Chains and Canes (10 page)

Jack grinned and cocked his hip. “If I’m a baby, I know a gentleman who’ll be in a whole lot of trouble if word gets out about last night.”

“Naya Ortiz, you have just met our resident
enfant terrible
, to use the French instead. This is Jack Alderton, dancer supreme and Broadway aficionado.” Remy tossed himself down on the bench and stretched his legs. “Jack, meet Naya. Our newest dancer, part-time choreographer and the woman who’s kicking my ass.”

Naya grinned. She cracked the seal on a bottle of water. “A fine ass it is. Well worth kicking.”

Jack laughed. “You’re gonna fit in well around here.”

Without thinking, Remy reached up to swipe the bottle of water from Naya’s hands. They’d been doing it throughout rehearsals—the almost-intimacies that spoke of seduction and promise.

Jack’s eyebrows rose.

Remy swallowed the cold water. A drop burned down the wrong pipe. He coughed. “So where have you been, anyway?”

Blinking away his rare moment of outward acuity, Jack smiled like a damn jester. “I signed on with a showcase workshop. That guy, Quinn or Quentin or whatever, was trying to put a new company together. The showcase was to show us off for his potential investors.” Jack shrugged, his mouth pulling down. “Honestly, it was a disaster. A total waste of two weeks. I could’ve earned more at the coffee shop than by busting my fine ass twelve hours a day on a gamble. That’ll teach me to aim for stardom.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Okay, let’s just say I’ve learned my lesson for now. I’m back to Devant’s ever-lovin’ arms, teaching four classes a week, and oh—I get to choreograph competition solos for these syrup-sweet triplet high school girls. What’s their last name?”

“Yeats? Those ones?”

“Give the man a prize. You do it, Naya, or I will. Anyway, their mom’s filthy rich and she adores me.”

“Good thing you’re not after her daughters.”

“It pays to be gay,” he said with an ironic flourish. “But really, Remy, if anyone could do that form-a-company thing, it’s you. Quinn-Quentin-what’s-his-name was two times a hot mess with half your style. No vision. No control over his dancers—not even me, and I’ve been nominated for sainthood at least six times. By ex-lovers, sure, but I deserved it.”

Remy laughed, but he hid his deeper reaction behind another swig from the water bottle.

His own company. Only a space cadet like Jack would put Remy’s name in the same vicinity of that much responsibility—which meant Remy was a space cadet too. It ranked up there with penthouse living and falling in love.
Ridiculous.
Forming a company meant seeing one’s vision made real. It also meant fundraising. No one simply handed out costumes, lighting, performance space and the wages for a couple dozen dancers.

If they did, they certainly didn’t hand them to someone like Remy. His gig at Devant was good, a solid year’s employment and counting. Not a lot of dancers could claim that much security. He was the slowest learner and the biggest fool for letting his goals—his desires—stray beyond the club’s walls. Giving that up on a pipe dream?

Didn’t mean he stopped wishing and even planning. Some nights he lay awake staking out the logistics, daring the universe to say it couldn’t be his one day. He was a kid raised on scraps. When presented with a buffet, he gorged until he was sick. And went back for more.

At least he was smart enough to keep that shit to himself. His childhood had meant learning real fast when to shut up.
Faggot
was the best thing his momma called him when she was pissed about his ambitions.

“You got the wrong guy, Jack,” he said at last.

“But you’ll keep me in mind for when you totally do an about-face, right? Because you will, you stubborn pair of hot pants.” He tossed off a salute with an extra flash of sass. “Naya, it was lovely to meet you. We should go out. Chocolate martinis!”

“Name the night.” She took the water back from Remy and drank half of it down.

“Tonight?”

“Not tonight.” She slid Remy an unmistakable look. “Tonight I’m busy.”

“Lucky bitch.”

“On stage,
pendejo
. We’re on stage tonight and need more practice if we want this hot mess ready on time. If it falls flat, Lizzie and Dima can always pick up the pieces.”

“In that case, I’ll get back to you. My schedule is in very high demand.” He gave a giant wave as he launched down the hallway. “Toodle-oo!”

“Can you believe I’ve made out with that man? More than once. Sometimes I wonder about my judgment.”

“Desperate times. Desperate measures?”

