Bad Reputation Read online

  It’d been a stress reliever. The only way to quiet her mind and give her reprieve from the tears that’d come fast and frequent back then.

  Now it was her time to reflect on the day. And oh, what a day it had been.

  Remi grinned into the curtain of blond hair that pooled on the mat in front of her. It was like something had finally clicked. When nerves had overtaken her upon seeing Bert Soole walk into the theater, she’d leaned on Wes’s trick, pretending she was demonstrating for a student—no pressure, no expectation. It’d freed her mind of the too-loud doubt monsters and allowed her to simply fall into the music.

  She’d nailed it, and the thunderous applause from the older man was better than any standing ovation she’d ever received.

  Remi moved through her yoga poses until she came to corpse pose, laying on her back with her eyes closed. She took a few breaths and then pushed up into her final seated position to finish the session.

  It was like she’d thrown herself back into the past. She felt good. So good. Like she’d recaptured the joy from before her life had gone to hell.

  She stood and rolled up her mat, tucking it under one arm as she went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Her mail sat in a small heap on the kitchen counter, a yellow parcel postmarked from Australia drawing her eye. The only people from back home who sent her anything were her parents.

  Remi already knew what would be inside. She tore at the thick tape sealing the flap of the envelope and dug her hand inside. Her fingers brushed something soft and luxurious, a small velvet pouch that contained clinking items.

  The drawstring cord was soft beneath her fingers, and it looked handwoven. Twine in shades of purple, blue, and a soft, buttery yellow were braided tightly, so the colors almost blended into one. Inside the pouch were three stones—purple, blue, and yellow, to match the twine. Her mother had included a handwritten note.

  My little sunburst,

  I know you think I’m a crazy old lady who believes rocks are magical, but I’m thinking of you now, and this is all I can do to help since I know nothing about your ballet world.

  Amethyst—will help you be calm and balanced before your big show.

  Citrine—will help you manifest your biggest and brightest goals.

  Fluorite—will ward off negative energy, and this blue just looks pretty too.

  Carry them around, and even if you don’t believe they’ll do anything, let them remind you that I am thinking of you always.

  Love, Opal

  A smile curved Remi’s lips. Her mother never signed her letters, emails, or messages by any maternal name. It was always Opal. Because she was, before anything else, herself. Not a mother or a wife or a sister or a daughter. Just Opal.

  For a long time, it had made Remi wonder if Opal hadn’t wanted to be a mother. The kids she’d danced with had the type of helicopter parents who were at every class, every rehearsal, every recital, and every competition. They stood close by, always taking notes, ready to retie a ribbon or tame unruly hair, ready to cheer a win and commiserate a loss.

  Remi’s grandmother had been that person for her, but still the questions came. Where’s your mother? What time are your parents arriving? Who’s in the audience for you today?

  But this was how Opal showed her love, in something that had personal meaning to her. In something tangible that Remi could rub between her fingers. She plucked the piece of polished amethyst from the pouch and rolled it in her palm, enjoying the cool weight against her warm skin.

  As Remi walked back out of the kitchen, her phone pinged across the room. A text.

  WES: I’m in your neck of the woods. Can I come by?

  She swallowed, her heart immediately kicking up a notch. They’d barely spoken today, or since the night they’d spent together. He’d been occupied with their investor, introducing the man to Sadie, their marketing intern, and several of the dancers, but not her.

  You met him at the cocktail party. Wes was simply trying to be fair.

  REMI: Sure. Buzz the intercom and I’ll let you up.

  WES: Be there in 5.

  Remi raced through the apartment and had the speediest of showers, allowing herself only enough time to wash the day from her skin and to scent her body with something sweet.

  “You’d shower for anyone that was coming over,” she said to her reflection in the foggy bathroom mirror. “No one wants to smell your sweat.”

  But those reasonable words did little to ease the excited flutter in her stomach. A flutter that told her she was speaking utter crap. She knew that Wes wasn’t like anyone else coming to visit, that she’d showered and lathered herself in strawberry-scented body gel because she hoped he’d get close enough to notice it.

  She changed into something soft and subtle, worn jeans with busted knees and a waistband that sat low on her hips, with a fitted gray T-shirt that made her boobs look good. The intercom buzzed as she was blasting her hair dry.

  Remi raced over to the receiver and skidded to a stop. “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  Desire unfurled in her stomach at his deep baritone, so smooth and warm and rich. Like a well-aged whiskey. It’s me. There was an intimacy in the lack of identification. Like him coming to her apartment was a regular thing. Their thing.

  “Come on up.” She released the lock and smoothed her hands down the front of her top.

  A few minutes later, there was a knock. Sucking in a breath, she steadied herself as she wrapped a hand around the knob and pulled the door open. He might be coming to talk about work, not necessarily to ravish her against the living-room wall.

  “Hi.”

  His hair was damp, blackened by the rain, and he’d pushed it back from his face. The dark leather jacket was spattered with dots, and indigo jeans clung to his long, muscular legs. All that darkness made his blue eyes look glowing and otherworldly. He could have been the intoxicating, moody antihero of a movie.

