Page 4 of The Wicked

“You want me to lead?”

“No, I’ve got this.” He really didn’t. “I love this song. It’s just so happy. Do you think the original version is on Spotify?”

“Probably? I’m going to cross your lead, okay?”

“So I should…?”

“Turn clockwise. No, no,clockwise. The other way.”

Thank the stars above that I’d worn ankle boots instead of open-toed sandals. I mean, I’d considered wearing something a bit more “dance shoe,” but I figured that would only lead to questions I didn’t want to answer. I was the girl who favoured black pants, a white shirt, and sensible footwear. Tonight was no exception. In life’s performance, I was a stagehand, and that suited me just fine.

Once, I’d dreamed of being the leading lady.

But then everything had changed.

By the time we made it back to the table, I needed to soak my feet in the pitcher of margaritas that Addy had just ordered, preferably with extra ice. Although drinking the entire jugful was also tempting. Usually, I edged toward the Darla end of the scale when it came to alcohol consumption, but I had nothing to get up for tomorrow morning, so why not stay in bed with a hangover? I drained the glass and gave myself brain freeze.

“Salsa is harder than I thought,” Brooke said, leaning against Luca. “Sara, you’re good. Are you sure you only took a couple of classes?”

Okay, so I’d actually taken gold at the national junior Latin dance championship in my age category—under ten; I’d been so young—but that was all in the past. I didn’t dance anymore. Dancing hurt, and I didn’t just mean my toes. My heart ached for what I’d lost. My parents, the hobby I’d loved, my fragile self-confidence. For the longest time, I thought I’d lost my dance partner too, but five years ago, Marcin had been competing in Portland, and I’d driven up there on impulse just to watch. He’d spotted me in the crowd, missed a turn, and nearly dropped his partner. Guilt had sent me running out the door, but he’d caught up with me in the parking lot. There had been plenty of tears that night. Plenty of hugs too. We’d stayed in touch, but only over WhatsApp because Marcin and his boyfriend ran a dance school in Gdansk now.

“The classes were a long, long time ago,” I told Brooke. “But I guess a few bits came back to me.”

Addy topped off my glass. “Have you ever tried burlesque?”

I spluttered margarita. “No! Of course not. Isn’t that basically stripping?”

“Nuh-uh. It’s more about body positivity and feathers. There’s an ex-Vegas showgirl who moved to North Bend, and she’s running classes. You know, workshops for bachelorette parties and that kind of thing.”

“Bachelorette parties? Who’s getting married?”

“Nobody yet, but I bet she’d do a regular party if we asked. We could use Aaron’s apartment. It’s plenty big enough.”

Aaron and Romi’s apartment occupied the first floor of a former car dealership. “Big” was an understatement. “Cavernous” was more like it. Brooke and Luca lived on the second floor, but their apartment was smaller thanks to a roof terrace that took up a third of the space.

“Do I get a say in this?” Aaron asked.

“Nope.”

Luca shook his head, grinning. “Buddy, that’s the wrong question. What we need to know is whether we can watch?”

“Absolutely not,” Addy told him. “So, who’s in?”

“Can I come?” Paulo bounced on his keg-stool. “I’m excellent with feathers.”

“It depends if you’re in town. Aren’t you and Darla heading to Virginia soon?”

“On Wednesday evening.” Four days from now. “Maybe we could do the workshop when I come back?”

“Romi, when’s your next modelling job?”

“I’m flying to Paris for Fashion Week tomorrow.”

“You’re only in the US for two days? One day in California and one day here?”

“The swimwear company offered more money than the designers at Milan Fashion Week, and I wanted to see you guys. Oh, and Aaron,” she added seemingly as an afterthought, but she was grinning. “I’ll fly back right after the final show, I promise.”

“Okay, Sara, what does your schedule look like? Don’t you have the masked ball thing coming up?”

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