CURTAIN CALL: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series Book 1 (Standalone)
CURTAIN CALL
Driven Dance Theater Series, Book 1
BRIANNA STARK
Copyright © 2020 by Brianna Stark
www.briannastarkauthor.com
First edition, March, 2020
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying, or other electronic or mechanical methods, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN: 978-1-7770067-4-7
Cover Design: Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations
Editing: Amanda Bidnall Editing and Writing
Please note: This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, business, locations, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or actual events is purely coincidental.
For my mom, for believing in me.
WELCOME TO DRIVEN DANCE THEATER
All of the stories in the Driven Dance Theater series take place in a thriving dance company in Manhattan. CURTAIN CALL is Book 1 in the series.
Want to know more about Driven Dance Theater?
Join my VIP LIST and receive LIGHTS UP (Driven Dance Theater, Book 0) for free, exclusive content, and release updates. Or CLICK HERE to hang out with me at Brianna’s Driven Readers Group where we can get to know each other better.
Hint: Did you know I used to be a professional dancer? Yup, it’s part of the reason I decided to write a dance company romance series. I also love romance novels.
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I would love to hear from you!
XO,
Brianna
Contents
CURTAIN CALL
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Author note
Sneak Peek of CLOSING NIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
About the Author
CURTAIN CALL
DRIVEN DANCE THEATER SERIES BOOK 1
1
I never thought I’d find myself back here, especially not standing outside the YMCA with a big bag on my back, double-checking an address on my phone. The sound of cars honking and the smoky smell of roasted nuts from a nearby cart bring it all back. I pull my hoody more tightly around me as I walk down Lexington Avenue. There was a reason I left New York four years ago. It only involves, oh, the worst and most painful humiliation of my life.
“Branwen O’Hara.” A guy with a hipster beard takes my name at the front of a line at the East Village warehouse studio.
Behind him bodies are everywhere: some in tights, some in sweats, most performing hip flexor stretches or standing around with paper coffee cups in their hands. The carpet in the lobby smells like old sandwiches, and the air is thick with anxious murmurs.
The guy is looking at me. Waiting. My heart pounds against my ribs. I don’t have a class card, or enough money to buy one. I slide my hand into my pocket, looking back at the line that’s formed behind me. It’s twice as long now, and everyone is staring at me. But I can’t leave. If I leave, it’s over.
“Next.” He looks down the line.
Okay…
I hesitate, unsure of what just happened. He waits for me to proceed, so I take a small step past the desk, and he moves on to the next person.
Walking straight into the studio and not looking back, no one stops me. I start to take off my sweater when the guy from the desk speed-walks toward me. I freeze. He pauses. He looks like he is trying to remember what he came to say, and then he lets out a loud exhale. He rubs his forehead.
“You’re here to deliver a package, right?”
Uh… I’m half-dressed. A few dancers look up from their stretches. My eyes cut into his—did I actually think I would get in for free? I grab my sweater and jab my arms into the appropriate holes. My eyes sting as I plan a fast exit.
Two dancers in side splits sip on steamy mugs of tea. They look up when he laughs. His face completely transforms.
“Sorry, that was mean. I couldn’t help myself with that big bag you’ve got.” He smooths away a smile.
He’s joking?
My eyes hit the ceiling. I can’t believe it. I shake my head. The blood is draining from my cheeks and pooling in my chest.
“These ‘auditions’ are all posturing. Judith offers them to feel important, and part of my job is to make sure she does.” He says this part quietly, maybe so the gawkers can’t hear him, and starts warming up.
I can stay, then? I drop the bag that holds all of my worldly possessions, but I’m not quite ready to untie my Converse runners for the second time. My hands are resting on my hips when I realize what’s going on.
“I get it. You let people like me in to fill the room, but no one ever gets hired.” My chest sinks as I say it. Classic. Great. Another dead end. I roll through my spine and press my nose to my knees in a hamstring stretch. Heat floods through my head, and my heart pounds in my ears. Tension is growing in the room. The choreographer, Judith Smart, slips off her shoes at the front door, revealing her knobby toes, and shakes out her thick, frizzy hair. I decide to stay even though this isn’t really an audition. I need the class to keep in shape.
“Where do you dance? You look familiar.” Class Card Guy bends one arm behind his back and leans into it.
I lift my head from my knees and inhale. The scent of tiger balm opens my sinuses.
He adjusts his arm behind him, and I hook my heel on the barre to rotate my hips while extending my leg backward into an arabesque. “I danced for Chances Dance Theater in Los Angeles.” I was the principal. The single dancer Raina used to oblivion. There were shows where I did not see the inside of the wings until the final bow, something my body refuses to forget. I leave out those details.
