CURTAIN CALL: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series Book 1 (Standalone) Read online

  My mouth is dehydrated. I walk to the attached washroom, remove the paper wrap from a glass, pour water into it, and guzzle it down.

  There’s a knock at my door. It’s him. I know it, and for some reason I’m not surprised. I don’t want to see him—but I also want to see him badly. Since I first joined the company months ago, he’s practically the only person I ever want to see. I press my hand to the door. I can feel him on the other side of it.

  I can hear his breath.

  “Branwen?”

  “Yes.” My voice comes out ragged.

  “You’re not going for dinner.” His voice is firm through the dense wood.

  I don’t understand. I melt into the sound of his raw breath. Kent’s sudden protectiveness—is it because I’m his dancer—god knows, Raina was possessive—or is it because he’s been looking out for me since he saw me struggling?”

  “I thought you might apologize.” My voice is hollow. My knees are weak. The weight of the door is the only thing holding me up. “And another thing, I meant what I said, about dancing your work. I meant every word.” And it’s so much more than just the work. My chest is raw. I didn’t realize how badly I wanted him until today. How much I believe in him. How much I’m willing to do for him.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  I open the door. Everything is moving in slow motion.

  He is standing there in his sexy black suit. His skin is damp from the humidity. His eyes are dark and fierce yet weak.

  “It didn’t hit me until…” His eyelids are heavy. The angles of his face temporarily relax. But then it tenses, and he stops himself from saying more.

  “What didn’t hit you?” I search his eyes, but they’re hard again. Shielded. Until something lifts and I see him more clearly. We seem so close, but he doesn’t answer me. Instead, his hands find me. They’re on me. He pulls me into him. The door falls shut behind us and he reaches for the small of my back before he pins me against the back of the door. His eyes are dark, invading, tense and open all at once. My fingers crawl to the collar of his shirt. He lowers his lips to mine and covers my mouth. I suspect this is my answer.

  With each taste, I become enveloped by his touch. And scent.

  It’s refreshing and sweet, but not too sweet. His hands travel from my lower back to my sides, and his palms cradle my cheeks. I let my fingers relax and take a little bit of his chiseled body in as we melt together. The way his mouth works me… If I thought having his eyes all over me as I danced his steps was excruciating, this is ten times more intense.

  I let my tongue explore him. My fingers trace his cut shoulders, and my fingers slide down his ripped chest. A husky moan pours into my mouth as his fingers yank my skirt. I gasp for air. His mouth crushes down on mine. I breathe through my nose—our mouths close off the air—I tangle my fingers in his wild hair and wrap my legs around his waist. My palms reach for his rough cheeks. I’m not in control, something else is. He takes my thighs in his hands, and lifts me higher.

  “Branwen.” His lips part from mine in a gasp.

  I can’t think, never mind talk, so I pull his face close to mine to shut us up. The overwhelming need I’ve been fighting since the day we met has reared its head in a big way.

  His grip releases from my thigh, and I let out a hard breath. His fingers slide down my leg and off my skin. His lips move slower. Softer.

  My eyes are closed until they aren’t.

  His eyes are closed until they aren’t.

  The taste of pink watermelon on a hot summer day is dancing in my mouth.

  “Branwen.”

  No. The way he says my name, I know what he is going to say: “This is a bad idea.” “Unprofessional.” “We are just caught up in an emotional day”—much like we were after the showing, when we almost kissed in his office. He’s going to push me away the same way he did then. I know it. And I can’t bear to be rejected by him again. But I can’t stop.

  I press my thighs around him to lift myself higher and press my weight against his arousal. He groans. My lips land on his once again—own them—as I pull him closer by the back of his neck. I explore his taste and touch. I lose myself inside of him for as long as possible, knowing what’s to come. His fingers cup my shoulder. It’s coming: the voice of reason. I need every last bit of him I can get. Our lips rip apart, and I land back on my feet. Think fast. I reach for the bottom of my shirt and pull it over my head, exposing myself.

