Free Ripped by Lisa Edward Page A

were priceless pieces of historical art. These shoes had been worn by a famous ballerina who had danced one of the most famous ballets, and I felt their significance from the ache in my chest to the ball in the pit of my stomach. One day, if I was ever lucky enough, I would have shoes hanging on the wall in this little brownstone bar, and a starry-eyed dancer would gaze upon them and feel all her dreams could come true, just as I now was.
    “I know, right? That’s how I feel about Dorothy’s ruby slippers,” Tiffany said, reading my expression. “It will come true one day for both of us. You’ll see.”
    Nodding, a rush of determination soar through me. “It will, and I’ll do anything to make it happen.”
    Becca’s piercing whistle disturbed my perusal of souvenirs from many other Broadway shows. Tiffany hooked her arm through mine. “Come on. We must be way behind the others.”
    Our group had secured a corner booth nearest to the bar, and Tiffany and I squeezed in either end of the red padded seats. Pierre wasn’t sitting and I hoped he’d had a change of heart and decided not to join us, but just as I was feeling myself relax, he appeared with a tray of tequila shots.
    “Ah, there you are, my little star.” He placed two shot glasses in front of me before leaving the rest on the tray in the center of the table. A chair was dragged over beside me so I was trapped in the booth by Pierre. “You need to catch up. Here. We will drink together.”
    I’d never had tequila before but it looked like water, so how bad could it be? Pierre raised his glass and waited for me to do the same. “Cheers, mon etoile brillante .”
    I was way in over my head, but I smiled and threw the clear burning liquid down my throat. I had no idea what he’d called me as I didn’t speak French, but that was the least of my problems as fire burned my throat and chest, and I stifled a cough.
    “Another?” Pierre was already raising another glass and indicating to the second shot glass in front of me.
    “Cheers,” I said apprehensively and downed the second shot, the heat in my throat now so intense I couldn’t even muster a cough. Grabbing one of the many glasses of water on the table, I gulped it down, then refilled and emptied the glass for a second time.
    “So tell me, ma jolie , where do you come from? Where did you first discover you had such grace to match the beauty of an angel?” Pierre’s hand came to rest on my knee beneath the table.
    The tequila was already going to my head, and I felt flushed. I wanted to remove my jacket but was only wearing a crop top underneath. I needed to escape the confines of the booth and Pierre’s hand, but didn’t want to make a scene. Tiffany sat across from me on the end of the other bench seat, deep in conversation with two other girls. I kicked out not too gently, hoping I was connecting with her leg and not someone else’s.
    She jumped and looked over at me. As subtly as possible I nodded toward Pierre, hoping she could read my distress signal. She grinned. “I need the bathroom. Anyone else?” It was a general question, but she was looking directly at me.
    “Yes.” I couldn’t escape without Pierre moving for me, and he seemed reluctant to do so. “Excuse me, please.” I edged over. “I need to get out.”
    Finally, he stood. “Of course, I’ll get you another drink while you’re gone.”
    “Oh. My. God!” I squealed to Tiffany. “Help me. What do I do with Pierre?”
    She gave a throaty laugh. “What can you do? He’s the choreographer. He has your career in the palm of his clammy little hands.”
    “Ew. I do not want his clammy little hands on me at all—that’s the problem.”
    The pity in her eyes made me take a step back. “In every show, there is at least one scandal. The choreographer or the producer preying on the weak or inexperienced …” Her hands rested on my shoulders. “You, my friend, are unfortunately the chosen one. You’re a brilliant