“An out-of-towner—should have known. Well, if you need a place to crash, you can stay here. The couch is famous in this community.”
I spot the caved-in dinosaur in the corner. I have slept on worse this month. Once my old director Raina found out I was leaving, she put a halt on my last paycheck. It wasn’t that I wanted to leave Chances. I had to.
Class Card Guy places one hand on his lower back and the other on the barre, twisting into a spinal rotation. Judith flicks her beady eyes my way, and I lift my leg higher behind me. Her curly hair spills down her back. She loops it into a knot and starts to demonstrate the first exercise. A percussionist rolls two sticks over a drum. I make my way to the front row while stretching the kink out of my neck—my least favorite couch-surfing souvenir. Maybe there’s a small chance this could lead to work.
The first bend of my creaky knees into a plié begins with Judith cuing the musician, and class ends with applause. I ro
ll into a deep split, place my hands on the ground to stand up, and enter the lineup of dancers waiting to speak to her.
“You’ll be in class tomorrow.” She looks at the notebook that rests on her knee, licks her finger, and flips a page.
2
It’s my fourth morning crashing on a couch belonging to Susan Brown, a classmate from Julliard. We shuffle around each other in silence. I reach into a top cupboard for a mug as she butters a bagel, chews loudly, and huffs when I ask her when she’ll be back from the class she teaches in Brooklyn. She only has one key.
“Never mind. I’ll just wait for you at the coffee shop downstairs, and you can text me when you’re—”
“I’m working late again.” She cuts me off while looking at her phone. I so cannot read her expression. Her bun is tied so tight, it is pulling on her temple skin.
“I’ll just find something to do, then?” I frame it as a question. I am not about to ask her for a key. After living with a woman who didn’t want me around for the latter half of my childhood, I can read the signs. Dad’s second wife also had a favorite saying about guests stinking like fish after three days.
I roll up my sleeping bag and pack my things, which aren’t a lot, racking my brain for another sleeping option. I’d hoped to have some kind of employment by now. When I decided to fly here, I had a solid audition lined up, but the receptionist cancelled after I arrived, saying the position had been filled.
“Ready?” Susan waits beside the door, tapping her toe, and I shove my sleeping bag into my knapsack so it pokes out the top. There’s no time to roll it up properly, and I am too flustered.
“Yup.” I grab my phone and hairbrush off the counter and juggle them into my bag on the way out.
“So...tonight.” Susan scratches her brow, signaling mild irritation. Okay, so she’s tired, overworked, and underpaid like every other artist in this town. But…
“You didn’t leave the stove on, did you?” She grimaces.
As I far as I know I didn’t eat anything this morning, or last night. My stomach might be digesting itself. Though I did have that cup of tea… Jeez, did I leave the stove on? Absolutely not. Why would I do that when I have been cautious of my every move?
“So the key…” She lets out a labored breath, and my guts twist. She doesn’t want me to stay, and she really doesn’t want to give up her precious key.
“Hey, forget it. I really appreciate you having me, but I can find another place if it’s too much.” I swallow tightly. I have no other place to stay.
“You sure?” Susan blinks her eyes wide.
“Of course. I did go to school here. It’s not like I don’t have any friends.” My lashes flutter. Okay, I had friends. I had friends here until my reputation was tarnished and I moved across the country.
“Great, well good luck, then.” Susan offers me a hollow smile, and my heart drops like a cold piece of metal. Susan is gone, along with my sleeping arrangements. She’s off to the first of the three jobs she works, ready to complain about it to whoever will listen. I hope she knows how lucky she is.
I stare at the traffic, unable to think.
I don’t know where to go, so I walk without aim. I’ve probably walked three quarters of the length of the island, enduring the odd whiff of stale urine, contemplating the mystery behind the millions of black dots on the sidewalks, and blocking out random blurbs of conversation while waiting for the street lights to change. A guy in Vans carrying a messenger bag has been in front of me for the last ten blocks when I remember: the shoe shop where I worked weekends when I went to Julliard. Why didn’t I think of it before? I do have a friend here. Hooray.
Through the display window, Marnie, an old bestie, is working the floor. Man, I’m happy to see her, and I really need to let go of this bag. It slides down my arm before I make it through the door. The movement stretches that tight, hard-to-reach spot between my shoulder blades. I let out a sigh. It’s been a journey.
“Can I help you?” She flicks a sheet of glossy hair over her shoulder before she realizes it’s me, and goes in for a hug. “Holy shit. Branwen O’Hara?” She stops halfway. “Why is your bag so freaking big?”
I hadn’t thought about how to explain my situation.
