Dance Around It (Strip in the City, Book 1)

15 • Bowties and Spandex

My reaction was automatic. I leaned forward and grabbed the front of Putnam's shirt, pulling his greasy face closer to mine.

"You don't know what you're talking about," I gritted out in a voice I didn't recognize.

Mr. Putnam's security detail closed around us, but he waved them off. His dark, heavily lidded eyes locked on mine. "Go on, Mav. Don't be a coward. Say what you want to say."

I had so many things I wanted to tell this man, but somehow I managed to hold my tongue.

Putnam was trying to get a rise out of me. He wanted me to make a scene. Yell. Shout. Make threats. If I was arrested for starting a fight, my chances of getting a role in a Broadway show collapsed to zero. This was a calculated move on his part.

But what Mr. Putnam didn't know was that I'd played this game with my father a million times. This sweaty drunk wasn't half as frightening as my old man, and I wasn't going to let him get the best of me.

Not when my dreams were within reach.

My good sense slowly returned, and I let go of Mr. Putnam's shirt. As I stared into his beady eyes, I realized when Putnam asked if I was sweet on a girl, my thoughts immediately went to Maren.

Why? I wasn't sweet on her. Yes, we got along well, and I respected her as an industry professional, but that was it. Yet my brain kept lingering on her smile and how I always wanted to impress her.

I mentally slapped myself. I thought I'd worked this problem out.

"I don't have a girl," I told Putnam. "I've got an agent."

For a solid minute, Putnam chuckled to himself—fussing over the position of his shirt and his plate and his glass, moving each one like they were chess pieces. Meanwhile, I tapped my finger on the table, trying to look unaffected.

"So," my boss said at last, giving me a self-satisfied look. "You're sweet on your agent."

"No, I'm not," I replied through my teeth. Trying to convince him as much as myself.

He chuckled again, and the sound grated on my already fraying nerves. "Your agent is Maren Mitchell, right? The girl I saw you on all them reels with." Mr. Putnam picked up a leather document holder that had been sitting on the table and opened it up, revealing a sheet of paper with Maren's signature on it.

My stomach felt like I just hit 5G's in a jet. "She's the same redhead you brought up on stage a couple of weeks ago."

For someone who spent most of the day drinking whiskey, Mr. Putnam didn't miss a thing. I didn't humor him with an answer. When he realized I wasn't going to confirm the story, Mr. Putnam pointed at the ceiling above my head.

"You see that little black dome? And that one over there?" I glanced at the ceiling and recognized the security cameras for what they were. "I've got tapes on everything that goes down at my club. Like that unpleasant incident when you grabbed my shirt and," he added, taking a sip of whiskey, "that dance you had onstage with the agent."

The security tapes. Why had I not thought about the security tapes? Putnam wouldn't let me walk away from the Oiled Olive, not that easily. I'd been his shining star, and he was willing to do whatever it took to make me stay.

Mr. Putnam continued. "I bet all the gossip rags would love to get their hands on that footage. True love blossoming right on my stage." He let out a titter of girlish laughter before his grin fell flat. "Think of all the business it would bring to the club."

There wasn't enough air to breathe in the dark lounge. Maren was already worried about her reputation after the incident at Ritual, and I knew how embarrassed she was about our dance. I couldn't let footage of it leak. It would devastate her. Not to mention what it could do to my acting career.