Wicked Grind Read online

  "Is that so? The kindergarten teacher has a wild side? The dancer's abandoning beginning ballet and tap for more exotic pursuits?"

  "How do you know what I've been--?"

  But he continues speaking as if I hadn't said a word. "You're willing to do this?" he asks, putting his hands on my shoulders as he steps behind me, so that we are both facing the wall of exposed photos.

  "You're actually going to reveal yourself to the camera? To me?" His hands graze down my arms as he speaks, making it difficult for me to concentrate on his words, which are drowned out by the pounding of my blood.

  "And it's not just your body on display, but what's inside you. Are you willing to show that fire? That heat? To expose yourself like that, open and vulnerable, to whoever stands in front of those photos? And to me, too, Kelsey. Can you handle knowing I'll see you raw and vulnerable? And not just see you. Do you understand that I'm the one who's going to take you there?"

  The thought terrifies me--and yet I can't deny that the terror is tinged with something else. Something scary and exciting all at the same time. "I can do it." I force the words out past dry lips. "I'm not the same girl I was when you knew me."

  "Aren't you?" His hands move to my hips, his fingertips resting on the edge of my pubic bone. My skin beneath his fingers warms, but it is the heat that pools between my thighs that has put me at a distinct disadvantage, and though I try to focus, I know with absolute certainty that if this showdown is going to be decided by cool minds and clear heads, I am going to lose.

  It's not a pleasant thought, and I force myself to think about Griffin. About the past. About the money I need to earn. Even my grocery list. Anything I can think of to block out the way that Wyatt's touch is making me feel. Because what I'm thinking is that there could still be something between us.

  What I'm thinking is that maybe I want there to be.

  And those are thoughts that I really shouldn't be having.

  "My models have to be exceptional. To not just display passion, but to feel it. And this final woman that I'm casting has to be honest with her emotions. With her desire. She's the centerpiece. The strongest and the most vulnerable."

  "I can handle whatever I need to," I say, hoping I sound more confident than I feel.

  "So you say, but I'm not convinced."

  He's still behind me, and I whip around to face him, surprised and angered by his casual indictment.

  "Is this how you auditioned those women?" I demand. "Did you touch them? Did you stroke their skin and whisper to them? Because I'm thinking no."

  "You'd be right," he says, surprising me.

  "So you're punishing me."

  His gaze never wavers as he says, "Maybe I am."

  My chest tightens, and I immediately regret poking the beast. I'd never expected him to admit it, and now I'm staring straight into a past that I don't want to think about, much less discuss.

  I draw a deep breath. "Then you're being an idiot. I need a job. You need a model. You're only hurting your show by turning me away."

  His left eyebrow arches up, a trick I used to find bone-meltingly sexy. Now, all I feel is panic. And not just because I need this job and fear that he's going to send me away. No, the real source of my panic is something much deeper. Much more unexpected. And much, much scarier.

  It's Wyatt. It's the girls on the wall. And it's this whirlwind of emotion swirling inside me that I don't understand and refuse to examine.

  I square my shoulders, forcing myself to keep my eyes on the prize. The job. The paycheck. "Fine. Punish me all you want. Just give me a chance. I can do this."

  He drags his fingers through his hair, and he no longer looks angry. Instead he looks wounded. Defeated. And I know that's all on me. Because he put his heart on the line once for me, and I know I ripped it to shreds.

  "I can do this," I say again, as if repetition will persuade him. "I just need--"

  "Can you? Sweet Kelsey Draper? You practically sank into the floor when you let out a curse a few minutes ago. I don't believe there's any way you can put yourself out there the way I need."

  "I can. You just have to believe me."

  "I don't."

  "Then let me prove it to you."

  "How?"

  That is a really good question, and one I don't have an answer to. Then I remember a bachelorette party I got dragged to last year. "Do you know X-tasy?"

  "The strip club in Van Nuys?" Something like amusement sparks on his face. "It's crossed my radar."

  "Tonight. 9 o'clock."

  "Why--"

  "Just be there. And bring a pen. Because you're going to want me to sign your contract right then."

