Free The Tease (The Darling Killer Trilogy) by Nikki M. Pill Page A

away. I felt my face flushing and hoped the dim lights hid it. “Which isn’t to say there’s anything wrong with you, I mean, you’re very attractive—” I stopped again and felt my face get hotter.
    “Thank you,” he said.
    “Everyone’s a little out of alignment,” I said. “I have a slight rotation in my left shoulder so I lean fractionally to the right. It comes from an old injury.”
Great. Make yourself sound like a freak now.
    “I’m just amazed you could tell that,” he said.
    “I notice things for a living,” I said. “And my dad’s a yoga teacher, so I grew up in his studio.” I took a tiny sip of my drink. The bittersweet spicy flavor flooded my tongue. I’d have to drink slowly to prevent further filter deterioration.
    “Huh,” he said. “So then you know stretches that fix it?”
    “Fix is a big word,” I said. I placed my palm on the grey linen tablecloth, noticing the texture under my hand, letting it anchor me to the present moment.
The killer can wait. The killer can wait. Be here.
“But yes, I could show you some stretches to open up the chest and shoulders so you’ll get fewer headaches.”
    “That’d be great,” he said, still grinning.
    Good. He’s attractive, but not stuck on himself. That’s good.
    The waiter brought our appetizers: a smoked trout and bacon dip with grilled bread, and a tomato tart with ricotta and marinated cherry tomatoes. I could have eaten a bucket of the trout and bacon dip. Every bite of the rich salt-and-cream flavor on the smoky, crusty bread was worth the extra exercise I’d do the next day.
    I took tiny bites, slow and careful. I wanted enough fat in my stomach to absorb the alcohol, but I didn’t want to inhale both plates without giving him a morsel.
    “I did really enjoy the show last night,” he said. “It wasn’t what I expected.”
    “What did you expect?”
    He shrugged. “I don’t know. Did you do your own choreography?”
    “Tish choreographs the group numbers,” I said. “I do my solo material.”
    “It’s an intriguing contrast,” he said. “A therapist who does burlesque.”
    I prodded a cherry tomato with the tines of my fork. “Unfortunately, it is,” I said, and smiled a little.
    “Unfortunately?”
    I nodded. “In my idealized little world,” I said, “it wouldn’t be a big deal. I think burlesque is so empowering, and so fun, and it does so much to overcome hangups and barriers – I would love to see
all
women experience it. This radical notion that I’m in charge of my own sexuality, that sex isn’t some big dirty secret that also gets splashed all over TV and movies. I like bringing fun and irony and social satire to the forefront of every show, so women aren’t so overwhelmed with their own fears and insecurities that they spend thousands and thousands of dollars on weight loss and beauty products and – sorry.” I stopped, prodding the tomato again. “I get kind of riled up about that.”
    He smiled. “There was an element of tongue-in-cheek humor in the pieces I liked best. Like yours, even though your costume and music were modern, I had sort of an old-fashioned impression about it.”
    “I do like the campy 40’s style,” I said. “And really, burlesque without irony is just a titty parade, and who hasn’t seen that?”
Good Lord, did I really just use that phrase?
    He laughed. “Do you mainly perform with the Chicago Cabaret?”
    “Mostly,” I said. “I keep a low profile. I wouldn’t want a client to see my face in a magazine and be uncomfortable.” I thought of Max –
No sign of assault on the bodies, would he be able to help himself?
– and resolutely shoved the thought away.
    He nodded.
    “Also,” I said, “one of the requirements for getting the clinical license is having
exemplary moral character.
” I frowned. “You never know what kind of ideas an ethics committee has about burlesque – like if they confuse it with working in a strip club or – you know, a