  “Fuck,” he groans. He rubs the back of his neck as his gaze swells over my breasts. Thank god. I reach for him, but his grip on my shoulders pushes me away from him and against the wall. His eyelids slam together. Tension is moving in every direction across his face. His Adam’s apple takes a deep dive low in his throat before it resurfaces.

  “Branwen.” His voice is breath.

  I edge onto my toes and reach my arms around his neck, forcing my breasts against him. His eyelashes flutter. His mouth crashes down on mine. It’s warm, wet, stirring. He pulls away. I gasp.

  I don’t know what happens next. He swallows. Tenses. His face becomes more pointed. His eyes cut into mine. It’s as though he doesn’t fully subscribe to the notion of stopping. Yet, I knew he would pull away, even if he did kiss me first.

  I try to bring life to my vocal cords and find words, but I’m not sure which ones. I can still feel his touch on my thighs, his moisture on my lips.

  There’s a sound from down the hall, a knock on the door, a distant, “Hello?”

  It happens again. There are footsteps and the sound of whistling.

  “Miss O’Hara?” the voice calls, sending a shiver down my spine. Shit. My head drops in defeat. I should change. I try to force the words out but can’t—my voice is so shallow and distant that it is nonexistent. My lips feel strange, as if they will never be the same again, and I can’t look at him.

  The rest is left unsaid. We both know that if I don’t go for this dinner, Charles will pull Driven’s funding and our careers can be kissed goodbye. No one says no to a powerful man. No one says no to the company’s biggest backer. Sadly, isn’t it the way the world works? Even I understand that.

  The footsteps are getting closer.

  Kent clenches his jaw. He sucks in a harsh breath. His eyes dart into mine one last time. It will be fine. Just a dinner, no big deal, I mentally prepare, because I’m having a hard time speaking. But my eyes plead with his, and his eyes plead with mine. Charles’s driver is waiting outside, a ticking bomb. Kent devours me with his eyes. I’m so close to losing it when I take a deep breath. Tension is edging through his cut body next to mine. I shut my eyes, knowing what I have to do. Kent straightens the collar of his shirt. His lashes blink down on me one last time before he removes himself and stalks down the hall. I stumble to the washroom, pretending to be way tougher than I am. I fix my makeup with trembling fingers, because that is what performers do all the time: pretend.

  It’s my job.

  I compose myself in the mirror. It’s just dinner, I tell myself, just dinner, just one dinner. No. Big. Deal. Charles is harmless and it was just a kiss. But why do both seem like so much more?

  That kiss. Oh my god, that kiss. I take one last deep breath. Then I stand on my wobbly knees and walk through the living room where Kent is standing. His eyes are on me, his presence like a force. Somehow I manage to fight every impulse in my own body and move past him, though all I want is to go back to kissing him forever and to become lost in his touch. But it isn’t in the cards when he’s clearly put an end to it. He’s my director, and we want the same thing. We want this production to be the greatest moment of our careers. This is what I tell myself and what I am programmed to believe.

  I force myself to keep moving. Walking.

  His eyes follow me. “Branwen.” He swallows, and I freeze.

  “See you soon.” I choke down the knot in my throat, place my hand on the wall near the doorframe to steady myself, and slip my toes into a set of heels. I want him to beg me not to go, and I also
want him to beg me to go; to get this dinner meeting over with and make everything okay, so I can dance for him the way I was meant to and we can both do what we were born to do.

  There’s only one person on the board more powerful than the Harringtons.

  I want him to tell me we don’t need Charles, that we don’t need anyone or anything but to be back in that room together. But he doesn’t hush a word of it, probably because we do need Charles, and because he knows better than to kiss me. He’s my director. Still, there was something about that kiss. My legs are rubber. My soul is moved. It is unlike anything I’ve experienced in my life.

  I step out the front door into the muggy air.

  His name is Charles Anderson. He’s financed this company to the hilt.

