Excerpt of Shimmy for Me by DeAnna Cameron

Chapter One

“It’s only sex,” Abby Anderson said, keeping her focus on
the mirror propped on the desk in front of her and the
black eyeliner wand in her hand.

In the corner, Melanie flipped through a tattoo magazine.
“It’s about time. How you managed to go a whole year is a
mystery to me.”

“It’s not like I planned it. It just happened. I’ve been
busy.”

Busy working two jobs—three if you counted the belly
dance studio that was consuming every spare minute and
dollar she had. It didn’t seem possible that so much time
had passed since her ex had given her the ultimatum: him
or the studio. He didn’t understand how she could leave
graduate school and the prospect of a comfortable career
to devote herself to what he considered a dead-end
business. That’s when she knew he didn’t understand her—
and he never would.

Most days, she was too busy to think about her wreck of a
love life. Today she could think of little else.

May 1. Seeing the date on the calendar had brought it all
back. That last terrible fight. All the awful things he’d
said to her. She knew they weren’t true. Pursuing her
passion didn’t make her selfish. It didn’t mean she was
damaged goods.

She’d find love again. Eventually. But tonight it wasn’t
love she was after. She just wanted to think about
something besides that brain-dead temp job at the
newspaper, the skimpy dance tips she earned at the
restaurant, and the studio that sank her deeper into debt
every day, even if it was the only thing that could still
make her smile.

She wanted to remember how it felt to be touched. To feel
lips pressed to hers, hands on her waist, maybe a caress
or two. All the belly dance writhing and grinding in the
world wouldn’t scratch that itch.

She needed a man.

“Do you have someone in mind?” Melanie asked, distracted
by the full-page photograph of a dragon tattoo she was
holding beside her miniskirt-exposed thigh.

“No one in particular.” Abby smoothed a thick layer of
smoky eye powder over her lids with her fingertip, then
double-checked the crimson silk blooms and rustic Middle
Eastern pendants pinned to the scarf knotted around her
head, leaving her thick batch of braids, leather strands,
and long pheasant feathers to hang freely over her
shoulder. She tucked in a few extra hairpins, then turned
around. “Maybe that guy at the window table who always
slips me his phone number with his one-dollar tip.”

“Are you serious? He’s got to be ninety years old.”

Abby chuckled. “I know. I’m kidding. There’s never a
shortage of flirts looking to score with the belly
dancer, though. I usually ignore them, but tonight, who
knows? Can you help me with my straps?”

Abby turned her bare back to her friend, who set aside
her magazine to untie the halter’s plum-colored straps.
She tugged them tighter.

“Good?” Melanie asked.

“No. More.” Abby squeezed the sides of her top, which
consisted of more old coins and cowrie shells than
fabric, until cleavage filled the deep V of her neckline.
Melanie tied the knot, inspected the front, and nodded.
“Nice,” she said. “The costume looks great with the
tattoo.”

Abby’s fingers brushed the inked swoops and swirls that
curved around her belly and disappeared beneath the
waistband of the low-riding harem pants and all the
belts, scarves, and tassels tied around her hips. The
tattoo—a belated birthday gift from Melanie—was already
two weeks old, but still sensitive to the touch. “It is
nice, isn’t it? Tell your boyfriend he does good work.”

“No way,” Melanie said. “It would totally go to his head.
He’s already impossible.”

A pounding on the door interrupted them. “Two minutes,”
said a deep, accented voice.

“Okay, that’s my cue to leave,” Melanie said. “I’ve got
to get on the road anyway if I’m going to get to
Hollywood before the show. The 405 will be a parking lot
if I don’t get moving.” She pulled out her key ring,
detached one of the keys, and set it on the desk. “Thanks
again for letting me get some practice in at the studio.
I locked it up. Oh.”

Abby stopped dabbing at the color on her lips. She knew
that tone.

Melanie pulled a folded piece of pink paper from her
purse.” This was taped to the studio’s door when I got
there.”

Abby took it. “Past Due: Warning” was stamped in thick
black letters across the top. Her gut clenched. She
wasn’t surprised, but that didn’t make it any easier. She
pushed the paper into her bag. She wasn’t going to think
about it tonight.

Melanie bit her lip.

“It’s nothing,” Abby said, forcing a smile. “It’s already
taken care of.”

“Really?” Melanie asked, cautiously. “Because if it
isn’t, if you need help—”

“I don’t need help,” Abby said. “Honestly. It’s fine.”

The last thing she needed was pity.

Two angry thumps on the door.

“Okay, I’m really leaving now.” Melanie leaned over and
kissed Abby’s cheek.

“See you tomorrow.” Abby watched her friend leave, then
reached into her bag. No. She let go of the paper and
pushed the bag away. Forget about the notice. Forget
about the studio. Forget about her ex and the cold bed
she crawled into every night.

Focus on tonight.

Abby looked into the mirror.

Zenina looked back. Part tribal belly dancer, part
vaudeville chorine, part silent picture vixen. She had
drawn from her favorite inspirations to create her
performance persona. Her alter ego. Her dance self.

Three angrier thumps rattled the door.

“I’m coming,” she hollered. This was it.

Three hundred and sixty-five frigging days. It was a long
time. Too long.

“You can do this,” she whispered to her other self.
“It’ll be just like any other performance.” Only better.