Free LUKA (The Rhythm Series, Book 2) by Jane Harvey-Berrick

I shrugged for an answer.
    “We’re friends,” I said at last.
    “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to understand how it is with you.”
    “What do you want, Seth?”
    “I want you,” he said simply.
    I shook my head, watching his lips turn down with disappointment.
    “We can be friends though, can’t we?”
    I hesitated. I could use a friend, but things with Seth were complicated.
    “Yeah, we can be friends.”
    The words tumbled from my tongue without permission.
    Seth smiled with relief and yanked off his tie, shoving it in a pocket.
    “Um, well . . . do you want to go to the pub? Have a swift half?”
    “Not really,” I said honestly. “I’m pretty beat and tomorrow is going to be really busy.”
    “I thought you were on holiday?”
    “I was. I got a job today.”
    “Oh? What sort of job?”
    I threw him an impatient look. “Brain surgeon. What do you think?”
    “You’d look cute in scrubs. Seriously, a job doing what?”
    “Dancing!”
    “What, like in a club? Because I’m imaging you as a stripper right now.”
    “Fuck you!”
    “Luka, I’m joking,” he said, his smile falling away.
    “Am I just the punch line to your jokes? The crazy foreigner who can’t speak English right. Is that it? You think dancing isn’t serious? I’ve trained since I was six years old! You think it isn’t a real job?”
    “No! I never . . . I don’t!”
    “Then why do you laugh at me?”
    “I’m sorry! I was just trying to . . . I don’t know, lighten the mood. I’m sorry.”
    I grunted at him and checked my phone for messages to avoid having to look at him. Then I felt his hand rest tentatively on my arm.
    “I’m sorry, really. I’m a bit nervous, and I say stupid things when I’m nervous. I don’t think performing is a joke. I’ve seen how hard Sarah works—and I know it’s not easy.”
    “Yeah,” I muttered, annoyed with myself for losing my temper.
    I was usually a pretty calm sort of guy, but Seth got under my skin.
    “So,” he said slowly, “where will you be dancing?”
    “I got a gig as a swing . . . as a backup dancer in a West End show: The Bodyguard .”
    “Wow! That’s friggin’ amazing! How did you land that?”
    “By being a fuck hot dancer,” I snarled, watching him wince.
    I had no idea why I was being such a shit to him, but I couldn’t seem to stop.
    He sighed and stood up.
    “I’m saying all the wrong things. I think I’d better go.” He fidgeted with his car keys while I stared at the blank screen of my cell phone. “Can we . . . go for a drink or something? After your show one evening? Let my buy you dinner—you’ve got to eat, right?”
    I nodded without speaking.
    He turned to leave, then suddenly grabbed my shoulders and pulled me to him so our chests thumped together, kissing me with such heat and intensity that I was rock hard in seconds.
    “I don’t want to be your friend,” he murmured against my lips. “I want a lot more than that.”
    And then he left.
    I was stunned. But I was smiling.

THE NEXT DAY was crazy—the good type of torture. I didn’t have too much time to think about Seth, or that scorching kiss.
    That’s a lie. I’d jacked off in the shower after he’d gone, imaging my cock in his mouth. But I’d slept really well. And maybe I could admit to myself that I felt lighter after Seth’s visit.
    But I had to focus. Arlene told me to be at the theater by 10AM, so I was there at 9.45. There’s a saying in showbiz: To be early is to be on time, to be on time is to be late, to be late is unacceptable.
    Unless you’re the star. And even then, there are fewer divas than you might think. The ones who are the hardest to work with are the newbies who’ve made it big in the music charts and think that acting like assholes is going to make people respect them.
    I used to do a lot of music videos, but it was gruesome work. The dancing was minimal, mostly just thrust and grind. I did a Britney vid once. She was pretty cool, but the shoot was