My Latin Dancer Wife - Chapter 3: Chapter 3
You are reading My Latin Dancer Wife, Chapter 3: Chapter 3. Read more chapters of My Latin Dancer Wife.
Drake Langley flashed a knowing smirk. "Oh, come on, don't play dumb with me. Of course it's done with the mouth! Look, handsome guys with connections? They've got actresses lining up for them. And those troupe directors? They're not exactly saints either—who knows how many girls they've pressured with their shady little 'rules.' Bottom line? This place is a damn circus."
The more he talked, the heavier the knot in my stomach grew. Kyle Roscente was the troupe director's brother-in-law. What if he pulled that crap on my wife, Bianca Valentine?
Bianca lived and breathed her work in the performing arts troupe. Ever since we met, she'd dreamed of being the lead performer.
After we got married, she refused to even consider kids—said it would ruin her figure.
My parents weren't thrilled, but I loved her too much to push it. I always made excuses for her.
No—I had to see tonight's performance for myself.
I knew the venue: the city stadium. Some big Labor Day celebration, complete with awards and all the usual pomp.
I slipped Drake a pack of cigarettes. "Think you can get me backstage tonight?"
"Kevin, I don't know..."
He hesitated.
I slid him a thousand bucks with a grin. "Just do me this one favor. I won't cause trouble—I'll stick with you, keep my head down."
His eyes lit up. The guy made two-five a month as a security guard—this was nearly half his paycheck.
I didn't have a choice. Stadium tickets were easy, but backstage at a ballet performance? That was VIP-only territory.
By seven that evening, I was already there.
Drake spotted me and quickly waved me over, sneaking me in through a side entrance.
"Kevin, listen—no wandering, no snooping. If shit hits the fan, I'm screwed."
"Relax."
He pointed. "That's the dressing room—shared space, a few private stalls. Over there's makeup, and that hallway leads to the stage. Big shots everywhere tonight. These girls are all hyped up—gonna be one hell of a show."
He kept rambling, but I wasn't listening. My eyes were locked on the dressing room, waiting for Bianca to show.
She arrived late, rushing in with the other Latin dancers, too distracted to notice me.
I waited, but she didn't come out. Moving behind the dressing room to light a cigarette, I suddenly heard voices from one of the stalls.
"Help me out here. If I screw up on stage, it's on you."
"Seriously? You couldn't handle this earlier? There are people everywhere—how the hell am I supposed to help?"
"Use your mouth. I'm new here—your call. But if the performance tanks, don't blame me. We're on in ten."
The man's voice sounded just like Kyle's.
The woman's voice was too quiet to place.
My chest tightened. I crushed the cigarette and pressed closer to the stall, but the talking stopped—replaced by the unmistakable sound of wet, rhythmic slurping.
Any man would know what that meant.
If that was Kyle... then the woman?
Was it Bianca?
Rage burned through me. I turned to storm into the stall, but Drake grabbed my arm. "Kevin, are you out of your damn mind? You can't go in there! Don't make me regret this!"
At the dressing room entrance, the curtain didn't reach the floor. Through the gap, I saw a man's legs braced against the wall.
A woman in a Latin dance skirt crouched before him, thighs exposed nearly to the top.
But I couldn't see their faces.
Was it Bianca?
The more he talked, the heavier the knot in my stomach grew. Kyle Roscente was the troupe director's brother-in-law. What if he pulled that crap on my wife, Bianca Valentine?
Bianca lived and breathed her work in the performing arts troupe. Ever since we met, she'd dreamed of being the lead performer.
After we got married, she refused to even consider kids—said it would ruin her figure.
My parents weren't thrilled, but I loved her too much to push it. I always made excuses for her.
No—I had to see tonight's performance for myself.
I knew the venue: the city stadium. Some big Labor Day celebration, complete with awards and all the usual pomp.
I slipped Drake a pack of cigarettes. "Think you can get me backstage tonight?"
"Kevin, I don't know..."
He hesitated.
I slid him a thousand bucks with a grin. "Just do me this one favor. I won't cause trouble—I'll stick with you, keep my head down."
His eyes lit up. The guy made two-five a month as a security guard—this was nearly half his paycheck.
I didn't have a choice. Stadium tickets were easy, but backstage at a ballet performance? That was VIP-only territory.
By seven that evening, I was already there.
Drake spotted me and quickly waved me over, sneaking me in through a side entrance.
"Kevin, listen—no wandering, no snooping. If shit hits the fan, I'm screwed."
"Relax."
He pointed. "That's the dressing room—shared space, a few private stalls. Over there's makeup, and that hallway leads to the stage. Big shots everywhere tonight. These girls are all hyped up—gonna be one hell of a show."
He kept rambling, but I wasn't listening. My eyes were locked on the dressing room, waiting for Bianca to show.
She arrived late, rushing in with the other Latin dancers, too distracted to notice me.
I waited, but she didn't come out. Moving behind the dressing room to light a cigarette, I suddenly heard voices from one of the stalls.
"Help me out here. If I screw up on stage, it's on you."
"Seriously? You couldn't handle this earlier? There are people everywhere—how the hell am I supposed to help?"
"Use your mouth. I'm new here—your call. But if the performance tanks, don't blame me. We're on in ten."
The man's voice sounded just like Kyle's.
The woman's voice was too quiet to place.
My chest tightened. I crushed the cigarette and pressed closer to the stall, but the talking stopped—replaced by the unmistakable sound of wet, rhythmic slurping.
Any man would know what that meant.
If that was Kyle... then the woman?
Was it Bianca?
Rage burned through me. I turned to storm into the stall, but Drake grabbed my arm. "Kevin, are you out of your damn mind? You can't go in there! Don't make me regret this!"
At the dressing room entrance, the curtain didn't reach the floor. Through the gap, I saw a man's legs braced against the wall.
A woman in a Latin dance skirt crouched before him, thighs exposed nearly to the top.
But I couldn't see their faces.
Was it Bianca?
End of My Latin Dancer Wife Chapter 3. Continue reading Chapter 4 or return to My Latin Dancer Wife book page.