Page 17 of Watch Me

Those eyes are so damn expressive. There’s only the hint of a curl to his lips, but his eyes are dancing with laughter. I catch myself grinning back at him—just staring, stupidly, until my toast springs up with such a loud pop that I jump about ten feet in the air.

I yelp with surprise, and Nick laughs—a delightful, rich, throaty sound that’s too infectious to resist, and I burst out laughing, too, pressing a hand to my heart.

“Oh my God,” I giggle. “That scared me.”

“Yes, Jumping Bean, I noticed. Here.” Nick walks around the island and stands beside me, his beautiful Nick smell hitting me like a wave—crisp, clean, and familiar. He reaches past me, one muscular, tanned arm so close we almost touch, and pulls the toast from the toaster, dropping it on a plate. “Let me butter this for you so you don’t get scared again. If you jump any higher, I’m worried you’ll damage my ceiling.”

Flushed and tongue-tied, I walk around the island and take a seat while Nick butters my toast, watching the muscles across his back flex and contract under his shirt with the movements of his arms. When he turns and pushes the plate over to me, I manage a thank-you, then blink and look away.

It’s late afternoon, shortly before Tate usually wakes up, but he’s a heavy sleeper. Nick and I are essentially alone for the first time since I ran out on him in the VIP booth, and I have no idea what to say.

Luckily, he breaks the silence first. “So, how did you meet Tate?”

“How did I meet Tate?” I repeat, taken aback by the question. He wants to talk about me and Tate? “We met at a party. His friend used to date one of my friends.”

“Ah.” He nods, as if this was just the kind of interesting fact he was looking for. “And you’re not a night owl like he is?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I’m up early.”

“Well.” He straightens up and strikes the island with the palm of his hand with a note of finality. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other, then. Enjoy your toast, Bean.”

I smile—a frozen, confused rictus—and note the Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, just under the rough scrape of a day-old beard.

“Have a nice day,” I reply awkwardly, as he gives me a smile and heads out of the room.

I’m left blinking at my toast, wondering if I misread his reaction in the kitchen the other day. Is it possible that he doesn’t recognize me after all?

* * *

At work that night, my eyes cut to the table Nick sat at when we first met, they follow the path we cut through the bar to the VIP booth. Relentlessly, I turn over the order of events, revisiting the facts as if I’m making a case in court. Yes, I met Nick that night in the club.

A month has passed, maybe a little more, but I can’t believe he would forget it or that I’m inventing the chemistry between us. Or that he has so many intimate encounters in the VIP booth that he can’t remember them all. I refuse to believe it.

Yet my distraction level remains high, tirelessly reminding me of the way he looked at me (smoldering eyes), the way he touched me (intuitive hands), the way he laughed when I told him that I thought my stage name had gravitas (charmed and bemused). I’m thinking about him being in the club so much that it finally occurs to me that if he came here once, he’ll probably come again.

By the time I’m on stage for my next number, I’m scanning the crowd, seeing individual faces instead of just scanning for money being laid out on the stage, as I would normally do. I can’t kick the conviction that Nick could be here, that I’ll see him again, and even though that should be the last thing I want, I’m growing obsessed with the idea of it.

I want to know that he is watching me, seeing me. I want to see that desire in his eyes again. And when I slide down into the splits and then lift my eyes to the face in front of me, it’s so shockingly familiar I’m as stunned as if I’ve been struck.

Beautiful dark brown eyes, light brown skin, thick dark hair… but it’s not Nick looking back at me from a stage-side seat—it’s Tate.

I smile, jerky and awkward, quickly trying to cover up my surprise and disappointment, and he smiles back in a way that doesn’t feel like a smile at all. It’s cold and caustic, a reptilian curve of his mouth that doesn’t reach his eyes. Around him, a few of his friends are watching me wolfishly as well.

It’s not that I care if Tate comes to the club. I don’t mind if he comes, or if his friends come, too. I’m not ashamed of what I do. But I know that Tate is, so the fact that he’s here now, right in the front row with his friends, sets alarm bells ringing in my head.

I can tell just by the way he’s looking at me what kind of mood he’s in. He’s the Other Tate—the one he is when he’s with his buddies. It’s a version of Tate that feels the most unreachable, and I don’t like the way he’s looking at me.

I slide my legs together, roll over, and keep dancing, no longer wanting to look at the faces in the crowd and wanting to lose myself in the music instead. But I can’t. I’ve never been a prude, but for the first time in my life I feel truly exposed on the stage, knowing that Tate’s friends can see my body and my breasts, and I just want to cover up and get off the stage.

When my number finally ends, I slip my bra back on with relief and take the stairs down to the club floor instead of taking the lift to the basement change room.

“Hi!” I greet Tate with a friendly smile, hiding the trepidation I feel.

He’s clearly drunk, his dark eyes half-lidded. He turns his head towards me just a tiny bit slower than usual.

“There she is,” he brays, lifting a bottle of beer in the air.

“Zoë, you are fucking hot,” says his friend Steve, draping a heavy arm over my shoulder and coming in too close. His breath smells like stale booze. “I mean, I knew you were, but holy shit.”

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