Free The Fated Dance: Bound to the Shadow Dancer by Leeann Whitaker Page A

bucket list. No, she is my bucket list. What kind of sick twisted idiot does that?
    “Yep… tomorrow.” I smile briefly as she leaves.
    I stay in the room until I hear the front door slam shut. Keeling over, I inhale and groan out. I was right. If I want punishment, a different kind of pain, then this sure is it.
    I flick off the lights and close the door to the studio. I glance at the table I placed her earnings on. It’s gone. Good. She deserves every dime, and more. So much more.            

The God Awful Truth
     
    I’ve been thinking about the amount of money I found when I opened that envelope. Who pays someone one thousand dollars, for half an hours work? Grayson Crane, that’s who. I’m not going to say I was relaxed performing alone for him. It was the weirdest situation I’ve ever been in. But once the music began, he didn’t matter so much. And for a short amount of time, I felt what I once did when I danced years ago, liberated.
    He was, I have to say, the perfect customer, and he let me do my thing without interruption. No frisky fingers, no jeers, and no dirty comments. I was also surprised by his choice in music. For me, dancing to that song was like a pressure valve being opened. It was a thoughtful song. Not slutty or intense. It was like he wanted to appreciate me. Strange as it sounds, he made me feel like a somebody, and now I’m more confused than ever. I’ve got these stupid feelings for him growing and taking over my senses, and I don’t know how to stop them.  
    “Jen,” Flick knocks on my bedroom door.
    I wiggle beneath my lilac duvet then flip it off my legs, letting out a deep yawn. “Yeah.” I brush my fingers through my knotty hair.
    “There’s a package for you,” she says before dashing back downstairs.
    I frown. I never get packages. Usually the only mail I receive are envelopes with the words- Final demand- stamped in bright red ink next to my name. I move my legs off the bed and slip on my flip-flops.
    Flick stands at the bottom of the stairs, holding out a small brown paper wrapped parcel. I hurry down and snatch it from her. It’s cool to the touch, and there’s a folded note on the top with the words: Handle with care, wrote in black ink.
    Flick fidgets beside me, breathing down my neck, waiting for me to open it. I move across to the sofa and sit. But she follows, more excited by the box than I. I slip the note from beneath the string and open it.
              Jen
    Do not panic at the contents of this package. It is by no means to be derived has having an ulterior purpose. I was out this morning for a spot of breakfast, and thought you may enjoy this. So enjoy.
    Grayson
    I scowl at the box. I shouldn’t really accept gifts from him. I don’t want to give him the wrong impression. I do find him very considerate, good-looking, and so far he hasn’t pushed his luck. He’s nice; real nice. And maybe he is beginning to get to me. Maybe I would like to dance for him like I’ve never dance before. Dance on him even. Oh god, I have to stop thinking right now . He pays me, and I have to stay detached, no matter how hard it is.
    “What’s wrong with you?”
    I haven’t told Flick that I’ve been promoted from pole to private dancer. She’d only have something spiteful to say. Something along the lines of, ‘I’m no different than a street hooker selling her body.’ Flick thinks money grows from thin air, and has a carefree attitude about any responsibility.
    I pull on the string and open the box, to find a mouth-watering croissant filled with berries and cream.
    “Is Grayson Crane that guy I’ve seen on the TV?” Flick asks, squinting at the note. “That suit who was on the morning news last week, going on about rising shares and shit?”
    Oh this is just great. I can’t lie to her. The evidence is right there in front of her face.
    “Jen?”
    “Yeah, the guy from TV,” I sigh, placing the box on the coffee table.
    “Jeez, guys like