  I pull in a thick inhale and look side to side, roll back into my heels, and reach for the railing. Palm trees sway above in the night sky, and the air is moist against my skin.

  There’s no car, and the driver is gone. I do a double take.

  No car. No driver.

  But I heard the voice. Charles’s driver was calling for me. We both knew who it was. Charles said he’d have the car ready for me exactly five minutes ago.

  I tilt my head and turn around to go back into the suite. But when I open the door, Kent is gone. The room is incredibly empty. I’m not sure what I am supposed to do, so I sit in the closest chair to the door in my dress and heels and wait. Someone has to show up, either the driver or Kent. And my hope is the latter.

  It could be hours that go by. My eyelids grow heavy. I tuck my toes under my butt and bury my head in my arms.

  I stretch my stiff legs underneath me when Kent returns. He dusts the sand off his feet and draws in a heavy breath, his eyes dark as the night.

  It hits me that everything we’ve been working for is about to fall apart, and it’s my fault. But that’s not what bothers me the most.

  “Why didn’t you let me go? It was just a dinner.” It’s sounds pathetically naïve when I say it.

  “Let’s not pretend we don’t know what Charles wants.” Kent’s eyes are hard, as though layers of metal have been applied to them.

  He throws his blazer on the back of a chair, the tight lines of his profile protruding and his cheeks hollow and shaded. His eyes dart to mine. “And what happened between us…” He stands upright and squares his posture. “That won’t happen again. I’m not Charles Anderson.”

  14

  Front, side, back, side.

  Side, side, side.

  Pas de bourrée.

  Look under and over: glissade, glissade, glissade.

  Brush. Brush. Brush.

  One foot crosses over the other. A finger swipes across a sweaty brow. A black suit is adjusted. Eyes dart into the mirror.

  Everything is going to be okay.

  Eventually.

  Brush.

  Robert tickles the piano keys.

  The white floor is wiped clean.

  Brush, brush, brush.

  Swipe, swipe, swipe.

  Everywhere white. Everywhere black.

  Don’t look too closely.

  Brush.

  Sterling rolls onto his back after class. “If I have to do another second position leg extension, I’m going to die.”

  “Need ice?” I twist off the lid to my water bottle and lift it to my lips.

  “Are you out of your mind? I’m not putting ice on these guys, but let me know if you have any other miraculous remedies for your jock strap rubbing you raw,” Sterling grumbles.

  “I don’t have that problem.” I wrinkle my nose.

  “Chafing isn’t funny. I had to cancel a date.”

  I widen my eyes, and he shakes his head. I am so glad he is finally moving on from Lindsay.

  For the entire company rehearsal, Kent is on his phone, and we sit on the floor stretching and waiting for him or practicing old sections and the small amount of new material he hands out.

  “Do you want the leg to swing through or developpé through? And should it be on count three or four?” Rebecca places her hands on her hips, and Kent looks up at her from his frantic phone tapping like she’s incompetent.

  “Whatever happened to feeling the music?” He presses his phone to his ear, stands up and walks out of the studio, a non-genuine smile playing on his lips. “Hey, man, have you thought about what we discussed?” His voice drifts through the door.

  Cory clears his throat and addresses the room. He stuffs two fingers between his lips and whistles. The languid bodies in the room slowly make their way upright. Some resume their conversations, and Cory runs through the material that’s been generated for the new work thus far. We’re almost finished when Kent huffs through the door.

  He slides his fingers through the strands of hair colliding before his shell-shocked eyes.

  “We were just about to go over…” Cory starts to speak, but Kent’s phone rings. He fishes for the phone in his pocket. “Brad, glad you called, man…” And he disappears into the foyer.

  “Looks like I’m not the only one suffering from chafing.” Sterling curls his lip, and the tension in my jaw crawls to my neck as I swallow down the lump in my esophagus.

  The next week is much the same. Kent is on edge and distracted by calls and meetings, but the brief rehearsals improve. He is giving us material, and when he is focused, he’s zoned in. But he’s distant.

