Page 14

“Foster kid, stayed with a few households, but I’m not in contact with any of them.”

She pauses before answering. “You weren’t adopted by anyone?”

“Nope.” I continue on, prepared to roll my eyes. I loathe pity.

“Was it because you talked too much?”

I bark out a laugh. “Too much initiative. Not enough compliance.”

“Compliance is overrated.”

I furrow my brow. Says the woman who probably keeps a spreadsheet for her spreadsheets. I wipe the excess ink, finally get through the tough section. “You’re out of the weeds. Nicely done. Just so you know, you’re tougher than your brother is.”

She turns her head to the side and smiles, and then it quickly falls from her face. “You won’t tell him about my back, right?”

My brows rise. “He doesn’t know?”

She shakes her head.

What the fuck? How does he not know? I blink. “I only talk to your brother when he comes in for a touch-up, and I’m no snitch.”

“Thanks.”

I glance up at the side of her face, giving her a pointed look she doesn’t see, then return to my work. “It’s a complimentary service.”

Stepping into the dance studio, I shake the droplets off my raincoat and hang it up. Bethany is behind the counter answering phones; I nod to her while removing my shoes and placing them in the cubby, then head back to the class with my water bottle.

Sitting on the floor, I stretch both arms over my head, slowly bringing them to my toes. The mirrored wall spans the length of the studio; ten vertical silver poles connect the wood floor to the reinforced beamed ceiling. I grin at the other women as they filter in; most are regulars like me. It’s a drop-in class, easy for people to join.

A tall figure catches my eye at the exact moment I take a drink.

No way.

I nearly spray water all over the floor. He strides into the studio, pushing the heart-shaped sunglasses onto his forehead. The six-foot-seven-inch tattooed elephant quietly takes a seat mere inches from me and begins stretching. I stare at him, along with most of the class.

“Casper.”

He gives an exaggerated double take as if he didn’t sit down directly beside me. He can’t honestly believe I’m buying this? A few women pause to look at him, no surprise with how attractive he is. I assume he receives a similar reaction everywhere he goes.

“Duchess? What a small world, I didn’t know you went here!” He’s not even wearing athletic clothes: black jeans and some old band shirt that fits way too well—they, along with his glasses, are still polka-dotted with raindrops. He’s so weird. “Surprised to see you so soon. I better not see you straining my work. It’s still fresh.”

I’ve waited the seventy-two hours per his aftercare instructions and he knows it.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I whisper, not looking directly at him.

He stretches his arm across his chest. “I’m taking a class.”

“What?” I snip. “No, you aren’t.”

“Why, because I’m a man?” he challenges. “That’s sexist. Pole dancing is a sport and form of exercise enjoyed by people of all genders.”

The instructor, Fern, enters and goes through her regular spiel since this is a pole choreo drop-in class. It serves a variety of skill levels, but usually finishing an intro course is required.

I lower my voice so as to not disrupt the other students. “Why are you at this studio?”

“Shhh.” Did he just shush me? “The teacher is speaking. I’d pay attention if I were you.”

“Why’s that?”