He kept his smile in place. Just a joke. “You calling me desperate,
chère
?”

“Can’t say I know you well enough to make an overall assessment, but you won’t be tonight.”

“Ah, I passed your test.” He feigned wiping sweat from his brow in a gesture of relief. Then he stood, stretched, and shook the stiffness out of his legs. The stiffness on the inside, all those unwanted memories and dredged-up hopes, would just have to fall in line. As always.

“I didn’t like the bass through,” he said. “Too much treble for what we were doing. It doesn’t fit.”

“Half the style you have, huh?” Naya watched him from across the room. Although he didn’t turn around, he could see her dark gaze in the mirrors. Her wide mouth was almost flat, not quite a frown. “Remy, why don’t you have your own company?”

“Why don’t you?”

She put the water down and edged around the room. “I’ve been in a chorus for years. Not exactly the background investors look for.”

He scraped his fingernails across his scalp, then tugged his hair straight up. He chose to ignore how right she was. Compliments as deflection?

“You’ve got the talent. You were right about the finish here. This dance will be better for it. So why not? Run off and start your own digs.”

“You think I’m brave enough for that?” She laughed, throwing her head back. “Hell no.”

“No, but you have a fairy sugar daddy to help you out.”

“That’s not funny,” she said sharply.

Remy ditched the teasing. He’d hit a sore spot—one as tender as his own near-miss hopes. Sore spots were better ignored than investigated.

He stalked closer. They’d been playing nice. So damn nice for three days. Remy had even enjoyed the game. There was something to be said for teasing and waiting, which she’d been teaching him with her stubborn insistence on more restraint in their dance. They’d reached a steady back-and-forth rather than full-on warfare.

He coiled his hand in her hair—so unbelievably full and soft and thick. Her eyes fluttered shut. He tugged and tipped her head back. “I’m nobody’s sugar daddy, but you know what kind of sweetness I want.”

Her throat clenched. Her gaze dropped. “Tonight, remember?”

He heard her hesitation. “Go on. You want to say it.”

“Tonight, Sir.”

He grinned. It was grin or kiss her, and he was willing to wait a little longer. Because he wanted them as a unit. Naya and Daniel. Both of them made of something fine.

Remy had crawled out from the swamps. He’d been a half step up from most of his neighbors, because he’d lived with his momma, meemaw and uncle in a real house. Calling that falling-down shack a house had been a whole lot of arrogant. The blue tarp on the roof was the only thing to keep out the rain. Once-grand columns on the porch stretched up to the second floor but were black with rot. Hard enough to keep the property taxes paid with his momma’s problems, let alone his uncle’s dubious attentions.

Now this beautiful girl was in his hands. Her man would soon join them.

Crawling out of the swamps wasn’t the same as riding high with these two. Limited time only. Remy would fall soon enough.

She licked her bottom lip, obviously torn between his hold on her hair and actual words. “Sorry I snapped. It’s just that Daniel’s been telling me for years that if I ever wanted, he could bring together backers. That’s what he’s good at. Finding money from other people, and turning those investments into something amazing.”

“I’ve never wanted a company.”

Such a lie. Most days he was able to concoct one half-truth after another. Holding Naya and restraining an eighteen-wheeler’s worth of anticipation meant taking a huge risk. The lie was harder to even say, let alone believe.

Naya smiled almost shyly. “Yeah, well, it’s beyond me too.”

“Good,” Remy said, his chest tight. “Then we don’ need to talk about it no more.”

Chapter Ten

Daniel lost track of how many times he’d eyed a bottle of Scotch in the beveled glass liquor cabinet. Maybe a dozen? He was still buzzing from a harrowing flight in from the UK, where the late takeoff had nearly meant a delay until the next day. He’d sat in his seat in first class much the same way as he’d sat in on a series of radically important board meetings.

Antsy. Distracted. Confused.

So turned on that he couldn’t go near thoughts of his night with Naya and Remy.

Not until he was alone.

After fourteen hours a day spent directing the futures of his ventures in all realms of industry and philanthropy, he would return to his hotel room across from Hyde Park. Then he’d strip, shower, collapse onto the bed and relive every moment.