  "Don't hold your breath," he says as he takes a single step toward me, and a pleasant but unwelcome warmth floods my body.

  I take a step back in a vain effort to keep my wits about me, but he matches my movement. "I'm under the gun here, Kelsey," he says, leaning in even closer. "I need someone I can depend on."

  I force my expression to remain bland. He's right in front of me, and if I take another step back, he'll have me caged in against the wall.

  "I'm dependable," I say, but instead of sounding firm and determined, I sound breathy and overwhelmed.

  "History would suggest otherwise."

  His harsh word lands on me like a punch in the gut, and I fight the urge to cringe. Or, worse, to escape through that door again.

  Except I did that already, didn't I? I left. I ran. And I never looked back.

  "It's been twelve years," I snap, not sure if I'm more angry with him or with me. "I don't owe you an explanation."

  "Fair enough," he replies coolly. "I don't owe you a job."

  "No, you don't. But you need a model. And I can do the job. You're an idiot if you don't let me prove that to you."

  "I've been called worse."

  I draw a calming breath. "Please," I beg. "Tonight. Nine. I won't let you down."

  He cocks his head, silently studying me. "You already did that, Kelsey. A long time ago."

  4

  Twelve years ago

  "That's him," Grace whispered. "The tall guy in the dark green swim trunks. Isn't he the finest thing you ever saw?"

  "Oh my God! He's so hot. Did you really talk to him?"

  "He let me cut in line when I went inside to get a Diet Coke," Grace said, her tone suggesting she'd just been anointed by the Pope.

  "No way!" Marsha squealed.

  "Way!"

  Two tables over, Kelsey Draper kept her head down, hoping that Grace Farmer and Marsha Greene wouldn't look over and notice that she was eavesdropping when she was supposed to be wiping down the poolside tables.

  Normally, she ignored the members' kids. After all, she was staff, and in the world of the Pacific View Country Club, staff and members simply didn't mix. But Grace was talking about the new guy--the one Kelsey had noticed when she'd worked the coffee bar that morning. For that matter, everybody was talking about the new guy and his family, but Kelsey hadn't managed to learn any of the details yet.

  There was something about him, though. She'd met his eyes when she was filling a Thermos for one of the golfers, and he was standing against the window, probably waiting for his father. The moment lasted barely a second, but she'd felt a zing shoot all the way through her.

  It had filled her up, and the sensation had lasted for hours. Warm and comforting, like a freshly baked loaf of bread. But also biting and exotic, like the Indian food her stepmother adored, the kind that tasted so good, but had such a kick.

  All in all, he'd ignited a storm of sensations inside her. Nice, yes, but unsettling, too.

  And definitely not the kind of thing that she was used to experiencing. Not by a long shot.

  So she wanted to know. And since Grace and Marsha made it their business to know everything about everybody, Kelsey couldn't simply walk away. Not and miss the chance to learn whatever she could about whoever he was.

  She lifted her head just long enough to take a
nother look at him. He'd recently emerged from the deep end of the pool, and he was standing in line for the high diving board, his tan body glistening in the Santa Barbara sun. As she watched, he reached up and ran his fingers through hair that looked dark now, but that she knew would glisten golden-brown in the sun once it dried.

  She guessed he was a year or so older than her--sixteen, maybe seventeen--and she'd never in her life experienced the kind of jolt she'd felt after that one shared look with him.

  For just a moment, she closed her eyes and let the memory sweep over her once more, sweet and tantalizing and scary and awesome. She wanted to savor it, because she knew with one hundred percent certainty that as far as she and this boy went, one look across the coffee bar was all they would ever share.

  "Draper!" Her manager's voice cut through her reverie and she jumped, embarrassed to realize she'd stopped cleaning and was simply leaning on the table, lost in thought. "What? Is it nap time?"

  "Sorry! Sorry!" She spritzed the table again and started scrubbing enthusiastically, as if working on a particularly tough stain. And with her eyes focused on the tabletop, she tuned back in to the girls' conversation.

  "You really don't know who he is?" Grace was saying.

