Ignition (The Redline Series 1)

Chapter 1

Aubrey

I wrung my hands—they were clammy and cold despite the oppressing heat backstage. The music thumped through my body, embedding its rhythm deep into my bone marrow, until it felt like every cell thrummed and vibrated under the invisible assault. The resulting tension was the only thing keeping me upright.

Devlin sauntered up next to me, freshly pressed in his expensive black suit. His naturally tanned skin looked even darker in the dim lighting, while his dark brown eyes bore through me as he handed me a mini-bottle of water. I took it with both shaking hands—afraid that with the state of my nerves I might drop it.

Everyone talks about the consequences of making stupid decisions—this wasn't one anyone had ever mentioned to me.

"You're up in fifteen," he said impassively, his warm hand stroking my jaw as I took a long swig of water. To all outward appearances, he was a walking oxymoron—hot and cold rolled into one. His touches perceived as caring, his voice as if he couldn't give two fucks. But there was no dualism about him. His intentions were refined and single-minded—every action was carefully concocted.

I ignored his touch as much as possible, but I'd learned long ago that trying to avoid his passes was futile.

"Try to look like you're enjoying yourself," he said.

Beyond his shoulder, I watched the other girls, gathered along the wall on the opposite side of the stage entrance. A clique that I didn't belong in and never wanted to. I was here for one thing, and then I was gone—utterly convinced that I was not and would not ever be anything like them. Their robes hung open revealing their tiny and glittery stage costumes underneath. Most of them had already performed and now they giggled—usually glancing sideways at me and making crinkled expressions that looked less than amused at my presence.

As if I wanted to be here dressed in this gaudy costume that pinched my boobs, poked at my ribs, and chafed everywhere it touched only to barely qualify as decent. I expected a boob to pop out before I even made it half way across the stage, and I wouldn't be surprised at all if at least one nipple made a premature appearance—not that anyone would complain. To make matters worse, the whole ensemble was brought to a painful close by the tall stilettos that pinched my feet and left me as wobbly as a drunken teenager.

I was still wearing far more than I would be when I came back off stage after my eight-minute routine. That thought did little to calm my nerves. I wanted to be done with it all, and yet I dreaded the end more than anything. I may have a body appropriate for the stage—as Devlin assured me in his sugary sweet tone—but did I have the confidence, poise, or coordination? Not at all.

This would be my first night on stage, but it wasn't my first night waiting in the wings. The atmosphere was different, comparatively calm and quiet—as if all attention was focused on me, waiting for me to screw up, to break an ankle, or fall on my face. Devlin had given me a week to train with one of the more experienced girls. She refused to refer to me by anything except Sway because I could barely stay upright in the heels they gave me to practice in.

One week. A seven-day orientation into the pit of torture.

That wasn't long enough to master walking in stilettos, let alone to learn to "dance" in them.

And I don't mean wiggle your derriere and toss bits of your costume into the crowd kind of dancing. Half of the moves these girls performed, I would never be able to perfect in flat shoes with months of practice. If anything, I had to give them that.

All I had to do was get through that eight minutes. That was my only goal for the night. One dance at a time.

Pivot. Dip. Twist.