Fierce Dancer (Sierra Pride Book 5) (3 page)

“I’ve never stayed the night with anyone before,” he murmured, kissing her hair.

“Usually I don’t allow sleepovers,” she said. “Not anymore. Too many bad decisions.”

A surge of affection flowed through him, and he stroked her shoulder. “This felt like a really great decision to me.”

He could see her better in the dark than she could see him, and he watched her eyes widen. She clambered off of him and rolled over. He faced her, grabbing her hips to bring her closer. But when he pressed his face toward hers for another kiss, she held up a hand. “Look, this was super fun.”

Super fun
? It had been fucking magical.

“But obviously you can’t be my roommate. So we can exchange numbers, or not, or whatever. But you’ll have to find somewhere else to live.”

The post-sex bliss had been a smolder, and she’d doused it with a few words. “Wait, what? I don’t want to be your roommate. I didn’t even know you were looking for a roommate.”

She scrambled to the edge of the bed. He thought of making her stay close, but he didn’t want to freak her out.

She pointed a finger at him. “You mean you’re not here about the apartment? Nathaniel didn’t send you?”

He laughed, but even he could hear how false it sounded. He stood up and started putting on his clothes. It was easy to see when he wasn’t wanted. “No. I’m here because you have a friend in California who’s worried about you. Hera doesn’t know what to think but I know she’s tried to get in touch numerous times, so stop being a shit friend and call her back.”

The last thing he wanted to do was walk away from this woman, but she was giving off major “get out” vibes. He had plenty of experience with not being wanted by one pride or another—he didn’t need to invite that kind of rejection into matters of the heart or—shit. Was this thing with Emma a matter of the heart?

No, he told himself. He didn’t have a heart.

“This is Hera’s new number.” He scrawled the digits on the back of an envelope sitting on the nightstand. “I’ll see myself out.”

four

Emma dialed the phone number she’d written down after listening to the voicemail of another potential roommate. The woman had a whine in her voice that would probably drive Emma completely insane, but she needed a roommate and maybe sanity was overrated anyway.

Maybe she should have asked Quentin if he was in the market for a roommate. Already she felt bereft, wondering how she could have let him go this morning.

She’d told him it was “super fun,” but actually, last night had been the best sex of her life. And while she had no problem with women owning their sexuality and fucking whoever they wanted no matter how well they knew them, Emma usually needed more than five minutes to warm up to a man. But Quentin—that had been different.
He
had been different.

The call went straight to voicemail, and Emma hung up without leaving a message.

Another phone number lay nearby, scrawled on the envelope next to her bed. Hera. Crap. Emma missed her fiercely, but she didn’t know what to say to her. “Yes, I fucked up at the auditions because I slept with the producer’s husband, but Hera, I swear I didn’t know he was married,” sounded pretty weak, even to her.

Gods, she’d thought she’d loved that bastard. They’d hooked up right after she got to Nevada, and it had been bliss while she trained with the company. During the day she would prepare for auditions and then in the evenings she’d sneak away to be romanced by Ted. She hadn’t even known he was connected in any way to the company or the producer, until the producer followed them both to Emma’s apartment to confront them.

Thus ended her hopes of becoming a ballerina. Emma had gone to the auditions, but it had been a disaster—waves of hatred came from the higher-ups, and even the other dancers. She’d performed her heart out to the unimpressed silence of everyone in the company.

She hadn’t been able to bear trying another company after that.

After a performance in middle school, Hera had come forward out of the audience. While Emma’s mother was talking to the choreographer to find out exactly what Emma had done wrong, Hera was all smiles. She shoved a grocery store bouquet into Emma’s hands and said, “You were marvelous. You’re the best dancer in the world.”

And when they graduated from high school, and Emma confessed she was leaving town to both get away from her mom’s influence and find a company to join, Hera had said, “I have mad faith in you. You’re going to do this.”

“What if I disappoint you?” Emma had asked. “My mom won’t even talk to me.”

“You? Disappoint me?” Hera had shaken her curly, dark hair, and her blue eyes flashed with conviction. “Not even possible. You’re going to be a star, and people will pay to see you dance.”