“Did you move back here? We have to go for coffee, or dinner.” She straightens a pair of Camper boots.
I let out a sigh of relief. This could be my break. There is a reason to my madness. We can go wherever. I’ll explain everything. I’ll order a tea or hot water. Maybe she’ll even take me in for a night or two, or knows someone who can. Though I can’t stand imposing, Marnie is more personable than Susan, and my options are very limited. She looks at her phone.
“I’m busy tonight, but how about tomorrow?”
The kink in my neck is throbbing. My breath gets stuck high in my chest. I have very little cash and should have stayed at Susan’s one more night. But fish: I could see it in her face. After three days, Branwen….
This was the worst idea.
“I am dying to hear what it’s like to be a star dancer traveling the world.” She looks at me. I smile. My cheeks are stiff.
“Sure.” The traveling part is correct. I won’t explain the rest. There’s no point. She already has plans tonight. Of course she does.
Outside, I run my fingers tightly against my skull and through my hair. I think about calling Susan. I just can’t do it. She tapped her toe while I packed. The Y it is, though the recreation area is only open till midnight. So I end up in a twenty-four-hour sub shop on the same block. The hours go by slowly. Painfully. I stay up all night.
My legs are made of lactic acid in the morning. I must have overdone it in class, and I have a hard time walking up the stairs.
My bag hits the ground—a relief to my throbbing shoulders—and it now has its own place outside the door with the others. A muscle-ripped African American girl in black tights and a vintage Van Halen tee torn at the neck punches the cards. No Class Card Guy. The inside of my ears start to pound.
She holds out her hand. I search my pockets, though I know they are empty.
“I forgot my card.”
I feel bad about lying, but I don’t have an extra hundred bucks for a class card, and it might be my last shot at a job.
“I can’t let you in unless you have a card.” Her eyes lower to the manila envelope between her fingers. She’s not impressed. I wouldn’t be either. I’m not the best liar.
“Please.” I look over my shoulder. “Judith asked me to be here.” Which could mean a chance to get hired. “I used to dance for Chances Dance Theater, I just moved back to New York. I went to Julliard. I’m looking for work… I heard Judith is hiring. I really need a job.” When I say this, the backs of my eyes burn. This is serious. I’m homeless. I should have found work weeks ago. I’ve eaten through all my contacts. All my money. There’s nowhere to go. Only months ago, I was a principal dancer with a top company. I danced for Raina. Raina makes ‘great’ dancers. Like, she grinds them up in her bare hands and spits them out. I was one of those dancers. I am one of those dancers.
She looks at me, and for a second I think she might cave.
Please cave. The life drains out of me, as though my batteries have just died. She has to cave.
“Sorry.” The girl’s eyes fall to the envelope. My batteries are officially dead. Zonked. Retired. With a lick of her pink tongue, she seals it, stretches her long legs out of the chair, and shuts the door.
I’m deflated. I fall against the wall, let my butt hit the ground, and bury my face in my arms. I am too tired to even think about taking on the stairs. But then I remember something I just saw—or rather didn’t see. I look to the place next to me on the floor where my bag was. It’s gone. Impossible. No. This cannot be happening. I look to the other side and all around me. I scope the entire lobby. Nothing. My pulse stops before it thuds again. I pat my pockets. Thank God I still have my wallet and phone. Shoes: still here.
Next thing I know, I am out
side with my phone clutched in my hand. Tears blur my vision. I’m ready to call Susan, or my dad in Santa Barbara, but I can’t decide who would make me feel like the bigger failure. Definitely my dad, but then the toe tapping comes back to me, the looks. She accused me of leaving the stove on and didn’t even trust me with the key.
I don’t even have a sleeping bag anymore. I must be hitting rock bottom, because I am pulling out my phone and calling my dad. It’s ringing. My heart stops. I can barely breathe. The voicemail comes on. I think about hanging up, but it’s easier to talk to a voicemail than a real person, isn’t it?
“Hey, Dad. I know it’s been a while. Look, I wouldn’t be calling, but I didn’t know where else to turn. I know you’re busy with Karen and the kids, but…can you call me?” I cut the message short because my voice is choking and the pressure behind my eyes is phenomenal.
The icky feeling I am left with after the call has me charged. I start to walk at a fast, don’t-mess-with-me clip, with no particular destination in mind.
I pass a tattoo parlor, a few coffee bars, and a gourmet burger joint. There’s a sake bar, which—if things haven’t changed much in the last few years—will be filled with college students by the end of the day. There’s a high-end consignment store where I’d shop if I had money, and then…a presentation center for a condo converted from a… synagogue. And… oh yes… there’s a table with baked goods. I’d forgotten how much I love the East Village.