Chains and Canes by Katie Porter

way during auditions. He would’ve touched any woman that way.
    Nothing to be trusted about a man who could turn chemistry on and off that efficiently.
    “ Non, ” he said, guiding her in another slow grind. “Deeper. Like fucking on the dance floor.”
    “Wait, wait.” Naya used a brief walk to the sound system to collect thoughts that had nothing to do with sex. “Why did you give me so much freedom during the audition, but today everything’s by rote? I’m damn good and you know it. You’re talking to me like a first-year dance student, down to telling me how to give the illusion of sexuality on stage.” She pinned him with a hard stare, given weight by her doubts and his condescension. “Because it is an illusion, Remy. Here it is.”
    “Auditions are to gauge adaptation.”
    He crossed his arms. Triceps flexed and pecs bunched. His stark black tattoo was a roughly four-inch hollow circle that ringed the cap of his left shoulder. Another plain tank top displayed his masculinity to perfection. He was just as predictable as she was in that regard. Pro dancers kept to routines, like superstitious athletes. One look, one hair style, one type of outfit—maybe that’s why they’d been given a gig. Daniel never said it was silly, although he maintained that talent paired with hard work trumped anything.
    “Then why not let that adaptation become part of the creative process?” She grabbed a bottle of water from her duffel and swallowed three times. Twice because of exertion. Once to keep her throat from drying under his scrutiny. “Declan hired me as more than a dancer. I’m a choreographer too. Get used to it and get your head out of your ass. You’re missing something .”
    Rather than get angry or even scowl, he looked away. His jaw worked over what was obvious emotion. The bar that pierced one eyebrow caught the bright rehearsal room lights, which were intensified by three banks of mirrors. Again, the sameness. Ragged jeans. Barely laced hip-hop shoes styled to resemble combat boots. The macho nonchalance of his half-assed mohawk. His rich brown hair was tousled on top and trimmed close along his temples and down to his nape. Naya wanted to sink her fingers into the thick silk at his crown—then wait for what he told her to do next.
    “Missing something.” His voice was dead flat. “Go ahead then. Give it to me. What am I missing? I’d rather hear shit like that straight up.”
    Naya hid a frown. Suddenly it didn’t sound like Remy was talking about dancing. She let it slide. One thing at a time. Rehearsal wasn’t the time or place for a heart-to-heart.
    She tipped her chin to a defiant angle. “You’re forgetting the woman’s side of things.”
    He’d made her beg the night before, but she knew her job, even when her personal confidence flagged. Understanding what a dance lacked but with so little power to suggest changes—she’d been a chorus girl, after all—had finally prompted her to take Daniel’s advice. Club Devant would be good for her. That meant speaking her mind. She’d always wanted to, but she hadn’t realized how difficult that could be.
    Remy’s arrogant antagonism shot her way past shy to pissed off. He didn’t realize he was doing her a favor.
    “You want fucking on the stage,” she said. “I want seduction .”
    She turned the music back on and stepped to within inches of his firm chest and glaring eyes. His arms were still crossed—a neon “back off” sign.
    After nodding to indicate his defensive stance, she met his gaze head-on. A rehearsal room was not a bedroom. Or a living room, in their case. “Do you want to see the bruises on my back and ass?”
    His sharp inhalation was answer enough. The slick, mouthy Cajun was at a loss for words. In fact, he had been since she’d suggested he was missing something. She was getting under his skin. That was good. In the not-so-hot category was how she almost apologized, almost asked him what she could do to please