  "Oh, come off it, already. Just tell me."

  "He's Wyatt Segel. Can you believe it?"

  Kelsey glanced up in time to see Marsha shake her head, her mouth curving down into a frown. "Who's that?"

  "Oh, my God! Do you live under a rock? He's like totally famous. Or, at least, his family is."

  Marsha's nose wrinkled. "Well, he's cute and all, but I've never seen him in anything."

  "Not him, his grandmother. Well, his mom, too. She writes screenplays or something. But it's his grandmother who's really huge. She's freaking Anika Segel."

  "Um?"

  "You really do live on another planet. You honestly don't know who that is?"

  Kelsey didn't get to hear Marsha's answer because a couple sitting on the far side of the dining area called her over to wipe up some spilled wine. Not that she needed to hear. She knew all about Anika Segel, her stepmother's favorite star, and one of Hollywood's greatest actresses from the Golden Age. Kelsey had seen her dozens of times on the television, but she'd never thought about the woman as a real person. Someone who had a home and a family and maybe a dog.

  She was still thinking about families as she carried the wine-soaked rag over to the bus trays. Kelsey had never known either of her grandmothers, and her own mother had passed away when she was two. She wondered what it was like for Wyatt having a famous grandparent. Hard, she supposed. Even on his first day at a new place he couldn't be anonymous. But easier, too, because at least people would talk to him, and they already found him interesting.

  No one ever found Kelsey interesting. Why would they? She was a teenage girl who woke up, went to work with her dad, then went home. Three nights a week she went to dance class, but she was the only one in the class who was serious about studying dance. The other girls were just there to check themselves out in the mirror.

  Kelsey couldn't understand how they could be so cavalier. She'd had to fight to go to class. To convince her father that the leotards and tights served a purpose. Even then, she'd had to promise to wear a skirt over her outfit when she practiced, since that was the only way he'd let her go. "A woman shouldn't show off her form like that," he'd insisted. "Mischief can happen."

  "It's just me in a room with a bunch of girls."

  "It's making a habit."

  "A habit of dancing, Daddy. There's nothing wrong with dancing."

  "You see there, sugar? You say I treat you like a little girl, but when you say those kinds of things it just proves that you're still too young. There are all kinds of things wrong with dancing, and you'll learn about them soon enough."

  "Then why do you let me go at all?" She'd immediately regretted the question, terrified that he'd rip her beloved lessons out from under her.

  "How else will you learn what's the good, and what's the bad? You have to know. You have to be clear. You can't grow up to be like your mother. A woman like that . . . well, people get hurt. But I love you, baby girl. I love you so damn much, and I'm watching out for you. So don't you worry, sugar. Daddy will always be here to help you."

  A fat tear rolled down her cheek, surprising Kelsey out of the memory. Her whole life, she'd wished she knew her real mother, but Kelsey had been two when Annie Draper died, and in a lot of ways she seemed like a mythical person. Someone faraway and imaginary.

  Leonard Draper had married Tessa only two years later, bringing a baby boy into the family with her. As far as Kelsey was concerned, Tessa was her mom and Griffin was her brother. After all, she'd only been four when Tessa and Leonard had put Griffin into her arms and told her that she was now a big sister, with all the responsibility that came with it.

  Griffin!

  She glanced up at the clock, saw that she was late, then bit her lip to prevent the curse that wanted to fly from her mouth. Her father would have a fit if she cursed, and even though she was almost sixteen, there were some offenses that he'd probably still spank her for.

  "I'm off the clock," she yelled as she ripped off her apron and handed it to a startled bus boy. "See you tomorrow!"

  Her dad was working as a temporary landscaper at the club this summer, which meant she'd been able to land a job in food services. Tessa didn't work--her dad said a man should provide for his woman--but even though she was home, Leonard didn't want Griffin staying in the house all summer. "He's twelve now. Can't be some sissy-boy who spends all his time with Mommy. Not my son."

  Which was why Griffin was enrolled in the club's tennis camp, even though they really couldn't afford it. And since Kelsey's shift ended twenty minutes before Griffin's camp did, she'd been charged with collecting him and getting the two of them home safe.

