Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“Feel the waltz in your chest,” he says, pressing two fingers to the base of my sternum. “Here. Let the breath move you from here.”
I shift slightly. “I think I’ve got it.”
He smiles. “Of course you do.”
I go into chaîné turns now, a tight, traveling series across the studio. The mirrors blur as I make each movement. At the last turn, I open into a controlled développé à la seconde, leg high, held. I ground myself. Solid. Not shaken.
I try not to look at Mr. Shippe’s reflection, but I can’t help it. He’s rubbing at his thigh as he watches me. Maybe it’s just a little quirk.
I finish with a smooth soutenu, landing in fifth position. I lift myself up on a relevé and slide into a slow rond de jambe, tracing an arc on the floor.
Finally, I close in fifth, arms in third, chest forward, heart quiet.
Mr. Shippe claps once—sharp and satisfied. “Now that, Bianca, is the kind of movement I’m looking for.”
“Thank you,” I say, my tone polite but cool.
“You know, Bianca…you’ve got something most girls in this business don’t. Discipline and heat. That’s rare.”
“Thank you,” I repeat. What else can I say to that?
He walks behind me now, gliding his fingers up my arm. “I wonder, though, if I can see more of that heat.”
“Mr. Shippe?”
He can’t possibly be insinuating what I think he is. He’s a bit of a creep—that’s par for the course in show business—but he’s not actually propositioning me, is he?
His lips curl into a grin. “I think you know that a million girls would kill for this role, Bianca.” He places a hand on my upper thigh, leaving no further room for interpretation. “What are you willing to do?”
And to my horror, I think it over.
I’ve been clawing my way into a career in New York for the better part of a decade. I’ve been go-go dancing, waiting tables, doing catering gigs, nannying for spoiled Upper East Side brats to keep myself afloat. And now, my Broadway debut is finally in my grasp.
And all I have to do is sleep with this guy.
I don’t love the idea, of course. But in the process of preparing for this callback, I’ve fallen in love with Lisa. With Reflections. It’s a fantastic show, and I know I’d be great in this role. I know I could make a difference, touch hearts, inspire others to lead better lives, by playing her.
I’d hardly be the first starlet to sleep with an executive. It happens all the time. And no one would need to know.
This show could lead to a real career. One where I’m performing full time, where I no longer have to starve myself for a week to pay for headshots.
It’s all right there, with only one small caveat.
Fuck it.
I’ll do it.
I hate when I think about Mr. Shippe.
I can never take back what I did. All the showers in the world can’t wash his stink off me.
Every time I perform, I bring a small part of him with me.
Even when I’m singing a set at Aces, a gig I didn’t sleep with a man to get…
He’s with me.
Always.
His half-limp dick, his sweaty and bloated body, his bad breath…
I got through it.
God, what a whore I was.
Still am, when I think about it.
From that day, I was desensitized to the act of selling my body.
I started doing it at Aces. I didn’t need the money—Rouge pays me pretty well—but men were willing to pay top dollar. I’d already done it before, so I figured it made very little difference.
Sometimes I hate myself.
Most of the time I just feel numb about it.
I was so ready to sell myself for the chance of a role of a lifetime.
Just for it all to crash and burn.
Come to think of it, I did the same thing with Harrison.
The second anyone gives me attention—the smallest kernel of it—I give myself to him.
Harrison turned out to be a decent man, but if he hadn’t… It wouldn’t have been the first time.
I’d have brushed myself off and moved on to the next one. And the next.
Next.
Next.
It’s like I’m Mr. Shippe, hearing one auditioner after another for a part none of them will ever play.
Part of that is being an artist. I sell my services as a singer, a performer, an actress.
As a singer, I sell my throat to hundreds of patrons every night at Aces.
Is selling my pussy all that different?
I sigh.
One thing is for certain. I’m going to see this thing with Harrison—whatever it is—through to the end.
I need to see if it has any legs.
I may have fucked him the first time we met, but that doesn’t mean I can’t pursue something real with him.
I feel something real with him. Something I’ve never felt before.
It can’t be love already. That’s fairy tale nonsense. In the real world, it takes two people months to fall in love.