By “people will pay to see you dance,” Emma was pretty sure Hera hadn’t meant “lonely men will throw dollar bills on the stage.” Hera’s faith had been so strong, how could Emma tell her how mistaken she’d been?

She couldn’t tell Hera; she couldn’t bring herself to do it. And even worse would be calling Hera and lying about it. They’d been friends since third grade—even if Emma could pull off a convincing story, and even if Hera didn’t hear the falsehood in Emma’s voice, Emma couldn’t live with herself. Better to lose touch with Hera, for now.

She stuffed the envelope in a drawer and got up to do her warm-up stretches. She didn’t have to dance for a few hours, but the stretches kept her limber and in shape.

Before she got far into her routine, her doorbell chimed. She told her traitorous heart to shut the hell up, that there was no way it was Quentin.

Peering through the peephole, she saw that it indeed was not Quentin. A skinny guy with a pointed nose stood in front of her door. She tried to mentally stomp on her disappointment. “Who is it?”

“It’s Ryan. Um, Nathaniel’s friend?”

The entire time Ryan checked out the apartment, Emma tried not to think about Quentin. When she led Ryan down the hall, she felt herself blush at the sight of her door frame. The damn
door frame
was turning her on, because of Quentin.

Ryan visibly stiffened when he walked into the second bedroom. “It’s so small,” he said. “And is that mold? I’m allergic to mold.”

“There’s no mold,” Emma said. “The place passed a health inspection before I moved in. I have the records here somewhere, if you want to see.”

“That’s pointless,” Ryan said, wrinkling his nose. “They don’t always catch all kinds of molds. How much for the place?”

She told him a number that was less than half of what she was paying, and he shuddered.

This was not going to work out.

“Are you going to do all the cooking and cleaning, then, or what?” he asked.

“Thanks so much, Ryan,” she said, “but I don’t think we’re a good match for roommates.”

He looked relieved.

*

Screwed. She was totally screwed. This kind of epic disappointment called for a nap, so she fell back onto her bed with a sigh.

Crap. Her bed smelled like Quentin. Earthy and spicy, like cloves. Dammit, she hated him for tricking her like that—not that he’d meant to, but still. What kind of guy slept with someone they were supposed to give a message to, anyway?

She had come onto him pretty strong. But seriously, how often did someone meet a guy who looked like Quentin? It would have been a crime to
not
have sex with him. Unfortunately, now she was clueless about how she’d be able to get him out of her system.

five

Quentin parked far from the Brooks Ranch, home of the Nevada pride. It was a sprawling place, surrounded by forest, so Quentin disrobed and stashed his clothes in his truck, then shifted into a cougar.

The added benefit was supposed to be that he wouldn’t think so hard about Emma, but no, even his cougar wouldn’t let him forget her.

Over the past three days since spending the night with her, he’d sent her a couple of texts. They’d sounded a little desperate, like
I know we met in a weird way, but I’d like to get to know you better
, and
Had a great time. Call me
. He’d felt like a fool, and he felt even stupider when she didn’t respond.

His vanity would not allow him to believe she hadn’t enjoyed that night as much as he had.

He stalked forward on large, padded feet. As soon as he was within sight of the ranch, he climbed a tree. The Nevada pride would end him if they found him out here, stalking their territory, but it also wasn’t right of them to sequester away an Exchange—a female cougar from another pride.

He watched for two hours, but nothing happened on the ranch. He saw the two brothers, Bryan and Tyler, but there was no sign of Cora Fournier. His inner cougar growled at the sight of Bryan, who’d always made it hard for Quentin to go through their territory while on transporting jobs.

Not able to see enough from his perch, he came back down. Suddenly Bryan lifted his head, as if scenting the air. Fuck. Quentin needed to be more careful. He froze in place until Bryan went back to loading hay bales onto the truck. Then, Quentin eased back into the shadows, thankful that his coloring blended with the dry grasses dotting the woods.

That had been too close. Quentin would have to wait until nightfall to come back out here and poke around under cover of darkness. The problem was, the Brooks family members were shifters, like Quentin, and they could see in the dark, too. But maybe they’d be sleeping if he came back late enough.