  When I walk into the dancers’ lounge, Rebecca is alone on the couch reading Anna Karenina. She snaps the pages together and stuffs the book in her bag as I open the steel door to the fridge, humming the music from rehearsal.

  “You’re not involved in a love triangle, are you?” I tease her about her heavy literary choice and lift a spoonful of yogurt to my lips. She glares at me without answering.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” I play a little more, because she is cute, if not huffy. But she still looks disgruntled. “Really, is everything okay?” I sit down beside her.

  “Things are just wonderful.” She crosses her arms over her chest. The sarcastic response is mildly disturbing. Something shifts in her face as she gives me a look. “So what if I am involved in a love triangle?” she says quickly.

  “Sounds kinky.” I pull out my phone, hoping for this conversation to go away, suddenly uncomfortable.

  She shifts her butt on the couch to turn to me.

  “Most people here dream about a standing ovation after their first solo on stage, but I just want to live happily ever after. Is that too much to ask?” She pushes herself off the couch. “What?” Her eyes dig into me. “You actually think that you can have everything, is that it?” She throws her arms in the air like a lunatic before storming out of the lounge. Is it a full moon? Whatever. I really need a coffee before the next rehearsal, and I’m staring at the wall instead of registering where I am supposed to be and when.

  My name is chicken-scratched in black felt inside the eleven o’clock slot: costume fitting with Londyn. Wardrobe. It’s nearly eleven now, so I boot it over there a few minutes early. Londyn slips her glasses on right away and hands me a newly stitched-together costume. I slip behind the change curtain and slide off my black one-piece suit. My body looks fit these days from all the rehearsals, though it’s never fit enough. I stretch my arms overhead when the curtain swings open.

  “Branwen?” Kent barks, as though I’ve done something wrong. Ever since our trip to Cayman, I can do no right by Kent—even if he does call me by my first name now, more often than not. When he isn’t pacing, he stares me down until the lighter parts in his eyes turn black, and I wonder if that dirty look isn’t perpetual.

  My arms were overhead as I so vainly checked myself out in the mirror. God, I hope he didn’t see that. My cheeks burn with heat.

  He blinks, and I drop my arms to cover my naked body as I reach for the costume, but his eyes fall to my breasts before I have the chance to whip the too-tiny, nude-colored costume over my nipples.

  “Where’s Londyn?” He peels his eyes off of m
e and looks over his shoulder.

  “Did I hear my name?” Londyn swings open the door to the wardrobe. When she sees it’s Kent, she eyeballs him. “What do you think?” I guess we’re talking about the costume I’m supposed to have on.

  I pull the curtain shut before he responds and rustle around on one leg, trying to slip my toes in the other side of the tights. When I am finished, I open the curtain and step out with my most unimpressed expression and a silly pose to go with it. But they are too deep in discussion to give me the time of day, and Kent paces, his fingers tensely pushing through his unrestrained locks. I clear my throat to get their attention.

  Then there’s a knock at the door and Patrick Moss walks in, handsome as ever with his rock-star hair.

  “Is this what everyone is talking about?” Patrick looks at me. Kent actually catches my eye this time. I’m like the puppy in the window as they all look me over. Londyn stalks around me in a circle and does this hip-to-hip dance before she skips on the spot.

  “Love it,” she says. I have never seen her so bubbly. Wait a minute: that’s how she acted last time Patrick came around. “I need a drag. Let’s go.” She looks at Patrick, points her thumb over her shoulder, and pulls a pack of Marlboros out of her pocket.

  Kent just stares me over with narrowed eyes and bites down on his bottom lip in concentration.

  “I hope you aren’t the one who’s going to hem these tights,” I say, but he doesn’t take my joke.

  “And I hope you aren’t going to wear that costume forever. Londyn will want it back.” He lets his guard down for a moment, and it makes me stop what I am doing.

  “And I hope you aren’t going to stare at me like you hate me forever.” The words are raw as I say them. Not the desired intention.