  Work for her. Camp for him. She knew she ought to be annoyed by that, but at least she got out of the house. And at least the money she earned was hers, not that she ever spent it. She was saving it to go to a New York dance academy when she graduated. She was going to be on stage. She was going to be remarkable. And in the end her dad would see that she was creating beauty, and there was nothing wrong with that.

  So how could she resent Griffin's tennis class when she was working toward her future? Besides, she adored Griff, even when he was being an annoying little brother. And seeing his excited face every day was one of the things she most looked forward to.

  Now, she sprinted through the gate that surrounded the pool area, then ran the length of the recreation building. She was just rounding the corner so she could head up the path to the tennis courts when she slammed into something hard, stumbled back, then collapsed in a pile of limbs and embarrassment on the concrete sidewalk.

  "Oh, man! I'm so sorry." The low, melodic voice came from somewhere above her, soothing her without touching her. "Are you okay?"

  She glanced up, at first seeing only the hand stretched out in front of her. She took it, and the shock of connection would have knocked her over if she hadn't already been on the ground.

  Him.

  She knew it even before she tilted her head the rest of the way up. Even before she saw the light in his eyes, the hesitant smile on his lips.

  He gave her a little tug, and she rose to her feet, then gasped as he placed his free hand on her waist to steady her.

  "You work at the cafe?"

  "I--I'm sorry, what?"

  His eyes narrowed. "You sure you're okay?"

  I don't think I'll ever be okay again.

  "Sure. Yes. I mean, my ego's more bruised than my rear." She stepped back, out from under his touch. She regretted the loss of contact, but had to cheer the return of rational thought. "I wasn't watching where I was going. I was in a hurry."

  "So I noticed. You must have somewhere to be."

  "I do. I have to fetch my brother."

  He nodded. "Too bad."

  "Too bad?"


  A dimple flashed with his quick smile. "That means you don't have time to grab some French fries with me."

  "Oh. I--" She swallowed her words as panic started to rise. She didn't know how to talk to him. She didn't know how to talk to boys at all, especially boys who made her feel like this, the way she shouldn't feel. The way she knew her father would say was dangerous for a girl.

  "I'm sorry," she finally mumbled to her shoes. "I'm late. I really have to go."

  And then she took off, making it a point not to look back. Not to think about him.

  But that smile--and that dimple--lingered in her mind.

  5

  The sharp blare of a horn startles me from my reverie, and I jerk the steering wheel to one side, barely missing the BMW that had been approaching on my right as I tried to change lanes.

  I clutch the wheel tighter, my heart pounding in my chest as I carefully maneuver my 1969 Mustang convertible across two lanes and into the parking lot of a Ralph's grocery store. I pull into a spot, kill the engine, and drop my face into my palms.

  What the devil is wrong with me? I'm a careful driver, I always have been. I don't text, talk on the phone, or get lost in thought while I'm driving. I went to the classes. I saw the Driver's Ed videos. I know what can happen if you're not careful behind the wheel. And I'm most definitely not one of those people who believe that the bad stuff will never happen to them.

  I know better, after all. I've pissed fate off once already; I'm not inclined to do it again.

  Not to mention the fact that Griffin rebuilt this car himself and gave it to me for my twenty-fifth birthday. With its sky blue paint, shiny chrome trim and white leather interior, it's about the prettiest car I've ever seen. So there's no way I'd risk scratching her, much less wreck her. I named her Blue, and I totally baby her. Regular maintenance. Monthly detailing. And absolutely no reckless driving.

  Griffin's always telling me I'm not letting Blue live up to her full potential, although he usually says that after a couple of drinks and with his narrowed eyes laser-focused on me. I ignore him, though. Both the blatant statement about the car and the more subtle indictment of my life.

  So despite Griffin's repeated protests that the engine is a dream and I should take Blue out to the desert, put a scarf over my hair, and open her up, I think Blue and I are doing just fine.

  Or at least we were until I almost drove her into the side of a silver Beemer. But that wasn't my fault. Not really.