He shrugged and gestured over his shoulder. “I saw Jackson back there.”
“What?”
“He’s here. I saw him when we came in.”
She resisted the urge to look around, to see if Jackson was really there. He would have told her if he was coming. Wouldn’t he? The dancers placed their orders, and Prosper somehow restrained herself from rolling her eyes at Kristen’s tone. She hated that she was working while they were able to relax and have fun. Every moment she fought the impulse to quit, to sling her tray across the club and take off Kristen’s head with it, storm out and curse them all to hell. And Blake must be mistaken. Jackson couldn’t be here, or she would know. If he was anywhere in her vicinity, she would know at once, feel it in every bone and muscle.
She stole a look around the room anyway. In the darkness, the pounding mass of bodies, it was impossible to tell if one very tall and very sexy blond-haired, blue-eyed choreographer was watching her from some alcove across the bar. If he was here, was it to see her? Or might he have come to find someone else to take home? She was with him just a couple of nights a week by agreement. She had no idea what he did the other five nights and no right to complain if there were five other girls, one for each day. What did she really know about him? Nothing. That he was talented, demanding, handsome, sexy. The kind of man who probably didn’t need to be alone if he didn’t want to be.
She headed back to the bar. She actually hoped he wasn’t there. She didn’t want him to see her like this, tripping across a crowded bar, getting smoke blown in her face, getting felt up, spilling untold amounts of beer on her clothes, on her dress. So much for the graceful Firebird.
She went up on her toes and bent over to yell the order to the bartender—all those piercings!—and slapped at the uninvited hand that groped up her dress. “Do you mind?” she yelled at the offender, a middle-aged businessman with sweat rings on his shirt. Ugh. What was she doing here, getting felt up by gross men while she waited for drinks to take to a table of people she hated?
When her shift was finally up, it was almost three. She wanted to climb into bed. She blew money on a cab because the night before someone had trailed her home at a distance and scared her half to death. At her building she trudged up the three flights of stairs, motivated by thoughts of a hot, cleansing shower, only to find the hot water was gone. She showered anyway, shivering, needing to wash off the smoke and alcohol. The noise of the water almost, but not quite, drowned out the loud sex taking place next door.
By the time the arguing started in the apartment on the other side, Prosper was desperate for sleep. She pulled her pillow over her head and squeezed her eyes shut.
Jackson tossed in bed, unable to stop thinking about Prosper. He hated that she worked at Halo, and he hated that he stalked her there like some kind of socially maladjusted idiot. He’d skulked at a table in the far corner of the dark nightclub as soon as he knew for sure that Prosper wasn’t working in that area. He’d nursed a couple of beers and fended off a parade of rather persistent women. All he really accomplished was a dull buzz and a fit of guilt that he wasn’t dragging her out of there and insisting she quit.
But he had no right to do that, not unless he was going to find her another place to work, another source of income. Holy fuck, why was New York so expensive? Why were dancers not paid enough to find a place to live?
You have a place she could live.
Fucking conscience. But it wasn’t fair to provide her a place to live and then throw her back on the streets in a few weeks, back where she’d started.
But in the meantime, she could be saving rent for later.
He flipped over with an angry grunt. Why did it all bother him so much? Prosper held her own against the rude patrons, but it was hard for him not to get involved. Jackson wanted to rip their arms off and make them apologize to her from under his boot on the floor. But no, he didn’t do that. He fled. He stormed out of the bar before he made a scene he would regret. Before he made such a scene that Prosper would notice him there. He didn’t want her to know he followed her around. He didn’t want her to know he had followed her home last night to be sure she arrived safely. He didn’t want her to know he thought about her almost all the time.
Monday morning he waited with Blake for Prosper. Late again. Hiding out somewhere, since she no longer fit in anywhere. His fault.
“I saw you at Halo,” said Blake when the silence became untenable. “At least I thought I did.”
“Halo?” Shit. All his skulking around was for nothing if Blake ratted him out to Prosper. He decided to play it off. “I might have dropped in. I’ve been checking out some of the local bars.”
He could tell Blake wasn’t convinced by his indifferent act. “Prosper works there, you know.”
“Does she? I don’t much care as long as she’s where I need her to be when I need her. Speaking of which”—Jackson crossed to the door to look down the hall—“was she in class?”
“Yeah. I saw Kristen talking to her afterward.”
Jackson’s jaw tightened. He’d seen Kristen “talk” to her more than once. He didn’t want to get involved. Petty dancer feuds weren’t his business, but the whole situation pissed him off. “Why don’t you call off your friends?”
Blake laughed. “As if I have the power to do that.”
“You’re with her, aren’t you? Kristen?”
“Sometimes. But there’s nothing I can do about what she does. The way she is. And Prosper took the role Kristen wanted.”
“She didn’t take it. I gave it to her. Anyway, Kristen couldn’t do the role, not the way I want it. Why don’t you tell her that?”
“Why don’t you tell her?”
The men faced off just as Prosper arrived, trying overly hard to be breezy and casual. “Sorry I’m late.”
He didn’t have to look in her eyes to know she was upset. He knew her well enough by now. He shot Blake a meaningful glare, which Blake ignored. Suddenly Jackson didn’t want Blake to touch her at all. He ran Prosper through the opening combination himself instead, refining and perfecting steps with her while Blake leaned against the wall with a scowl. Jackson was always spellbound when he partnered her. Her body was so strong. She was fully invested in the steps, and her lines were striking, perfect. She demonstrated amazing control.
So unlike the Prosper who came to him at night. Tonight. It was Wednesday. She would come to him tonight. He looked forward to her visits with such intensity; he lived in fear that she would cancel, that she might not to show up. He stopped, looked in her eyes as she balanced through a slow rond de jambe.
Yes, she would come.
He gestured Blake over and retreated behind the piano. He directed the pair from there, through the complicated opening pas de deux. The teasing, the flirting, the passion. The capture, and then the release.
Chapter Ten
Before she even arrived at Jackson’s house, Prosper was beside herself with excitement. She rang the bell and waited with her legs pressed together and her arms crossed over her chest. It was freezing. He’d offered to come to her place, but Prosper had no desire to spend any more time there than she had to.
She heard the lock turn, and there he was. Scary blue eyes, weed-whacker hair, and that smile… Jackson pulled her in the door and crushed her to his chest. She felt all the tension and anxiety of the day fade away. His rough lips covered hers. His mouth captured her moans, and sparks shot to her breasts and down into her pelvis. He reached under her dress, felt the stockings. He snapped a garter against the back of her thigh, which made her jump; then he dipped his fingers between her legs. She held on to his shoulders, made a noise as he probed her so deeply she had to rise up on her toes. Same intimate greeting every time. She lived for it.