Page 30 of Lost Lyrebird

It’s not anger riding me right now.It’s hope.It’s a desperate ache for what once was—to hear his voice in my ear, to know his mind again, to feel his touch on my skin, even though his hands were all over me less than fifteen minutes ago.I still want him in a way I shouldn’t.Sure, I got lost in the music, but it was more than that.I got lost in him, in the heady sensation of him finally touching me again.He touched me like a woman he wanted to take to his bed and couldn’t get enough of.

This need is like faulty wiring I haven’t fixed yet, sparking just under my skin.It’s a weakness and something I can’t afford to let loose, or it’ll wreak nothing but havoc and ruin everything I’m attempting to do.

Under his stare, time stretches, making me self-conscious of every movement I make.I break the stare and take in his office.

It’s clean and organized, with zero clutter.Everything is in its proper place, even the papers on his desk.The only personal item is a picture frame facing him, and I burn to see it.

His cut hangs from a tree-like coat rack in one corner.There are some black-and-white pictures on the walls, scenic views, a lake, a forest, and a close-up of a tree.Similar to the one at what I think of as “our place”.

My gaze slowly returns to him, and I find him watching me.He has one arm propped up now, his chin resting on his fist.

The words in bold black tattooed lettering mock me from his forearm.

RESPECT

Give it to those worthy

HONOR

Bleed it

HONESTY

Demand it

LOYALTY

Above all else

I fight not to grind my teeth.Really?Loyalty?To whom?Certainly not to me.

“Why stripping?”he asks, still studying me.

I shrug.“Why not?I love to dance.I’ve done it my whole life, and the money’s great.Plus, I’m not too proud to say I like material things.”

His mouth twitches with amusement or disappointment—I don’t know.“You said you’ve been dancing for a long time?”He tilts his head, analyzing my response.“Ever had any classical training?”

I fight the urge to shift.“Yes.”I offer nothing more.What is this?Is this a game or does he really still not remember me?Needing to steer this conversation before I give too much away, I ask, “How long have you owned the club?”

“Five years.”

“I’ve been wondering,” he says, his voice low, controlled.“Why that costume?The Army jacket, the plaid shirt?”

“I wanted to stand out.Tell a tragic story,” I say, my heart pounding.Our story.

“You know I served?”

“Oh, uh-mmm, yeah.”I gesture to his left bicep.“I saw the tattoo.”

Maybe he has an inkling of what’s really going on here, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to come right out and ask.Before I can put it out there, he hammers another nail home in my chest.

“You know, you remind me of a girl,” he says, and breaks eye contact as he looks directly at the picture I was eyeing a moment ago.

Not a woman.A girl.

“What, like an old girlfriend?”

“In a way, yeah.”Well, if that doesn’t feel like shit, I’m not sure what does.