Page 31 of Worth the Trouble

It’s the truth, and a sad fucking realization.

Lili looks me over, probably deciding whether my answer is bullshit or not. The song kicks up and she closes her eyes, taking in a deep breath as she tips her head back. Her neck rolls, showing off its length, and reminding me of when I had my hand wrapped around it.

Everything about her is elusive. How she starts to sway like her body is made of ribbons. How she takes up the full space of the room with her movements. Her dance is flawlessly imperfect because it has no rhyme or reason, while still making perfect sense to me.

It’s her, unfiltered, in a way I believe she is when she’s not chained down by her profession.

The song she chose is something instrumental and soft, like Lili. No lyrics except the ones she makes as she starts to move with it. And I swear, I’ve never understood a song more than I do right now.

I’ve never understood a person like I do her in this moment. She dances and I shouldn’t like it as much as I do, but I can’t tear my gaze away.

10

Lili

Asifsurvivingina world of dance professionals isn’t unbearable enough, the parties are the cherry on top of the bullshit. Stuffy, fake. My skin is already crawling, and I just walked in.

“Drink?” Rico looks down at me and smiles.

Sometimes I wish I saw him as something more than a friend. He’s handsome in a textbook kind of way with strong features and a smile that knocks you off your feet. But even in his blinding presence, I feel nothing.

I nod, and he brushes his hand over my lower back before disappearing into the crowd, leaving me in a room full of vipers alone.

Without scanning the faces, I feel them watching me. To them, I’m something I’m not. Interesting, pretty, a dancer for their entertainment. I’m a prize to win.

Mom is standing with a group from Eden, my dance company. She smiles at something one of them says and I’m sure it looks genuine to those who don’t know her. But I do. She’s simply playing nice to get on their good side as they set up my next dance tour.

I’m still in the middle of prepping for the performance of my career and she can’t help but already be thinking about what’s next. I’m exhausted thinking about it.

From across the room, I meet Mom’s gaze and she frowns, likely disappointed to see me standing alone instead of parading myself around in front of everyone. But then her eyes fall over my shoulder and her annoyance turns to something much more menacing.

“What are the chances?” I hear his voice behind me at the same time as a shiver runs the length of my spine. The kind only Rome Moreno seems capable of pulling out of me.

My eyes are still locked on my mom, and the darkness in her eyes becomes clear to me as she assesses the man standing over my shoulder.

She might have believed he was at my doorstep for a valid reason, but there’s no way she’ll let this slide. I can already feel the questions revolving in her head as her gaze moves between us.

Mom shifts and I sense her about to head in my direction, so I spin on my heels and brush past Rome, trying to ignore the devious smile stretching his cheeks.

“Why are you here?” I ask, already feeling him following me through the crowd.

I need to escape—to anywhere.

I might have let Rome get in my head a few days ago when it was just the two of us in my living room, but that can’t happen again. If anything, it was a reminder of the madness that follows him. How he uses women as commodities and people for amusement. Whatever this thundering is inside me, it’s going to have to settle down because I’m smarter than to get stuck in the middle of the storm that is Rome Moreno.

“I could ask you the same thing.” Rome reaches for my elbow as he follows me through the crowd, but I pull it away.

Finally reaching the edge of the room, I spin to face him, realizing immediately what a bad idea it is as I look up into his devilishly dark eyes.

They’re almost as disarming as his appearance tonight. While I’ve only ever seen him in T-shirts and jeans, he’s wearing a custom-fitted tux. Tattoos peek from his collar and at his wrists, giving him an edge he wears well.

I’ve seen plenty of men in suits, but not the way he wears it. Somehow, he manages to look almost as provocative as if he were wearing nothing at all. Which is something I should not be thinking about.

“Why are you here?” I ask again.

Rome ticks his head to the side and my gaze follows, until it lands on two familiar faces I remember from my online search of him and his band—Eloise and their band manager, Adrian.

“Micah Jacobson produced a charity show for us a couple of years ago. We were invited.”

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