My Double Life: Wild and Wicked (2 page)

They walked past lavish offices full of mahogany bookshelves and sleek bronze awards on the walls, then turned down a hallway toward more simple workspaces. Here, computers and stacks of papers balanced on smaller, functional desks. Fawn Barrows paused in front of an open door with a brass nameplate beside it.

Courtney Masterson.

“I’m afraid we missed her,” Fawn announced after peeking behind the door at an empty chair. “It looks like she took her bag, so I’m guessing she’s gone for the day.”

On the verge of demanding the woman be contacted via cell phone or text, Trey thought better of it.

“Fine,” he said tightly. “But I want to speak to her at her earliest convenience.”

Shoving an extra business card into the woman’s hand, he turned to leave.

“Certainly—”

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Barrows.” Trey couldn’t afford to waste another minute at Sphere.

He had a client who needed some hand-holding tonight—an actor whose nice-guy image would benefit from some tarnishing to get him the kind of multi-layered parts his skills warranted. And at Trey’s agency, that meant Trey himself would be out on the town to make sure the deed was done.

After all, he wanted every one of his current clients working by the time Phase Two of his business plan got underway. A phase that might very well have been compromised by the research skills of one gray-eyed female he’d obviously underestimated.

2

D
ANCE
CLASS
. The lights, the music, the people from all walks of life blowing off steam, just like me.

Simply walking into the studio lowered my blood pressure and made me feel at home. Here, no one judged me. You’d think this place would be full of twenty-somethings learning how to pole dance for their hot boyfriends. But it wasn’t like that at all. The women who came here were often older, some had just had a baby, and all were looking for a way to feel good about themselves. It wasn’t just pole dancing that attracted these clients. It was our awesome instructor, Natalie Night, who had a way of making the disenfranchised feel welcome here. She was the reason I came back, week after week.

“Are we ready, ladies?” she asked now, striding across the red mats in the back studio for the advanced class. Wearing a simple black leotard beneath a tiny pink T-shirt with the name of a local band silk-screened on it, she cranked up the music and stepped up to the pole.

I stepped up to mine, too, grateful that I’d finally be able to put Trey Fraser out of my head. What was it about that man that had thrown me for such a loop?

“We’ll do our routines in a minute,” Natalie assured us, wrapping one leg around the pole to pull herself up. “But first, I’d like to go over that move we all had trouble with last time. Those lifts are killing us.”

She scaled the pole quickly to demonstrate the proper technique and we knew to wait and watch her while she explained what to do. And then, all of a sudden, she slid down.

Crash
.

The fall happened so fast, I barely had time to process it. Heart in my throat, I ran over to her.

“Natalie?” I stood looking down at her, totally panicked. “Are you okay?”

I was freaking out to see the most agile, gorgeous, talented dance teacher lying with her leg cocked at a scary angle on the mat beneath her pole. Two students stood behind me, their multiple images eerily reflected in the mirrors surrounding us. A hardcore rap tune still blared from the speakers, and the music that normally pumped me up now felt horribly out of place.

“I think we should call an ambulance,” one of the other women suggested. She was new to the advanced class, and I forgot her name, but she sported a different nose ring every time I saw her. Today’s was a purple daisy.

“No.” Natalie finally answered, her only movement the flutter of her glittery eyelids. “I think it’s just a sprained ankle, but let me... Just give me a minute, okay?”

“A sprain? Your ankle looks like it’s dislocated,” I murmured, as someone turned down the music. “I was scared it was your neck or your head. You fell so fast I couldn’t tell what happened.”

Then again, I’d been distracted by thoughts of Trey and my awkward exit after meeting him. But Natalie had never fallen before. She was like a goddess in the studio, her body so strong and pliable she could do anything. She’d been my first teacher, back when I’d been scared to death to try this crazy sport at a bachelorette party for one of the women I worked with. I hadn’t even wanted to go to the party and was dragged to the studio against my will by well-meaning colleagues.

While the other women in the office had gotten into the spirit of sexy dancing, I had hung back. But Natalie made me feel welcome, giving me a private tutorial so I wouldn’t be self-conscious. She’d encouraged me so much that I came back again because—wonder of all wonders—I’d been kind of good at dancing. And I liked it because it required no speaking skills whatsoever.

Lo and behold, I still danced. Privately. Secretly. No one from work knew. But Natalie had been instrumental in giving me this arena where I felt talented. She was still my favorite teacher even now that I was an advanced student.