He wished he had someone with him. The loneliness felt like a giant cave in his chest, cold and empty. He remembered the first time he’d felt it. He was fifteen, and alone in his family’s farmhouse. He hadn’t felt comfortable going out for a run on his own. Instead he’d sat in the living room at the large coffee table, carefully fitting pieces into a jigsaw puzzle. Once he’d finished the one that his mom had been working on, he took it apart, boxed it up, and got out another.

That night, he’d learned what it meant to not get to say goodbye.

Back in his truck, Quentin dialed Hera’s number. She deserved an answer, and Quentin couldn’t put it off anymore.

“I found your friend the other night,” Quentin said. “Has she called you yet?”

“No,” Hera said, her voice puzzled and sad. “Was she doing okay?”

Better than okay, he thought. “She’s fine.”

“Well, good. Thanks for finding her. You’re sure you gave her my new number?”

His voice got soft. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Oh. Well, never mind, then. I guess…I don’t know what to do now. If she doesn’t want to be in contact, I guess that’s her prerogative.”

Quentin winced. He, too, knew what it was like to be shunned by Emma. It fucking hurt.

After a moment, another voice said, “Blake here.”

“Hey Blake.”

“Hey. So, Hera’s upset. It’s killing me to see her sad about anything. Do you think you could maybe talk to Emma one more time?”

These Fourniers did not realize what they were asking of him. “Sure,” he said. “No problem.”

Fuck, he’d said it again.
No problem
.

*

There was movement through the windows of her apartment—good, she was still here. He’d go up, knock on her door, and find out why she hadn’t called Hera. He could understand her not texting him back, sort of. But her best friend, when they’d parted on good terms? Something was up, and maybe if he knew what it was, he could help her out.

She stepped outside while he watched from the other side of the street. She wore jeans again, and a white tank top with some kind of girly pattern embroidered into it. Her red hair was pulled high in a ponytail, and it cascaded straight down her back. He wondered if she had to wear it in a bun like ballerinas he’d seen in pictures and movies, and that seemed like a damn shame.

Maybe she’d let him watch her dance. He followed her as she walked, keeping his distance so he didn’t look like a creeper…although following a woman like this probably made him a creeper.

She traveled for quite a few blocks, into a busier section of Reno. Quentin felt his jaw drop when she stepped inside a dark-windowed place with a neon sign blaring the words “Lollipop Lounge.”

What the hell was she doing?

He waited a few minutes and followed her in, but she wasn’t anywhere to be seen. This was definitely a strip club, though. Three women stood on a stage, gyrating to some slinky nineties hip hop song. Their breasts were bare, and from time to time they’d approach the few men in the audience who sat near the stage waiting to stuff bills into the women’s underwear.

Quentin had a sinking feeling in his stomach, but he ordered a drink so he could wait and see if his gut was right.

The place wasn’t very crowded, probably because it was still pretty early in the afternoon. Quentin found a table that didn’t look too sticky, and he sat there, sipping his drink, trying not to ogle the women who clearly wanted to be ogled. He had a bit of a problem with this. Was it disrespectful? Strip clubs had always seemed skeevy to him. Why would he pay money to see a naked woman, when he could see a willing naked woman for free
and
make her feel really good at the same time?

The song ended after a few minutes, and a new tune started thumping over the speakers, sensual, upbeat. The men started clapping and whistling, and Quentin looked up again.

Emma was onstage, wearing a tight tank top that zipped up the front, and a little skirt, and high platform heels that made her long dancer legs look twice their length. Her hair was down, and her make-up was slicked on in a way that made her look not exactly like herself.

His cock jumped at the same time he said, “Shit.”

six

Emma heard the regulars cheering as soon as her opening song began, a “Moondance” remix. To the men, she was making an entrance, lifting her leg high to hook it around the pole, leaning back, thrusting out her chest. But inside, she was readying herself for yet another night. She was dancing, yes, but this wasn’t the kind of dancing she’d dreamed of. And this kind of dancing was great for the women who chose it, but it hadn’t been Emma’s first choice.