Page 59 of Beautiful Beast

A fashionista, I am not.

With a sigh, I root through my closet and opt for a simple black dress that is short and cleavage popping enough to make Ariel happy and ensure that I don’t stand out, which would be awkward and draw too much attention to me.

The last time we went out, I wore a cardigan over my dress, and Ariel was so appalled that I feared for her future longevity.

I half-heartedly swipe on some make-up even though it’s going to be too dark for anyone to see me clearly anyway.

Dark, loud, and full of sweaty, drunk people.

My favorites.

Ariel arrives at the front door – she’s a regular by now and Enrique knows to let her up – and she is bouncing with excitement while singing the solo line she has in the play. Despite myself, I smile and decide that maybe it won’t besobad to go out for a while.

We take a cab to the club and get to skip the line because of the party reservation. I ignore the catcalls and stares, another reason why I hate parading myself around like cattle for the highest bidder.

Like buying me a sugary drink is going to give some random dude access to my goodies.

When we get to the huge white booth full of Ariel’s cast mates, they welcome me and immediately pour me a glass of – something – from a huge blue bottle.

I’m not a fan of drinking when I know that I’m going to wind up alone and unprotected, so I take a small sip to be polite and avoid nosy questions before switching to water.

Knowing Ariel’s type, I immediately pinpoint the object of her desire, the perfect picture of a starving artist with a long, lean build, pouty lips, and dark hair that flops into his eyes. It looks messy and unkempt to me, but I imagine it’s considered stylish and sexy in this crowd.

Ariel immediately touches his arm and engages him in conversation, leaving me to chat with the person sitting beside me.

“It’s Belle, right?” he asks.

I’ve hung out with Ariel and her friends before, but I can’t recall this particular one’s name. Adam is the first guy who has held my attention in forever.

“That’s right. And I’m sorry, your name again?”

“I’m Derek.”

He looks better suited to be on a beach in Australia than a club in New York with his tousled blond hair, bronzed skin, and easy grin.

“Nice to meet… well… nice to see you again,” I return.

Awkward.

That’s me.

The queen of painful social interactions. I’m always saying cringe-worthy things that I overanalyze on repeat when I try to fall asleep at night.

“Would you like to dance?” Derek asks, and I get the sense he’s repeating himself.

Always being lost in my head has the drawback of long pauses in conversations while I think about how to reply, and also randomly forgetting normal social etiquette.

“Oh, God, no,” I reply, and then realize how rude I sound when his face falls. “Shit. I mean, it’s not that I wouldn’t want to dance with you in particular. It’s just that I can’t dance. At all. Period. With anyone.”

His grin is back. “I bet you’re a lot better than you think.”

He asks me about my job, and I happily explain the inner workings of library programming. He shares that he works security in between acting jobs, and that situation is the case for so many hopefuls in New York and probably Los Angeles, too.

They need a bill-paying job while working on making a living with their dream job.

It reminds me how grateful I am that I get to do something I love for a living.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Derek asks.

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