“Freaking baby oil,” Natalie muttered darkly, opening her eyes to meet my gaze. “The beginners’ class was in here before us and someone must have been wearing body lotion or something.”

“Yikes.” I’d learned quickly when I started pole dancing that any kind of cream was a no-no. You wanted to stick to the pole, not slide off it. “I can drive you to the hospital whenever you’re ready.”

“Absolutely not.” She gripped my hand with perfectly polished leopard-print nails, an artistic manicure that must have taken some time. “Courtney, my first show is tonight at Backstage.”

The urgent look in her light green eyes reminded me how important this was to her. She’d been trying to break into the club scene for months, but in a city full of gorgeous, out-of-work actresses, it wasn’t easy to land a good dancing gig. Talented women like Natalie were up against model-beautiful eighteen-year-olds who lied about their ages and would bare all between dance sets to rake in tips at the gentlemen’s clubs.

Natalie had an idea for a burlesque show, something classy that required serious dancing chops. But she needed someone to give her an “in” at a good club to get the act off the ground. Backstage had given her a trial run to do an abbreviated version of the show, which highlighted the pole. I’d seen her practice the number, and it was sexy as hell without being...graphic.

“I’ll call them,” I offered, looking around for my gym bag where I’d stashed my phone. I was only too happy to help.

It was thanks to this woman that I’d developed some long overdue personal confidence this year. I owed her.

“Courtney, listen to me.” She moved to sit up and all three of her students—me included—rushed to support her. She shooed us back with an impatient hand, because she was one stubborn, strong chick.

“I’m listening,” I assured her, pointing wordlessly to the vending machine on the far wall until one of the other students jogged toward it to get Natalie a drink. “Just don’t overdo it until you’re sure you’re not going to put any stress on that ankle. It’s swollen already.”

“I’ll get some ice,” Purple Nose Ring murmured before disappearing.

“Courtney. Sweetie.” Natalie leaned forward to cup my face in her hands like I was five years old. Her bracelets jingled as she tipped my chin up to meet her eyes. “You’re a great dancer.”

I preened a little inside, my heart warming to hear high praise from someone I admired on every level.

“It’s because you’ve been so patient with me,” I reminded her, remembering the nights she’d stayed long after the other students left so that I could tackle the pole without as many onlookers.

“It’s because you’re an excellent hard worker and you’ve got discipline like no one else I’ve ever taught.”

I prepared to dissemble some more, because
wow
. I had no coping skills for that much praise. Ask me about my defense mechanisms for criticism, though, and I could give detailed notes complete with dates that chronicled my experience. My mother—a famous interior decorator with her own television show—had explained to me at an early age that I was never to speak in front of her clients, her camera crew or anyone else in her professional life because I was an embarrassment to her. That kind of criticism from your own mom was...damaging, to say the least.

But before I could get any words out, the other dancers returned with water for Natalie and ice for her ankle, which we propped on a folded towel.

“Ladies...” Natalie turned expectantly to the three of us when we finished our first aid efforts. “I need someone to take that trial dance set for me tonight at Backstage.”

Was she serious? No one could fill her shoes.

I remembered I had to get my cell phone and call the club on her behalf.

“Courtney should do it.”

“Courtney, you have to take her place.”

The other dancers spoke at the same time, which must have been why my ears deceived me.

“Excuse me?” I was already pawing through my gym bag for my phone. “I’ll call Backstage—”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Natalie reached for my phone, apparently spotting it inside the duffel before I did. She tucked it behind her back as she eyed me in the mirror-lined studio. Huge overhead fans whirred softly, stirring the stale, vaguely sweaty air.

My heartbeat was even louder than when Trey Fraser shook my hand. And that was saying something.

“Are you insane?” I protested. “You have to cancel.”

“I worked too hard for this live audience audition.” She stared at me with that patient, steady gaze that had once given me the courage to try my first extended butterfly move on the pole. “Cort, I need that job.”

I knew that was true. Natalie’s scumball ex-husband had managed to drag their divorce through the courts just long enough to clean out her savings. Her work as a dance instructor probably paid some bills, but L.A. was an expensive city. Natalie had been over the moon when she landed this performance for the club owner.

A ball of fear twisted in my stomach.

“I’ll mess it up for you,” I whispered as cold sweat started to bead on my forehead.

