CHAPTER TWELVE

      BACKSTAGE AT THE BAR, Chantal tried to psych herself up for her performance. Truth was she wanted to run away with her tail between her legs and never come back. But she was a professional, a trooper. She never backed down.

      Part of her wanted to get out there on that stage to prove a point. Brodie had treated her as if she was made of crystal—as if she’d break with the slightest knock. But she didn’t break. She’d been through her share of tough times and she always kept going. No matter what.

      ‘Don’t look so down, honey.’ A blonde girl in a sparkling corset pouted at her. ‘If I had natural boobs like that I wouldn’t be frowning.’

      Chantal instinctively crossed her arms over her chest. ‘I’m fine.’

      ‘Is this your first time dancing?’

      ‘No, not at all.’ Did she look that nervous? Hell, what had Brodie done to her? She was wound up tighter than a spring.

      ‘It’ll be okay.’ The blonde nodded and gave her shoulder a light pat. The woman’s long silver nails glinted like tiny blades. ‘Don’t let the audience frighten you. They’re big old lugs. Only here for the tits and the booze, never mind that fabulous dancing we all do.’

      Chantal couldn’t help but smile. The blonde gave a little shimmy, flicking the black fringe edging her corset back and forth. Her stockings stopped at mid-thigh, biting into her generous flesh, and she wore black gloves that stretched up over her elbows. She looked at ease with herself… with what she was doing.

      ‘Just have fun. Leave your worries behind!’ She sang the last few words, twirling and shaking her ample booty.

      ‘I think I need to take a leaf out of your book,’ Chantal said, smiling.

      ‘Good idea. I always get a little tipsy before I dance.’ The blonde leaned in conspiratorially. ‘A couple of shots of tequila. Boom! Loose hips.’

      Chantal practised her routine in the small space next to the mirror-lined bench. Sure, this wasn’t the best place on earth, and it wasn’t what she wanted for her career, but she could get through it. To hell with Brodie. She’d be fine and she didn’t need anyone else to take care of her. She would stand on her own two feet.

      The dancer before her gyrated on stage, using the pole to complete some gravity-defying tricks. The audience roared, catcalls and wolf-whistles drowning out all but the heavy thump of the bass. Then it was her turn. She peeked out as the other dancer finished up. The crowd had swelled considerably since she’d first arrived.

      Then she spotted Brodie. He was unmistakable. Sitting in the front row, arms folded across his chest, biceps on display… most likely on purpose. The blood drained from her face and her confidence followed it until the world tilted beneath her feet.

      What the hell was he doing here?

      Her music started but her feet were rooted to the ground. Someone shoved her in the back and she stumbled a little as she walked on stage. The audience didn’t seem to notice. They cheered and hooted as she swung her hips, pivoting on one foot with a dainty flick of her hair. Under Brodie’s intense stare she might as well have been naked. His eyes seemed to penetrate her, seeing all that she wanted to conceal.

      He didn’t smile, and his eyes certainly didn’t sparkle the way they normally did. Had she turned him into this hardened lump? Where was the free and easy Brodie she’d fallen for?

      And had she really fallen for him… even after everything that had happened today?

      Confusion made her head fuzzy, the thoughts clashing in her mind. It was nothing—just a fling. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the warring emotions.

      The steps of her choreography eluded her, but she had to keep going. Close to the edge of the stage she felt a hand brush by her—not Brodie’s. A portly man with a heavy beard and mean eyes leered up at her. Her skin crawled and she backed away, still clinging to her stage presence though she was sure she’d never danced so terribly in all her life.

      Brodie had leant over to the man, his face red and indecipherable words falling from his lips. For a moment she would have sworn a fight would break out, but it didn’t. The bass thumped at odd intervals with the pounding in her head… everything unravelled. Fast.

      She rushed off stage before her time was up, ducking her head at the curious stares of the other dancers and ignoring the cutting remarks from the manager as she scuffed her feet into her sneakers and grabbed her keys.

      Outside the change room people swarmed the crowded space of the bar, the smell of beer and body odour making the air heavy and thick. Swallowing against the nausea, she pushed through, swatting away invasive hands and avoiding lingering stares. If she didn’t get outside… Well, it wouldn’t be pretty.

      Brodie had got up from his chair. Chantal spotted him in her peripheral vision but didn’t stop. This was all his fault! He shouldn’t have come here thinking he could distract her, making her look like an idiot in front of all these people. As much as she didn’t care about their opinions, she was still dancing. Forgetting her choreography was unforgivable.

      ‘Chantal!’

      How could she have let herself fall for him? The way he’d acted tonight proved he was the wrong guy for her. He was just like her ex: over-protective… ready to smother her.

      She headed towards the stairs, running down them as fast as she could while dodging two people kissing up against the wall. Downstairs a heavy metal band thrashed about on stage, the drummer’s double kicks resonating through her, the beat reverberating right down to her bones.

      She stumbled outside, tripping over a pair of feet in her desperation for escape. The cool air rushed into her mouth, was trapped where her throat was closing in. She gasped, sucking the air in greedily and forcing each breath down like a pill without water. How could she have forgotten her choreography? How? She balled her shaking hands, wishing she could crawl into a crack in the ground and disappear forever.

      ‘Chantal!’ Brodie’s voice rang out in the car park, muted by the music from inside the bar. ‘Wait—’

      The deep rumble of a motorcycle raced past and drowned out the rest of his words. For a moment she kept walking, each purposeful step slamming into the ground. What would happen if she kept going? Tempting as it was, she couldn’t quit—she couldn’t. Not when things were turning around.

      ‘I’m trying to protect you.’ His voice carried on the night air.

      Chantal whirled around, her body tense, like a snake about to strike. She locked her arms down by her sides. ‘You distracted me up there. I forgot my steps because I couldn’t concentrate on anything but whether or not you were going to start a fight.’

      ‘I’m