I can’t help reacting. I know I shouldn’t, that reacting gives credence to the question, but I’m not Dawson. My eyes are drawn to the reporter asking the question. “No…no comment.” I’m faint with panic. It’s going to come out now, and it’s going to ruin Dawson’s career. And mine.
“Come on, Grey, we both know the truth. We have a friend in common, you see. A certain Mr. Timothy van Dutton. He told me you were his best dancer.”
“No comment.” I try to push past, but they won’t let me through.
His grin is lecherous, gleeful. “How about this, if it’s true, say ‘no comment’ again. I mean, there’s no sense denying it. He told me all about you. You wouldn’t go topless except for on-stage.” He licks his lips, and his eyes lower with obvious lust to my cle**age. “I’m sorry I never got to see you dance.”
I don’t answer. I step out into the street, narrowly avoid being smashed by a silver Mercedes. They follow me, bombarding me with questions.
“Grey! Is it true? Were you a stripper?”
“Grey, come back! Where did you dance? How did you get the job?”
“Can you give us a little sample of your dancing?”
“Look at me, Grey! How long were you a stripper? Did you ever perform sexual services?”
I’m not crying yet, but nearly. I’m all but running, and I know this is tantamount to confirming it, but I can’t help it. I’m finally to my Rover, almost a block away from the shop, and they’re crowding around me, repeating their questions, cameras flashing, held up over their heads to get a shot, microphones and recorders and flip cameras capture my flushed face, watery eyes, and trembling hands.
I know at least one of the clicking cameras captures the single tear that falls from my eye as I start the Rover. And the second one as I back up, heedless of toes I must be running over. For once, I understand the anger with which some celebrities respond to situations like this. I’m hyperventilating, each breath wheezing and fast. I’m dizzy, but I don’t dare stop. Honks tell me I’m driving erratically, and I hear squealing tires and shrieking brakes, but I keep driving, letting autopilot take me home.
Dawson isn’t home. I wish he was. I need him.
I end up in the gym, sitting in the middle of the dance floor, sobbing. I hear the front door open at some point, and the stiffness of my muscles tells me it’s been a long time that I’ve been here on the floor, crying.
“Baby? What happened?” He scoops me up and sits down with me on his lap.
I bury my face in his chest and try to breathe. I start crying all over again. “They…they found—found out.”
“Who? About what?”
“The reporters. The paparazzi. They found out…that I was a stripper.” I choke on the word.
“Who found out?” I describe the reporter who asked the question, and what he said. Dawson curses floridly. “Fucking Larry Tominski. That guy is a f**king cunt.”
“I tried to stick to ‘no comment’ like you told me, but…I got so upset.”
“Did you verbally confirm it?” His voice is soft but sharp.
I shake my head negative. “No, of course not. But the fact that I was so upset…I ran, and I was crying. It’s as much of a confirmation as saying yes.”
He squeezes me. “You did great, baby. They’re vultures. There was nothing you could have done differently. It’s going to be fine.”
“It’s not, Dawson. It’s not fine.” I stand up, and he moves to pull me into an embrace, his lips by my jaw. “Everyone will know. They’ll believe it, and no one will hire me. They’ll say things about me, about you. About us. It’ll affect your career. End mine.”
He sighs. “Grey, please listen to me. I knew from the very beginning that they’d find out. It was inevitable. In this business, there are no secrets, not for anyone.”
“You knew they’d find out?”
He nods. “Of course. You thought no one would ever know? You think Kaz didn’t know what you did on the side?” He sounds almost amused. “Kaz knew, babe. You never mentioned it, so neither did he. And neither did I. And as for our careers…it doesn’t matter. You think you’re the only student to ever strip her way through college? That’s nothing. Not in this business. It wouldn’t even be a deal-breaker if you’d f**ked your way through. Girls f**k their way to the top all the time. In this business and others. And so do guys. No one is innocent. Not in life, and certainly not in Hollywood. We’ll ignore the articles and rumors, and eventually it’ll die out. Don’t answer any questions, and you’ll be fine.”
I go limp against him. “I don’t want them to know. I’m ashamed of it. I don’t…I want to pretend it never happened.”
He holds me tight, supports me with his arms around my waist. “But it did, babe.” He touches my chin, and I look at him. “Don’t be ashamed of yourself, Grey. You survived. You took care of yourself. I’m proud of you.”
“I feel so…disgusted. When I think about it, I want to throw up all over again. I hate knowing that I did that. That I was…that I let men—”
“It’s over now. You’ll never have to do it again.” His words are a breath in my ear. “I’ll always take care of you. And I’ll never let anyone talk bad about you, or make you feel less. You’re my lady, Grey. Mine. And that means no one will ever get to say anything shitty about you, or make you feel shitty. Not anyone, not ever. Including yourself.”
“I’m sorry, Dawson, I just—”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“But it’s your birthday, and I’m a mess.”
He laughs, brushing my hair off my cheek. “I don’t care, babe. The party doesn’t start for a few hours yet, and even if we had a house full of people, I wouldn’t give a f**k. You’re my priority. If you’re upset, f**k everything else—I gotta make you happy again.”
“You do make me happy.”
“Then smile and kiss me. In that order.”
I try to smile, and nearly succeed. The memories are still cycling through my head, though. The eyes on me, the lights bathing every inch of my body, the music throbbing in the background, the hands reaching for me. Fingers stuffing greasy dollar bills in the string of my thong.