My fellow students disagreed with me, chiming in to back Natalie up, but I couldn’t really make out their words. My whole focus remained on my friend and that look in her eyes that foolishly seemed to suggest I could do this.

“I’d rather lose it that way than simply call and cancel. At least if you dance the routine for me, I’ll have a chance. By the time the gig starts in the fall, my ankle will be better.” Natalie brushed the bangs out of my eyes. “I have a blonde wig you can wear. It’ll be like acting. Without any speaking lines.”

The difficult thing about my dear friend was that she knew all the right buttons to push. And Natalie was perfectly aware that one of the ways I’d convinced myself to stick with pole dancing was to assume a new personality whenever I stepped into the studio. When I came here, I wasn’t Courtney Masterson, CPA.

I became someone else entirely. Someone who could lose herself in rap music and pole dancing moves.

Right then, I could almost have imagined that a wig would help me get through this if I stepped into Natalie’s shoes for the audition. And let’s face it, no matter how insecure I was, I couldn’t say no to the person who gave me the gift of dancing in the first place. My performance would suck, and I would definitely make an ass of myself.

But for Natalie, I would at least give it a try.

“I want the wig,” I said finally. “And everyone in here is sworn to secrecy, okay? I’ll get fired if anyone—”

Anything else I might have added—other conditions and a laundry list of worries—were lost in a crushing hug while the women around me squealed and promised to take my secret to the grave.

Crap.

“I’d just like to know one thing.” I knew I would probably be sick to my stomach before I drove over to Backstage, which was halfway across town. “What time do I go on?”

* * *

“T
HE
FIRST
SHOW
is at eleven.” Trey checked his watch while he waited for his client to finish feeding his dog, his fish and two snakes coiled in a cage that rested on the dining room table of the guy’s Malibu beach house.

He’d known damn well that Eric Reims would bail on this outing unless he showed up to drag him out by the ear. Trey had been telling the actor for three months that he needed to get out in the public eye more, to stay out late and cause a few scenes, but the guy had never delivered. The dude was too young to be such a homebody, yet Eric was one of those performers whose personality only came out in front of the camera. The rest of the time, he was more of a quiet observer of life.

But like so many other actors, Eric had gotten screwed when Thomas pulled the plug on the dark emotional drama that Trey had planned, wreaking havoc on Trey’s industry credibility and severing their professional ties. To make amends, and in an effort to save face, Trey had gone into the talent management business six months ago solely to put all those actors back to work. Half of the affected talent already had management, but Trey had sworn he’d find work for every last one of the new, young faces that he had roped into the project. So his talent agency was new, but Trey was dedicated as hell, and one by one he’d find roles for his clients. Of course, his famous last name helped.

He didn’t care what the media thought of him nearly as much as he cared about his debt to the cast of the movie he never got to make. Once that was done, he’d close the talent management shop and move on to the next phase—opening his own independent film company within the next few months. He still owned the rights to the film he’d optioned back when he was a producer with his dad’s studio, and Trey had every intention of making that picture himself. With the kind of artistic integrity he’d envisioned from the start.

“I’m almost ready,” Eric called from the aquarium that divided the billiard room from the dining area. “I’d like to make the first show so I can be home early.”

Trey poured himself a drink at the bar next to the pool table, trying to focus on his client’s revamped bungalow instead of the potential professional trouble that a certain Sphere Asset Management’s financial researcher had created for him. He should be ticked off about her digging into his private affairs, and to a certain extent, he was. But another part of him simply wanted to see her again.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out
which
part.

“You’re twenty-six years old.” Trey forced himself to concentrate on his client. He poured Eric a drink, too, realizing the guy needed to loosen up. “Why do you need to be home early? The fish aren’t going to be throwing any wild parties while you’re out.”

Eric’s father was an A-list actor, but the old man hadn’t given his kid any help in the business. Trey had related immediately. Besides, he liked Eric for his talent and his work ethic, even though he had zero sense of the film business.

“Strip clubs are...not my usual scene.”

Trey guessed that was an understatement judging by the shelves and shelves of books that lined the billiard room. If Eric had read even a fraction of them, he must spend a lot of time with a book in his hand.

“Backstage isn’t a strip club—more of an exotic dance place. A lot of successful dancers got their start there.” Splitting hairs, maybe. “Although, in all honesty, the acts get grittier as the night wears on.”