Page 22 of Cruelly Fated
She was walking away.
Look back, just one look…
She didn’t.
But then…her side mirror caught a sliver of her face.
She was smiling. Not at me or for show. Just smiling to herself like she was genuinely happy.
That would have to be enough. For now.
Eleven
ALLIE
Larry twirled a finger in the air, and I turned slowly, giving him the full view. My audition outfit—a red-and-black-checkered schoolgirl skirt barely long enough to qualify as clothing and a mid-rise white blouse knotted just beneath my bra—left little to the imagination. Shimmering red heels adorned my feet. The whole look broke every school dress code ever written…and that was the point.
I kept my expression blank, ignoring the way Larry’s eyes gleamed, how his tongue swiped across his lips like a predator savoring the scent of blood. He was my only shot at landing this job at the new club—a job I desperately needed if I had any hope of hiring a lawyer for Grandpa.
He hopped onto a barstool he’d dragged away from the counter, striking a pose like some sleazy director on a low-budget film set, then motioned for me to get on the main stage. It was early, just past lunch. The club wouldn’t open for hours, and the place sat empty, with no clients and no staff. Larry had sounded almosttooeager to schedule my audition during this quiet slot when I called him this morning. I hadn’t expected him to record it so soon, but that suited me just fine. According to him, I could start as early as next week. The new club, The Red Ember, was throwing its grand opening bash this weekend, and they wanted fresh faces.
“Did you bring your music?” he asked, already fiddling with his laptop.
I jogged up to my handbag at the corner of the stage and pulled out the thumb drive. With how little advance notice Larry had given me, I didn’t have time to choreograph anything new. So I chose the routine I knew best—my mom’s signature number. I’d memorized it when I was just a kid, spinning circles in our old living room while she rehearsed.
Larry plugged the drive into his laptop, and soon the song blared through the club’s speakers.
“I remember this piece. Good choice,” he muttered, nodding to himself.
I tested the dance pole anchored at center stage with a few tentative spins. Mom had once tried to convince Grandpa to install one at the house so she could rehearse without commuting, but he’d flat-out refused. Turns out, watching her glide around it like a goddess and actually doing it myself were twoverydifferent things. My first grip was too high. Second, too loose. After a few awkward attempts and some quiet cursing under my breath, I figured out the proper hand placement. I bit my lip and nodded at Larry.
“I think I’m ready,” I said, my chest rising with effort and nerves.
“Excellent. Your pole work’s still a little wonky, so keep most of the routine on the floor. The Red Ember’s a new-age club, more fluid dancing, less acrobatics. They want heat, not circus tricks.”
Oh. That could work in my favor. Maybe I’d been too quick to judge the place. This could be something I didn’t just tolerate, but enjoyed.
Larry adjusted the camera tripod, phone already mounted, then counted down silently from five with his fingers. The speakers clicked and blared to life again.
As the upbeat pop music kicked in, my body instinctively found the rhythm, each sway and step coming naturally to me. The spotlight warmed my skin, pulsing in time with the bass as I let the beat pull me under. I wasn’t in a club. I wasn’t beingfilmed. I was back in our living room at midnight, barefoot, spinning in Mom’s shadow.
But this time…I was the one dancing.
The music built to a climax. I reached toward the empty audience with one hand, curled a leg around the pole, and bent backward just as the final note struck. I held the pose a few seconds longer—just enough for Larry to get a clean cut for the audition tape.
He began clapping, and I exhaled, sliding to a crouch.
“Should I go again?” I asked, though the thought of enduring another round under Larry’s leering gaze made my skin crawl.
“Are you kidding? That was perfection.” He kissed the tips of his fingers. “Fix your hair. I want to submit a photo with the reel.”
Photos? I hesitated but shrugged. I supposed that wouldn’t hurt. I ran my fingers through the long waves I’d let loose for the routine, smoothed down my skirt, and reapplied the red lipstick from Mom’s old tube.
“Stand in front of the bar,” Larry said, already snapping pictures. “Tilt your head back—good. Rest your heel here. Chin up, now look away.”
He rattled off a dozen more poses, some veering toward risqué, but thankfully, none required fewer clothes.
“Nice, nice…” he murmured, swiping through the images with a grin stretched too wide. A cold knot settled low in my stomach. I turned away, pretending to tidy my skirt while pressing a palm to my middle.
