Page 1 of Dirty Dancer

PROLOGUE

MONTHS AGO…

EMERSYN

Igripped the silk, winding it around my forearm as I did the slow roll up the fabric. The climb took skill to make it appear effortless. Training and discipline made the motions a reflection of muscle memory.

If I moved one way, the silk would fold over the forearm and I would then shift my weight so I could roll upwards. Action. Reaction.

Action.

Reaction.

While my muscles and I both still remembered how to perform the most basic of tricks, the scars and residual trauma to my forearms themselves created impediments.

The actions weren’t smooth.

I lost my grip more than once.

A slip sent me rolling downward before I could catch myself. Then I started all over again. Movement below snared my attention and I locked gazes with a pair of stunning blue eyes.

Paint flecks decorated his cheeks. Red, purple, and blue stained his forearms and his shirt. Using my own weight as a counterbalance, I shifted until I was holding all of my weight on my damaged forearms.

The scars would never be fully gone, but the feathers Vaughn tattooed on them for me transformed them. No longer did they represent my brokenness. Broken wasn’t bad, but having my wings clippedhurt.

Head up.

Wings out.

My arms trembled as I maintained, and then began the arduous climb again. I would nail this movement. Much of my performances on this tour involved new choreography and new routines.

For the past twelve weeks, I’d been playing it safe and avoiding the possibility of a tumble that could end with me hitting the stage itself.

Below me, there was a net spread out. It was just six feet above the floor, but it was also pulled tight. The tension would help catch me if I dropped. When I told Vaughn what I wanted to do, he’d given me a long measuring look then nodded.

Two hours later, he told me the stage was ready for me to rehearse. The net had been here. I’d yet to actually fall, and if I could help it—I wouldn’t.

But if I fell, it was also okay.

I would get this. I would fly again.

“Did you finish?” I called to Rome and he gave a careless shrug.

“Mostly.”

“Can I see yet?” After seeing some of the backdrops at our last few venues, he’d decided he wanted to do our own. Liam and Rome disappeared for a day and then came back with a lot of work for Rome.

I wasn’t allowed to see them until he was done.

It was a surprise.

“No,” he said, one corner of his mouth curving up.

“Aww,” I complained. He’d been working on the art for a week while we were on this break. Not that I’d been resting, so much as reworking some of my solos. Which was exactly what I was doing now.

“Tomorrow.”

I slipped, and dropped a few feet, but caught myself like I’d meant to and my body arched. One arm in, one arm free. I was balanced against the silk, the wrap, and just one arm.

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