Ruin Novel – Cam One Year Later That feeling. when the music is pumping, the bass pounding the floor beneath your feet, vibrating up your body there’s nothing like it. Not for me anyway. Dancing has always been my thing. I love it. And I’m good at it. I trained in ballet and street dance. But I dropped street when I was a teenager, as ballet was always the dream. It was everything. I was at Juilliard on a full scholarship, eyes set on the New York City Ballet. I was in my second year when everything changed. Those two pink lines on the test changed everything. And my future changed into something else. And, even now, up here on this podium, dancing my hip off like I do every Friday and Saturday night, I know I made the right decision. And, no, before you ask, I’m not a stripper. I’m a go-go dancer at this upscale club in Manhattan.
Granted, this wasn’t the stage I expected to be on when I was growing up. But life throws curveballs at you, and you have to go with them. And my little curveball goes by the name Gigi, and I love her more than I imagined I ever could love anyone. She is the best decision I have ever made. Okay, so she wasn’t exactly planned. I was on the pill, but I had been with her father for four years. He was my childhood sweetheart. The absolute love of my life. I thought we’d grow old together. Obviously, it didn’t work out that way. He dumped me. Over the phone. Yes, he was in England at the time, and I was here, in New York, but hearing that the love of your life had cheated on you over the telephone isn’t the best way to have things go down. And then to find out, a few months later, that I was pregnant with his baby, only to have him tell me he didn’t want anything to do with either of us—actually, he didn’t even tell me himself; he got his manager, the great Marcel Duran, to tell me and offer me money to go away, which I refused, of course—you could say, it made me a little bitter about him.
But I have to be grateful for one thing—his donation of semen—because it gave me Gigi, and she is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. The song currently playing, “Stay” by Zedd and Alessia Cara, comes to an end, and then Christina Aguilera’s “Dirrty” blasts out from the speakers. The crowd goes nuts. And I’m thrown back fifteen years to nine-year-old me standing in front of the TV, watching the music video on MTV, trying to learn the dance moves to this song, and my aunt Elle joining in with me. Aunt Elle doesn’t have a rhythmic bone in her body. Great cop. Terrible dancer. The memory makes me smile as I pump my body to the beat, pushing to excess, doing the dance routine my body remembers, even now from all those years ago. I’m sweating. I’ve been dancing for a while now. Kim should be coming to take over soon.
We always switch, doing twenty- to thirty-minute intervals. I’m ready for a break, so I can recharge. I push tendrils of hair off my face with my palm. My long brown hair is tied back in a high ponytail. I have naturally straight hair, but I have that overprocessed, hair that goes frizzy without products and straighteners—hence the ponytail and stray hairs. I feel a hand curl around my ankle, grabbing it. This isn’t unusual for people, especially men, to get a little overly friendly. They think because I’m up here, dancing, that they have the right to touch me. I look down and see a suit and a head of blond hair styled in that just-rolled-out-of-bed look that everyone knows he spent hours perfecting. I meet his stare, and the telltale sign of too much alcohol shows in the glaze of his eyes—well, that, and the beer bottle he’s holding in his hand, which is forbidden on the dance floor. I glance up and scan the area for security to alert them, but I can’t see any of them.
My eyes cut to the bar, but it’s busy with customers, and I can’t catch any of the bartenders to make eye contact. For sake.Looks like I’m gonna have to handle this myself. Keeping my expression friendly, I crouch down, putting me at eye-level with the handsy drunk. He’s actually not bad-looking close up. Still doesn’t give him the right to put his hand on me though. I tap him on the hand. “No touching,” I kindly tell him. “Oh. Sorry.” He removes his hand from my ankle. See? Wasn’t that easy? No security needed at all. “No problem.” I smile. Feeling generous toward the guy, I ask him, “Did you need something?” He returns my smile—well, it’s more of a grin—and then he says, “Yeah. You undressed and in my bed, baby.” Ugh. And my good feeling toward him evaporates.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. If I had a dollar for every time I heard that line or one close to it, I’d be lying on a lounger right now in the back garden of my mansion in Beverly Hills, sunbathing by my Olympic-size swimming pool, with a Jason Momoa lookalike rubbing my feet in between serving me margaritas and servicing me—wink, wink—all day long. “Yeah, not gonna happen, buddy.” I laugh. I go to stand up, but he snatches my wrist, keeping me there. His grip is tight, and even though I’m surrounded by hundreds of people, I still feel that momentary spark of panic, but I fight it back down. One good thing my ex did do, aside from giving me Gigi, was teach me how to defend myself. The plus side of dating a boxer for four years. I stare him straight in the eye. “Let go of my arm.” “Aw, baby, don’t be like that. I’m just being friendly.” He flexes his fingers around my wrist. “I think you need to go back to school and learn the meaning of the word.
