Page 71 of Dance of Ruin

I roll my eyes.

Vaughn and I are tight in a squabbling siblings kind of way. I mean, he’s like that with all the girls in the company, at least our immediate circle. But for some reason, he and I just click a little better than most.

Enough so that while no one else does,Ihappen to know the joke behind “no fucking idea”.

Vaughn was found abandoned as a small kid with some amnesia issues. He went into foster care until he was sixteen, at which point he declared himself a legally emancipated minor.

Dude’s been through someshit. But somehow, he turned out kinda spectacular.

But right now, I’m confused. He’s already dressed and ready for rehearsal, in cutoff sweat pant shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt that shows off the huge swaths of tattoos covering his well-defined biceps, forearms, shoulders, and even ribs through the huge armholes.

“How the hell did you get changed so fast?”

Vaughn gives me a weird look. “Huh?”

“How…” I shake my head. “I didn’t see you go inside. How did you dress so fast?”

He arches a brow. “You feeling okay?”

I shake my head, but I shove the confusion away.

There’s a not so small chance that yesterday’s events involving Nico are very much still messing with my head. Big time.

“You just missed the crew,” I say, changing subjects.

“I know.”

I glance at him. “You trying to avoid us all of a sudden, Mr. Bancroft?”

“Avoidyou?” He clutches his heart dramatically. “Never. Avoid being the token queer in the girl squad?” He lifts a muscled shoulder. “I mean,sometimes, yeah.”

I give him a half-smile. “Totally fair.”

“And it feels like sometimes it gets tragically overlooked that I also happen to enjoy fucking pussies?”

I snort a laugh. “Please. You do an excellent job of reminding everyone exactly hownotparticular you are when it comes to holes and fucking.”

Vaughn grins. “That feels vaguely like an insult?”

“I’m just saying you’re a popular guy.”

“Fuck, now I feel slut shamed.”

I smirk. “Your words, buddy.”

He chuckles deeply and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, slipping one between his lips and lighting it. Then his eyes drag to me as his head tilts slightly.

I shift uncomfortably, feeling like a bug under a microscope. “What?”

“You look…tussled.”

I freeze. “Excuse me?”

“You know,” he says, waving vaguely at my face. “Your hair’s a little wild. Kinda flushed. Like you’ve been doing someextracurricularcardio.”

I flush all the way to the roots of my hair. “I donotlook tussled. And I thought you were quitting,” I mutter, jabbing a finger at his cigarette. “Those are terrible for you.”

“She said, radically changing the subject,” he snickers.

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