Page 32 of The Wilder Widows

Dance.

When I emerged from the curtain and felt the heat of the spotlight saturate my skin, it was all I could do not to stop and open my arms, enveloping it with the same embrace it bestowed upon me. But my feet kept going, they already knew the routine, and even with the screaming pain from the too-tight heels and my mind fluttering away, they kept time and danced me to the center of the stage. When I arrived, I danced to a stop and waited. I waited for the moment I knew was coming.

I heard the click above and felt the extra heat penetrate straight through me. The spotlight. The one reserved for the star. It shined directly on me.

The crowd cheered as we started dancing again. The sound of heels clicking on wood sent me back in time to the days where this was my life. My body moved without thought, the routine already committed to my muscles. My heart soared along with my legs while I kicked my way back into the line, finding myself in the center beside the one dancer who knew my secret. She cast me a sideways glance while maintaining her smile, and I slid my arm onto her shoulder, grateful she was a pro who cared more about the performance than the fact there was an imposter beside her.

But I wasn’t an imposter, I thought, while I kept time with the women more than half my age. The imposter was the woman I’d been all these years. The wife who stood on the sidelines, supporting her husband while he climbed his way to the top of the company. The mother who pushed aside all her dreams to make sure her daughter got to live hers. The widow who spent her nights with random men chasing the adoration that could only be found in one place. The place I now stood. The place I belonged. No. I wasn’t an imposter. I’d just been away from home for too long.

The song ended, and the applause rose again. It washed over me like a cleansing wave, the echo of the cheers sliding inside my soul and filling the cracks I never thought would heal. The lights dimmed as we waited for the next set, and for a moment, I could see out into the audience. I could see the sea of faces all staring at the stage—all staring at me. And then my gaze stretched across the crowd, and in the back beneath the exit lights, I saw them—the Wilder Widows. Three matching grins met me, and Doris waved. Even though I couldn’t break my pose and wave back, I gave them a slight nod. A thank you for helping me relive the dream I hadn’t given up on so many years ago.

Movement at the side of the stage caught my eye, and I turned to see the dancer we’d locked away pointing at me with a swarm of bouncers at her side.

“Shit,” I whispered while I kept my smile. This routine called for me to exit stage right, straight into the arms of the authorities, who would certainly lock me away. And even though this moment in the spotlight was worth a lifetime in jail, I wasn’t ready to be done yet. And I wasn’t going to go easily.

The music returned, and with it, the dancers began their routine. My part was to stay with them, then dance my way off stage and return with a costume change. But there would be no costume change tonight. The only other costume I was getting into if I went out that way was an orange jumpsuit. And orange wasn’t my color.

I broke from the line and high-kicked my way to the front of the stage. The dancers behind me kept their timing though I knew every one of them struggled to process what to do. Hours and weeks of rehearsals told them my job was to dance off stage. Yet here I was, fan kicking my way back to the spotlight. But they were pros. Trained, dedicated professionals who would dance around a fallen comrade if needed.

While they continued the routine behind me, I let my body explode into a series of moves that caused the audience to roar with applause once again. Every muscle in my body screamed for relief, but I kicked and leaped through the pain. Their cheers worked like painkillers, numbing the agony as I let their adoration wash over me like a soothing bath. My rogue routine continued until the music came to a stop. I landed in my pose and puffed while I struggled for the breath that wouldn’t refill my lungs. If last night was training, this was the marathon.

Before my body could collapse from the exhaustion, I saw the sea of bodies rise to their feet. Cheers and whistles refueled me while I closed my eyes and tried to memorize the sounds. This was my first and last performance as the star I had always wanted to be, and I wanted to remember every single second of it. As the applause started to die down, I glanced back over to the side of the stage. The glare from the lead dancer burned brighter than the spotlight. Several police now gathered at her side, and she challenged me with an arched brow.

“Shit.” I glanced back at the Wilder Widows still cheering in the back. It was now or never.

“You’ve all been wonderful! Thank you! Thank you!” I blew kisses to the audience and then leaped off the stage into the aisle. Gasps flooded the room while I sprinted between them, waving and smiling as I bolted toward the back to the widows who watched my approach with wide eyes. “Go! Go!”

“Cripes! Cops!” Marge pointed behind me to the officers rushing the stage.

“Go!” I screamed again as I crashed into them.

“I can’t go to jail! I won’t survive!” Doris screamed as she rushed outside with us. “I won’t make it!”

“Just run, Doris! Run!” Sylvie shouted as she found her stride beside me. We tore down the sidewalk, the feathered plumes of my headdress tugging against the wind that blew past my head when we reached top speed. I clung to it and held it in place.

“Ditch the headdress!” Marge screamed. “It’s slowing us down!”

“Never!” I shouted back. I’d waited too long to wear it to discard it on the ground like trash. I ran on, clinging to it tighter while my feet screamed for mercy, but I pushed them even harder. The feathers for my tail touched my calves as I kicked up my heels behind me, running at speeds I hadn’t hit in years. Hell, I was a dancer, not a runner. This may have been the fastest I’d ever gone.

Gawking bystanders jumped out of the way, and I saw cell phones pointed in our direction while we raced to the limo just around the corner.

“What the hell? You gotta love Vegas!” I heard a man’s voice say as we blew past. Three old women and a Vegas showgirl tearing down the street.

“There! James!” I pointed to the limo where I saw James leaning up against the hood. “James! Start the car! James!” I screamed, but I choked on the words as I struggled for breath. Finally, he looked up, and his widened eyes resembled all the spectators of our sprint to safety.

“I’m not gonna make it,” Doris puffed beside me, her pace slowing.

“Come on, Doris!” Sylvie grabbed her hand, tugging her forward to where James jumped into the driver’s seat of our limo.

“Run, soldier, run!” Marge barked. “The enemy is at our heels! Stopping is death! Run! RUN!”

Doris dug in and returned to our side. We slammed into the side of the limo, and Sylvie fumbled to open the door.

“Hurry! Open it!” I shouted, then pushed her out of the way, whipping open the door myself. One by one, we dove inside, and I had to squish my headdress through the door. Marge brought up the tail, slamming the door to seal us in.

“What the hell?” James asked as he looked into the back seat.

“No time! Go! GO!” I screamed, and he stepped on the gas.