This is your last warning. My next one won’t be so nice.” “I’d listen to her, if I were you.” Handsy Prick lets go of my wrist and spins around to face the voice that just sent chills down my back. And not the good kind of chills. My eyes cut up and over the head of Handsy Prick, and for the first time in five years, I stare into the eyes of Zeus Kincaid. The cheating prick and heartless son of a bimbo who walked away from me and his unborn child. Ah, screw no. The shock of seeing him after all this time has his name rushing out of my lungs. “Zeus.” “Hi, Dove.” His familiar deep voice saying the nickname he gave me all those years ago elicits a thousand memories. Good and bad. I used to love it when he called me Dove. Now, I hate it. He called me it from the moment we met. Said I was like a dove. Beautiful and fragile. With my fight hidden inside me. And, as time went on, Zeus said I was his peace in the chaos that was his life. I was his little dove. And I believed him.
Until he decided he no longer needed his dove, and he stripped me of my wings and left me to die. But I didn’t die, and I got my wings back, too. So, screw you, Zeus. “Hey…I know you.” Handsy Prick stares up at Zeus, pointing his finger at him. Handsy isn’t small by any means of the word. Probably about five-eleven at a guess, but Zeus is bigger. Half a foot bigger to be exact. Six foot five and built of solid muscle. And that’s why he’s the current heavyweight champion boxer of the world. That, and his God-given talent to hurt people. Most of the time, he doesn’t even have to hit people to hurt them. I’m living proof right here. “Yeah, I know you. You’re Zeus Kincaid, right? You are! I can’t believe it! Zeus Kincaid. Dude, you’re amazing! I won two Gs on your last fight. Hey, can I get a picture? My buddies aren’t gonna believe this!” Tearing my eyes from Zeus, I don’t wait around to listen to his response. I use it as an opportunity to get out of there.
Moving swiftly, I push up to stand, and I run down the steps off the podium. I quickly start making my way through the crowd, heading straight for the staff room. My heart is pounding, my mind racing, and my feet can’t move fast enough to get me out of there and away from Zeus. I can’t believe he’s here. I’m about ten steps away from the staff door, almost home free, when a hand curls around my biceps, bringing me to a stop. I don’t have to turn around to know who it is. I tilt my face in Zeus’s direction, tipping my head back to stare up into his face. I’m five nine—five eleven in my boots. Not short for a woman, but Zeus has always made me feel small. I used to love that feeling. Now, I hate it. “What are you doing here?” What am I doing here? That’s it? That’s all he has to say to me after five years of silence? Not, Did we have a boy or a girl? Or, How is my kid doing? God, I hate him.
I stare at him, wondering how I ever loved this man. Zeus was always beautiful; there’s never been any doubt about that. In the early days of his career, the press dubbed him The Pretty Boy of Boxing. I remember how much he hated that nickname. Nowadays, they call him The God. I think he’s The Devil. But he’s no longer the pretty-boy beautiful he was back then. Now, he’s ruggedly handsome. Even with the too-many-times broken nose and the scar that cuts through his eyebrow. I remember the fight in which he got that scar. It was over me. He still has his trademark stubble on his cheeks, which I know is actually softer to the touch than it looks. And his dark hair, which he always wore shaved, is now styled—still short at the sides but longer on top. And his eyes…they were the first things I noticed about him. If I had to give them a color, I’d say azure.
The bluest of blue. Eyes with the depths of the ocean. You stare into them, and they give away nothing but make you feel everything. He might be physically stunning to look at, but inside of him is a totally different story. He steps closer. His scent washes over me—familiar yet unfamiliar. He’s changed his aftershave. He always used to wear Burberry Touch. It was my favorite aftershave. I used to buy it for him. I guess he rid himself of everything that was me. Including his child. Something akin to a knife sticks in my heart. “Dove, I asked you a question. What are you doing here?” His grip on my arm increases, his brows pulling together in frustration.