Page 2 of Dance of Deception

Naomi follows me in, already undoing her bun. She’s our Odette/Odile, aka, Swan Queen, for the upcoming performance.And her reason for staying late has nothing to do with Madame Kuzmina and everything to do withherself.

No matter how many times you tell Naomi she’s amazing, she refuses to listen. I swear, the girl drinks imposter syndrome smoothies for breakfast.

“Tell me you’re coming out with us this weekend,” she coaxes, leaning against her locker. “Or are you going to pretend you have an exciting social life when we both know you don’t?”

I smirk. “Tempting, but I need sleep more than overpriced cocktails.”

As if I couldaffordoverpriced cocktails. Or reasonably priced ones. Actually, even happy hour pricing might be off the table given my current financial situation.

Naomi groans. “You’re such a grandma.”

Brooklyn drops onto the bench beside me. “I might actually be dead by the weekend,” she mutters. “Kuzmina is a fucking sadist.”

“I think the word you’re looking for isRussian.” Naomi grins.

Vaughn appears in the doorway, shoving his fingers through his shaggy dark hair. “Personally, I like my women with a touch of organized crime.”

Brooklyn makes a face. “You would. And getout, dude. Guys' dressing room is down the hall, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“But I get so lonely all by myself.” He grins smugly before he peels off his t-shirt and slings it over his shoulder.

Vaughn has the sort of body that can only be described as “sinful”. The motherfucker has like zero percent body fat, isfreakingripped, and is covered in strategically placed tattoos. Coupled with his Mediterranean skin tone and vaguely Italian looks, it’s easy to see why his social calendar is perpetually filled—with dates with both sexes, I should add.

Vaughn strolls over to a locker and opens it before he turns to wink at Brooklyn. “You know I keep a second locker with my shit in here. And relax, it’s not like any of you are my type.”

He starts to take off his tights. Yeah, that’s my cue to turn around and avert my eyes. Sinful body or not, Vaughn's and my relationship—pretty much his relationship with any of the girls in the company—is more sibling-like than anything else.

Brooklyn snorts as she peels off her own tights and leotard and replaces them with underwear and yoga pants.

“I thought that your ‘type’ was ‘has a pulse and at least one willing hole’.”

“Pulses are overrated,” he grins.

“Dude,” Brooklyn makes sour face and shakes her head.

Vaughn laughs as he turns around, now at least wearing boxers. “Like you’d ever let me near you, baby girl.”

Brooklyn wrinkles her nose as she tosses on a hoodie. “Gross?”

Vaughn shrugs. “The feeling is mutual, and I say that with love. No, what I mean is, I don’t play hard to get. If someone doesn’t want me, I’m already gone. You want this…?”

The three of us collectively roll our eyes as he runs a finger down his ludicrously defined abs and cups his dick through his boxers.

“You have to show me you want it.”

“Yeah, hard pass,friendo,” Brooklyn says dryly.

“Again, the feeling is entirely mutual, baby girl.”

I giggle, turning to haul my dance bag out of my locker. I wriggle out of my leotard and wrap a towel around myself getting ready to shower, then dig through the bag, fingers searching for my MetroCard. But all I find are a few loose quarters and a crumpled one-dollar bill.

Shit. Not enough for the subway home.

I press my lips together and force the knot of frustration down.

I reach for my water bottle, catching my reflection in the mirror hanging on the inside of the locker door. My brow furrows, my gaze lingering on the way my collarbones are more prominent than they were a few months ago.

“Here.”

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