Page 32 of Dance for Me
“You know you work for me, right?” I call after him. He pauses over the threshold, grinning. I can hear Sadie’s maniacal laughter across the office before he walks out, closing the door behind him.
I shoot off a text to Colton, asking if he could go help them. Depending on how many crates there are they might still need another set of hands to help when he gets done whatever errand he’s currently running. Since I’ve been quarantined to my office, the next best thing I can do is try to get a few more volunteers to assist.
I return to my laptop, lost in the sea of requests, invitations and demands. People assume that as a club owner and public figure, they are owed a piece of me, my time and attention, simply because they are a member ofCirque. While I am happy to hear requests or critique, the minute you treat me like anentity that bows rather than creates, you forfeit the right to engage with me at all.
For the most part, I ignore the demands altogether. The critiques I usually read through carefully to ensure there is nothing of value to note or a legitimate concern. I’m in the middle of explaining to one of our investors, again, why I will not entertain the idea of working with live animals on stage, when the door to my office bursts open, Sadie barreling into the room, holding the door open for Wade to step through, carrying a large shipping crate devoid of the usual clink of bottles as he walks.
I don’t remember standing, but in a flash, I’ve circled the desk and crossed the room to halt in the center of the office. Wade meets me in the middle before gently lowering the crate to the floor as Sadie shuts and locks it behind them.
I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck rising; a knot forming in the pit of my stomach.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, panic gripping me when my eyes connect with Sadie’s. She looks dazed, moving to stand slightly behind Wade, like he can shield her from whatever’s inside the crate. Sadie’s usual jovial persona is nowhere to be found now, hidden within herself as past demons claw their way to the surface.
Wade looks to Sadie quickly, checking on her as she uses him like a human barricade, before he takes a knee next to the box, hands working to remove the rack inside meant to lock the bottles in place.
“After we finished unloading the bottles from the crates, the other volunteers started bringing the bottles to the floor and storeroom to stock,” explains Sadie, pausing to recollect the events that led them here. “But Wade and I stayed back to carry the empty crates out to the trash pickup area, when we realized they…felt wrong.”
I give my sister a puzzled look. What is that supposed tomean, theyfeltwrong? Were the crates falling apart? Had bottles broken and leaked through the bottom?
“It’s just easier if we show you,” Sadie finishes, gesturing to where Wade manhandles the crate.
He lifts the slat he holds away from what looks like the base of the crate and steps back, waiting at Sadie’s side once more. I freeze. The toughest person I know is my sister, and she doesn’t want to say what is waiting for me when I look inside. Wade, a veritable crime-fighting superhero, is silently looking down, not wanting to make eye contact.
I will one of them to tell me, but the room remains silent. I take a tentative step forward, running through a list in my head of the possibilities, striking each option down as quickly as they come to me.
If it were a bomb, they wouldn’t have brought ittome, and certainly the sense of urgency would be slightly higher. It could be a threat, maybe a weapon from a pissed-off politician or celebrity that was denied membership, but again, they would have told me. Sadie would be forming plans and strategies to strike back or shore up defenses, notshaking.
I lean over slightly so I can peer into the crate.
Please don’t be a head.
Please don’t be a head.
Please don’t be a head.
It’s not a head. When I look up, the pained expression on Sadie’s face makes sense. Wade’s confusion and concern about what he stepped into with this job is suddenly crystal clear.
I lean down and reach into the crate, pulling out one of several clear-wrapped bricks of white powder with me as I stand.
“This is not what we ordered.”
17
COLTON
“Damn, does it still hurt?” asks James, sitting next to me, sprawled on a bar stool sipping his scotch as beads of condensation drip down the glass. Doesn’t seem to matter the time of day, the heat doesn’t relent here, merciless and harsh from sunup to sundown.
I twist my arm back and forth, flexing and relaxing the muscle, testing the truth of my words before I answer.
“Not really. Not anymore, at least. More annoying and itchy than anything else.”
“Are you making sure to keep the wound clean?” he asks me, ever the mother hen.
I choke on my beer as it slides across my tongue as I recall the last time someone made sure I was keeping the wound clean. A vision of Harper’s head tipped back in pleasure while scalding water burns my back flits through my mind. There and gone in a flash, but enough to make me sputter and cough as James whacks me on the back and practically throws napkins at me until my breathing evens out.
“So far this job is much more exciting than either of us ever thought it would be for you.” He laughs into his glass.
You have no idea.