  Remi stepped back and motioned for him to come inside, her eyes stuck on him as he shrugged out of his jacket.

  “I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything,” he said, hanging it on the coat stand by her door. It looked out of place next to her rose-colored wool coat and the rainbow-checked scarf.

  “Not at all. I was going through my evening routine. Yoga, ice buckets. You know the drill.” Suddenly she wasn’t sure what to do with her hands. “Can I get you a coffee?”

  “I’m fine.”

  The silence stretched on, not quite awkward but not totally comfortable either. Like their relationship. They were in that weird no-man’s land between casual sex and something that couldn’t be confined to a label.

  “Do you collect gemstones?” he asked, looking at where her mother’s gift sat on the counter.

  “Ah, no. These were an ‘I’m thinking of you’ present from home.” She picked up the piece of citrine and handed it to him. “Hippie parents, remember?”

  “Pretty.” He turned the stone over, examining it from all angles. “What’s this one supposed to do?”

  “Help manifest my dreams and goals.” She laughed. “It must have worked, because it arrived today and I kicked butt onstage. Good timing, right?”

  “Hmm.” He nodded.

  For once, Wes wasn’t full of words and smiles; he seemed uneasy. Withdrawn.

  “What did Bert say after you two left this afternoon?” she prodded.

  “He loved it.” Wes put the stone back on the table and finally met her eyes. “Said it was one of the most creative pieces of work he’s seen in a long time. He loved the soundtrack, thought the combination of Marsha’s hip-hop piece with your grand pas de deux was unique and exciting. He loved that it’s not all pointe work, that we’ve got some barefoot contemporary as well.”

  “That’s wonderful.” She grabbed his shoulders and squeezed. “So he said yes? We’ve got the
go-ahead?”

  Wes enclosed her hands in his. “He said yes.”

  Relief tore through her. She’d done enough to help them get the show across the line, and she hadn’t let Wes or her castmates down. “Oh my God, that’s such a good feeling.” A laugh burst from her lips. “I’m glad you came to tell me. I’ve been on tenterhooks since you walked out of the theater. Everyone was.”

  The atmosphere had been electric. Sadie couldn’t concentrate, the dancers had been jittering with nervous energy. But they knew it had gone well, the collective feeling was buoyed, and they were quick to congratulate one another on giving good performances, considering rehearsals were still under way. That was the magic of an audience. Seeing the delight on someone’s face as they watched could breathe life into the dancers.

  “Why aren’t you bouncing off the walls, Wes? You should be pirouetting all over the place.” She laughed. “We did it!”

  Without warning, he crashed his lips down to hers, making her stumble back against the couch. All the excitement that’d been burning bright a second ago turned from sunshine to flame. His hands were in her hair, his lips coaxing hers open. He tasted of mint and rain, smelled as heavy and dark as a thunderstorm.

  “God, you smell good.” He moaned into her neck, his hand coming up under her T-shirt to palm her breast. “Like a goddam strawberry sundae.”

  Her head dropped back as he feasted on her skin, his stubble scratching with each searing kiss. She fisted her hands in his shirt, trying to keep her balance as he pinned her to the back of the couch.

  Her brain scrambled, sifting through the mixed messages. One minute, Wes was distant and closed off; the next, he was on her, his touch burning her up. Should they be doing this again? Usually Remi went into something with rules and a plan firmly in place. One night, maybe two or three. No commitment.

  But the way he was kissing her now—like it was the key to shared survival—overrode sensible thought.

  “Wes,” she sighed as he pushed his other hand underneath her T-shirt and felt around the back, growling in frustration. “Front closure,” she gasped.

  He fumbled with the clasp of her bra, finally wrenching it open with a satisfying snap. Then they were skin to skin, his palms at her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples. Turning her on so hard she had to shut her eyes, giving her brain the ability to focus only on what mattered. Her hands were damp from the rain in his hair, but she wouldn’t let go as he lowered his head to her chest.

  “Yes.” The word hissed out between her front teeth as he sucked on her.

  He planted his hands on her hips and hoisted her up onto the back of the couch, roughly nudging her legs apart with his thighs so he could get closer. She hung on because there was no other option. This wasn’t the slow, sensual seduction she’d experienced at his place on the weekend. Nor was it the sexy, ever-so-dirty doggy style they’d had in the dressing room. This was something else entirely.

  He bit softly down on her nipple, and she cried out, tugged his hair so hard it made him grunt. This was furious sex. A primal connection edged with feral passion. Wild and out of control, risky and yet perfectly natural, like all moments had led her to this point.

  His hand cupped her through her jeans, the heel of his palm grinding against her sex. It wasn’t enough. “Undress me,” she whispered. “I want to feel it properly.”

  * * *

  Goddammit. What the hell was he doing right now?

  Wes tore at her clothes, yanking her T-shirt up over her head and shoving the open bra from her shoulders. She pushed off the couch and her shaking hands worked at the buttons on her jeans. Soon, they were sliding down her hips, and he tugged her panties down too, worried that if he didn’t take her quickly enough, all this perfection might evaporate into a puff of smoke and bad dreams.

  You’re supposed to be firing her.

