, unprepared for his persistence—unprepared to have him so close that I can smell the spice and musk of his designer cologne.
"Tomorrow," I squeak out, sounding more mouse than human.
"I'll see you then." He pushes the door, letting it swing outward so I can escape.
I break into a jog, more to distance myself from him than because I'm worried about being a few minutes late to Carmen's. As I step off the sidewalk and reach the parking structure, I turn, my curiosity overtaking me. Mr. Cullen is propped in the doorway of the casino, watching. He lifts his hand and dips his head, his eyes following every step I take and his lips curling into a satisfied smirk.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
A/N: What has Bella gotten herself into? And what does Edward think about that first impression? We'll hear from him in chapter three :)
We're going to our usual Thursday posting schedule from here on in, so you guys will have the next chapter later this week.
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Until next time!