Page 41 of Foxed Up

He said it. He said it, and I didn't.

He really was scared, wasn't he? But he'd said it...and he'd smelled and looked so verytruthful.

My heart hurt. I should have said it, too, when I wanted to. It was hard to know when to trust my instincts with Jon; but I wished I'd said it.

I tucked the words away in my heart to think about later, and trudged towards the club. My heart got heavier with each step. Soon I was going to feel like a piece of meat again — scared, desperate, more in character than I wanted to be. I didn't want to have to feel all these things again. I wished the day was over and I was home with Jon.

Home? Yes. Home.

But it might take more than a day here, to be honest. I might not be home for a long time.

#

It was no good feeling sorry for myself. I wrapped my arms around my chest and tried not to shiver. It wasn't that cold, what I was wearing, or rather not quite wearing. It didn't fit my shoulders, and it was made of mesh. The ripped shorts were too small and smelled like they'd already been worn too often by someone else. It all had to come off anyway.

I wasn't ready. It was too soon. I'd never done a striptease routine on a stage. It hadn't occurred to me that I ever would.

McCann was determined to throw me in at the deep end. To break me or get rid of me, I suppose. Did he do this to everyone? My teeth were trembling. I needed to open my mouth, to ask. But I couldn't. I just stood here shivering.

The sharp-faced woman who was helping me get dressed was also a fox shifter. Cary was about my age but seemed older, and like nothing would ever faze her.

"Don't take this the wrong way." She tried to tug the shirt into the nearest semblance of fitting that it possibly could. It was clearly the wrong size, made for someone with smaller shoulders and more curves. But it was coming right off anyway so nobody cared. Just one more horrible thing about this undercover job that I was so clearly unprepared for. Just like Jon had said.

But I had to be here. I couldn't back out. I needed to talk, to network, to get —

"Don't take this the wrong way," said Cary, "but you smell like you have a boyfriend. Why are you here? You wouldn't catch me here dead if I had somebody to take care of me. Or isn't he that sort of boyfriend?"

"He's — he's—" I gulped convulsively, trying to swallow back my shivers. "He's...nice."

"Then get out of here, kiddo, and don't come back. If you have options, you don't have to get up on that stage."

I looked at her in despair. Should I tell her? Should I risk telling her the truth? I could feel it hovering on the tip of my tongue, ready and waiting to escape.

She was a fox. I could trust another fox, couldn't I? She had the sharp-eyed look of a survivor, though, and maybe that meant she'd run and tell her boss about me… I didn't know where she drew the line between loyalty and survival. I said nothing, swallowing the agony of silence. It was hard to be here to help, and yet not even be competent to take care of myself.

Another fox shifter swept into the room. He was younger, probably not more than in his early twenties (if that), and had a flamboyant edge to him. He leaned one arm up high on the doorway, taking up extra space with his skinny frame, and managing to look confident in a way he didn't smell. He smelled edgy, nervous, and shy. "Come on, you can come with me. You'll make me look good, and you won't be as nervous as you would on stage alone the first time."

I was never going to be ready, or not-nervous. But I could see the kid was taking pity on me, and heaven knows I needed it. I should ask about the job. Ask if he was here because he wanted to be...ask if anyone was here against their will...ask all sorts of questions. But I was tongue-tied as I let him pull me gently by the wrist, and followed him out onto the stage.

The next few minutes were a blur. I tried not to look out at the audience.I'm not ready for this. The lights were low and the music raucous and bawdy. My fingers fumbled nervously with the mesh shirt, while the cute boy transformed into a sexy demigod and danced around me, the pole, and out of his clothes. I stood there like a clod. He moved in front of me and gave me a tight smile as he fiddled with my shirt. "Try tomove. If you can fake a kiss, it would help," he whispered, barely audible over the loud and growing louder music.

The audience was calling stuff to us. Dirty stuff. I wouldn't have minded in a club, but here I felt almost violated. Jon had never been more right. There was no way I could do this. I was a clumsy bookwork who talked big about helping people but was probably going to run off the stage crying any second. I was useless.

Pretend it's a club. You can do this.

It sounded like Jon in my head, these encouraging thoughts. I gathered a deep breath and…caught the boy round the waist and pulled him to me, pressing our mouths together. Nothing fake about that kiss. It wasn't sexual — to me at least, and it didn't seem like he felt that way about anything right now, either — but the crowd hooted and whistled and called explicit things. He felt warm and slim in my arms, very real. I worked hard to put myself into the moment, to imagine clubbing, that we were friends just hanging out and getting drunk and going a little nuts on the dance floor.

I could do this. I could do this.

I worked hard to tune into the music. Not my style, but if I'd been in a club for fun, if people hadn't been shouting at me...if I'd been feeling daring and sexy and a bit desperate...and hadn't had a boyfriend back home to have sexy fun times with...then yes, I could've been into this. Into something like this, at any rate.

I looked my partner in the eye. He seemed like a nice kid, and dancing with him could be fun if we were both actually into it, not on display.Pretend that's true. I gave him a little nod and helped him get my shirt off, shimmying out of it. I pulled him close and we danced against each other. I focused on him, not me, not the crowd, not the uncomfortable shorts and certainly not the catcalls. My dance partner was here, and cute and fun, and if I could make him just marginally more comfortable and happy this would be a good dance.

I spun him round and dipped him, and then started wriggling out of those horrible shorts. This was okay. We were having fun...that was all.

The truth was, people always had thought I was some kind of slut because I was a fox. I'd worn my sweaters; I'd hidden; I'd escaped into books. But people would always think what they wanted to think. I could never really escape the stereotypes that would follow me whether I was free-spirited and sexual or quiet and private. Always someone was going to see me as primarily a sexual object, a joke, or both.

You know he wants it. He's a fox.