  But he didn’t want to. Not after watching her today when she’d proved him so right his heart had hammered against his rib cage. Watching her had been like taking a peek into her soul—it was raw. Honest. Emotional. All the things he’d seen from the very start. She was like a bottle of champagne that had been shaken and uncorked, fizzing and wonderful.

  Her hands were at the hem of his T-shirt, yanking the fabric up and trapping his arms above his head. Her nails scratched his stomach as she grasped for the fly of his jeans, leaving a small, pink line across his skin. The slight flash of pain only served to amplify everything else—the scent of strawberries on her skin and the intoxicating blackness of her eyes. She yanked the jeans over his hips, taking his underwear with them, until they both stood naked in her living room.

  “Bedroom. Now.” She turned to direct him, but he grabbed her, pulling her close so that they were lined up front to front. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her pebbled nipples brushing over him in a way that made fire shoot through his veins.

  “Are you on the pill?” he asked, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’m clean.”

  “I am…but…” Her eyes fluttered shut, the breath whooshing out of her mouth. “We shouldn’t…”

  He cupped her face, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones. “It’s fine. You’re right. Let’s be safe.”

  A shaky smile pulled at her lips, the furious pace slowing to something gentler. Softer. “Sorry. I want to be careful.”

  “Of course.” He pressed his lips to hers, showing her that he belonged to her for tonight. However she wanted him, he was hers. “So do I.”

  She led him to the bedroom, her fingers interlaced with his, and this time they stepped slowly. Outside, a siren wailed, getting louder and louder before fading as an emergency vehicle raced past. She flicked on the lamp at her bedside table, and a pinkish glow illuminated the room. His eyes immediately snagged on her bed—on the gold headboard that was begging to have wrists tied to it.

  “I’ve never brought anyone back here before,” she said.

  Aside from the bed and side table, a simple chest of drawers was the only furniture in the room. Atop it was her ballet bag, the flap open so he could see a pair of pointe shoes sticking out. Another two pairs sat next to it, along with a pile of pink ribbon and scissors and a bottle of glue. Tools of her trade.

  She wound her arms around his neck and pressed up onto her toes so she could line her mouth up to his. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Guilt stabbed him in the gut. They should be talking, not having sex. A huge black cloud loomed over them, and Wes had no idea what he was going to do. But all he wanted right now was to drown in this amazing woman, to entwine himself with her. He wanted to fall asleep with her hands pressed to his chest and his nose buried in her hair because she made him feel whole and good and like everything would be okay.

  He stroked a hand up and down her back, tracing her spine with his fingertips as they kissed. Slow this time. Gentle and exploratory. Remi stepped back and pulled Wes with her, guiding him toward the bed. She let go only long enough to draw the covers back and grab a condom before her hand returned to his—fingers encircling his wrist—as she silently asked him to follow.

  You shouldn’t be doing this.

  But he had no hope of stopping. His brain was outnumbered by every other part of him—the primal parts and the soft, emotional parts he didn’t often call on. With her head against the crisp, white pillow, she looked like an angel reclining into a cloud. Gold hair cushioned her head, and her wide, brown eyes sucked him in.

  “You’re about to say something corny,” she said with a wicked smile. That was what hooked him every damn time with her. The little contradiction—hardness beneath the soft, burning heat beneath the cool, still surface. Layers of her.

  “Am I now?” He lowered himself over her, settling between her legs.

  “Uh-huh. Usually you look at me like you’re starving, but tonight you’ve gone all soft.”

  He rocked against her, brushing hi
s very hard cock over her inner thigh. “I think you might be mistaken.”

  “Well, there’s definitely no softness here.” Her hand reached up to touch his face. “But here…well, that’s a whole other story.”

  Shit. It terrified him to think she could read him so easily. While he’d always prided himself on having that same skill, part of the reason he’d cultivated it was so he could control how others saw him. He was never able to let the stress of working with his family show to anyone at the Evans Ballet School. Airing dirty laundry was high up on his mother’s list of punishable offenses.

  “You want me to look rougher?” He shook the unsettling thoughts from his head and leaned back, reaching down to grab himself. Playing a role was easier than trying to decipher what this all meant. “You want me to look like I’m a wolf and you’re Little Red Riding Hood?”

  He ran his fisted hand up and down his length, eyeing the condom still gripped between her fingers. It’d been stupid to suggest they didn’t use it, but he’d been so damn caught up in her. In them. It felt like they had years between them instead of weeks.

  Her lashes fluttered as she watched the movement of his fist, her lips falling open. Words forgotten.

  “Cat got your tongue?” he teased, holding his other hand out.

  She handed over the condom and watched as he tore the packet open. Then he tossed it aside and rolled the rubber along his cock, taking his time to draw out the anticipation. When he was protected, he leaned back down and planted a hand on either side of her head.

  “It’s hard to watch you and talk at the same time,” she said, an embarrassed half smile quirking the corner of her lips. “I’m usually good at multitasking too.”

  “I don’t want you doing that now.” He lowered his head to hers, touching his lips to her nose. “I want you focused on how good I make you feel. How good we feel.”

  Dammit, what the hell was wrong with him? We. Us. They weren’t words he should have been using.