Naya had emailed and called, assuring him that their plans and desires were still as strong. They’d always had a knack for phone time. Business trips weren’t a big deal other than missing her body curled against his. She’d relayed every encounter with Remy during their practice sessions. Some curious. Some humorous. Some pretty telling when it came to unraveling an outwardly assured man who hid a dancer’s vulnerabilities. Her descriptions of their dancing, especially how she’d felt when in Remy’s arms, added fuel to how hotly Daniel burned.

He had no imagination when it came to beautiful things. Strategies aligned in his brain like floats in a parade. Each had its place. He’d recently expanded the company he co-owned with quiet, introverted Louis, from cloud computing to manufacturing an innovative multi-hardware platform. He’d done it flawlessly. When it came to art, he only knew how to appreciate. Naya’s breathless, excited words had given him enough to subsist for three nights.

Hours on the phone with her made the waiting bearable. Barely.

There in the corporation’s suite reserved for visiting guests and clients, he waited for Naya and Remy to arrive after a show. The temptation of one finger of Scotch was strong—Christ, just to take off the edge—but it wasn’t the only temptation he’d refused. While in England, he could’ve made a single phone call to satisfy his curiosities.

Declan. New video. Download.

He eased into a leather armchair and sipped from a bottle of sparkling water. Why hadn’t he checked in to see how they’d spent their hours together, sweating out a new routine, hurling lightning at one another? Only at that moment, wired and tired and barely out of the shower, did he understand his unnecessary self-control.

Declan liked to watch.

Daniel
used
to watch.

Daniel wouldn’t be satisfied with watching anymore.

Besides, Naya had managed to make Remy wait. Daniel wasn’t any less of a man.

From beyond the front door came the
ding
of the elevator as it opened onto the penthouse level. Naya’s keycard swiped the lock. She tumbled through the entryway, laughing, wearing one of the odd combinations of costume and street dress that often followed her return from a performance—jeans, ballet flats, a dark red silk blouse, and stage-worthy hair and makeup. Remy was, unsurprisingly, wearing another tank top and pair of jeans, as well as a battered old leather jacket. That could’ve been his stage costume, for all Daniel knew.

What he did know was that Remy was laughing too. The man didn’t seem the sort to indulge in laughter, not from their previous interactions. He’d teased and joked, but he hadn’t
laughed
. This was full and good and strong. Daniel liked that. It was what he did, what he thrived on—making an easier world for the people who deserved it. With Naya, he’d created a safe haven for the woman whose talent, generosity and humor made his chest unfurl with happiness and peace.

That Remy could affect him the same way—
safety for him means contentment for me
—was a shock. It was still true.

“So what is this? Y’all got a new house for every day of the week?”

“Sure, this is our Tuesday residence,” Naya said, grinning, bumping her shoulder against his. “You should see the Friday palace.”

“I knew it. Holdin’ out on me.”

“It’s gold-plated. The toilets are decorated with diamonds.”

Remy shook his head. “What is with the American dream these days? I demand my own diamond toilet.”

“Diva.”

Daniel’s lust and anticipation took a hasty backseat to amazement. They were talking like friends. His body relaxed another degree. He breathed out, unaware he’d gathered so much tension. But it made sense. If they couldn’t get along at Devant, if they had nothing in common other than a hellacious sexual spark, he would need to downgrade his expectations to “just a little fling.”

Daniel was quickly, recklessly, beginning to hope for more. No clue what that was or what
more
meant. He was addicted to the things he didn’t have. Naya’s grace and her spark were part of what fired him. He sucked up her excitement and eagerness for each new day. Remy gave him that same sort of hit, with the added pleasure of offering fine things to a man who didn’t seem to have lucked into many good breaks. Together, the three of them could give shape to his undefined hopes and ease his fiery tumult.

Daniel’s quiet bisexuality wasn’t the issue. Sometimes attraction knew no gender lines. Strength and grace and beauty spoke with powerful force. Some of his whispered secrets with Naya hadn’t been about her dance partners, but about one of Daniel’s visiting clients or an investor who wore his suit with casual arrogance. That he hadn’t acted on his impulses didn’t make them any less real.

He fully expected that he and Remy would cross some boundary if the man stuck around.

That was almost unbearably exciting, but it wasn’t what lurked with such vitality, deep in a place Daniel had never looked. Maybe it was half power rush—knowing he helped relieve two special people of their worries.