Page 36 of Cruel Offer
“There’s a funny man outside!”
One of my students twirls into the dance studio and skips to the cubbies to hang up her jacket. Another giggles as she follows suit, and they chant a made-up song about a clown with big glasses on the sidewalk. There was a street performance group outside earlier today wearing bright leotards and headpieces. I thought they’d left but maybe the tips had been good enough to draw them back to work for an afternoon crowd.
The girls gather in a small group and giggle some more. Their laughter is just what I need after a restless night in a strange bed, staring up at the ceiling in an unfamiliar room. I hate the way Nate left me, and I hate even more that it bothered me so much.
The last of my students trickle in and hurry to put their things away so we can get started. I’m grateful for the kids who remain in my class, despite my tarnished reputation. Even so, it hurts knowing that many have moved to another teacher, one without a scandal hanging over her head.Teaching is the only thing I have to keep my head straight right now and if I lose anyone else, I won’t have a class at all.
“Ms. Barclay, look at my new shoes!”
Adley sticks a small, pointed foot at me sporting a bright purple dance shoe with a row of sequins across the top. She promptly switches feet to show off the other one.
What can I say? The class rules clearly state that all dancers should have tan-colored soft shoes and nude tights, but Adley consistently comes to practice wearing whatever colorful designer things she conned her mother into buying her at the dance and cheer boutique down the street.
I can’t afford to lose another student, so I don’t say anything except, “Very nice.”
And grit my teeth as she happily declares she has another pair in gold that she’ll wear next time. The dance school facilitates conformity in practice outfits, so the students focus more on dance technique than whatever pretty outfit their friend is wearing. But like most of the rich people I know, these children’s parents do whatever they want. Rules are for other people. That was my father’s attitude and look where it got me. A pretty outfit, highlights in my hair, a date at a fancy restaurant, and being left to Nate Windemere’s mercy.
Heat pools low in my belly as memories of last night flash in my mind, and suddenly I feel like I’m sitting next to him in the dark car all over again. The scent of his cologne filling the space. Me, panting, eyes closed, ears pricked to catch the rustle of his clothes as he shifted in his seat. I’d been so hyperaware of him. My skin prickled and heated at his proximity. Every small movement he madeheightened the anticipation that he was going to touch me…
And then he had.
Oh, God, did he touch me.
“Ms. Barclay? Can you tie my shoe?”
“No, mine first. Ms. Barclay, do mine first!”
The competing voices pull me back to the present, and I glance at two little feet, both wearing sparkly shoes with ties on the top. More non-conformists.
Smiling, I crouch on one knee and tie their shoes one at a time. The rest of the kids gather around me, talking over each other to get my attention.
“My cat is going to have babies!”
“My dog had babies once. My mom said it was the neighbor’s fault.”
“What does that mean, Ms. Barclay?”
“My mom is going to have a baby. Is that the neighbor’s fault, too?”
Stifling a laugh, I stand and shoo them to the edge of the room. “Take your places at the barre. Let’s warm up.”
After turning on the music and adjusting the volume of the overhead speaker system, I lead the kids into a gentle warm-up. They’re especially squirmy today and it takes a few starts and stops to get their full attention. But after a few minutes, my little group cooperates and settles into their alternating barre rises.
The front waiting area is quiet today. I didn’t notice how many parents stayed to wait for their children this time, but it must not be many because I don’t hear the typical flow of voices. Maybe my bid for donations from all the single dads scared them away, not that I blame them.
None of them wanted to have anything to do with me lest I tarnish their reputations. Nate doesn’t seem a bit worried about that. It’s something I’ve mulled over without coming to a clear conclusion. He said his reputation is strong enough to turn mine around, and he certainly seemed to demonstrate that last night when he put that rude acquaintance in his place after he insulted me. Nate had jumped on him so quickly I hadn’t had time to feel mortified.
Movement from the front window that faces the sidewalk catches my attention. I normally leave the shade half drawn to let in some natural light without giving the outside world a full view of the kids inside. It’s not unusual to see the lower half of people passing by, but as I turn to get a better look, I find a man’s face peering at me through the glass. He’s crouched low enough to look under the shade with a hand cupped above his eyes.
A shout lodges in my throat and I do a double take, my heart flipping hard in my chest. When I look again, he’s gone.
What the hell? Half expecting to hear the bell above the front door ring, I listen intently as I keep the warm-up going, but no one comes in. My pulse is still pounding.
“There’s the clown again!”
One of the girls points to the window, and sure enough, the man is back. He’s peeking lower this time, a flash of curly blond hair bushing out beneath a baseball cap. He homes in on me right away and suddenly, a camera lens points through the glass.
My stomach drops. What is this? Some pervert tryingto take pictures of the kids, or another paparazzo stalking me at my job?
