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

  My stomach is having a conversation with itself, and I could really use a frigging coffee. A hipster agent in a skinny pantsuit talks to an elderly couple. The man has his hands behind his back. The woman holds a cloth grocery bag and wipes her nose with a tissue. I take the opportunity to grab a sip of hot java and bite into a gluten-free, coconut-crusted pastry. The jam is a welcome surprise. God, that’s good. I take another bite, and then another. I reach my fingers out for more. No food has ever tasted this good, and it’s filling a hole that is much deeper than this empty stomach. I let my burning eyes close. Then there’s a low voice behind me.

  “Buying?”

  My eyes blink open. What the…? I tear my fingers from the table, suck in a breath, and turn around.

  “Sorry?” I swallow.

  A man from a very good gene pool that includes eagle eyes, a rugged jawline, and high cheekbones straightens his tall posture in his fitted black suit. I stop, place the coffee on the counter, and make my way to the door, taking the donut with me. But he follows me onto the busy street. I turn around and catch the oblique shape of his tightly drawn brown eyes. His hair falls to the side of his face, and the dark stubble of his jaw does not undermine his stance of authority.

  I hide the hand covered with trendy donut dust behind me. He has no idea what I have been through. “I’m not under arrest for eating a complimentary non-GMO pastry, am I?” I hold my ground, though I am shaking.

  He tilts his head. “And coffee.”

  “Which I really hope was fair trade.” I pull a smart smile, not sure how I manage to be witty in my current state of duress. His eyes flicker, and his jaw ticks. Not all at once, but as though the tension is spreading across his face. A driver standing beside a black sedan makes himself known, and the guy in front of me squares his posture with his wide shoulders. I pull my gaze away from the car and cross my arms over my chest when he pulls a black card out of his black slacks and hands it to me.

  “Yeah, I’m not really in the market for real estate right now, but thanks for the refreshments. I’ll be on my way.” I’m normally not this rude, but it has been that kind of day, or half-decade, and I do not have the patience for someone trying to sell me something that I will never—ever—be able to afford. But I take the card anyway.

  “I’m not a realtor. My name is Kent Morgan.” He clears his throat with an insinuating look, and I glare at the card.

  The name is familiar. If he isn’t a relator, he could be a famous quarterback who owns a fashion label or an oddly hot oligarch. He’s too good-looking to be an actor. I’m not so livid that I can’t see straight, after all. Whoever he is, I’ve seen his face near a headline. I find myself reading the title in gray writing on the thick black card for the second time, and my heart pounds hard against my ribs.

  No shit.

  This man is… the Kent Morgan? From Driven Dance Theater? It’s the one classical company that features a contemporary repertoire. The one company that does the type of work I was made for. I suck in a breath as the tension in my neck edges toward my shoulders. I wipe a coconut crust from my lip with my free hand and straighten my unusually slouchy posture, thinking about how to explain myself. He must think I am a complete waste of flesh. Not that I would ever have a chance at Driven Dance Theater anyway, considering I haven’t been able to land work with lesser New York companies.

  But if there was any work that I was suited for… Oh, who am I fooling?

  “Well, it was nice to meet you.” I should probably ask him for an autograph, but I don’t have a pen and I am honestly too tired to find one.

  “You are looking for work, and the girl manning the front at Judith’s turned you away because she wants the position herself.” He places his hands in his pockets and cuts his gaze to mine. It’s as though he can see right through me. I did see a pensive man in a suit leaving the building earlier, but I was more focused on getting to class.

  “You followed me?” I tilt my head. I can smell his aftershave.

  He breathes in through his nose and pulls me into the depth of his eyes.

  “I was going this way anyway. Plus, I don’t have time for cattle-call auditions. They never work.” His gaze tugs away.

  “You’re offering me a job?” My voice rises as I blurt it out, probably because employment is the only thing that is ever on my mind, and it’s not easy to hide desperation. Our eyes catch.

  “Not quite. Good luck, miss.” The corner of his mouth cocks, but the smile doesn’t touch his eyes. He nods and turns away. My heart caves. My shoulders sink. I knew I shouldn’t have been such a smart-ass.

  “Look, I’m sorry I was abrupt. I’ve had a bad day. Or past few years, really.” I squeeze my eyelids together.

  He pauses and looks back at me as though debating what he is about to say. “Well, why don’t we start with an audition? How’s tomorrow at two?”

  Not one good thing has happened to me since my return to this city, which may explain my doubt. “Are you sure?” I instantly regret giving him an out, especially after the way he looked at me. I scrunch my face as I brace myself, ready for him to take it back. But he doesn’t. “I mean, thank you. I’ll be there.” I shake my head.

  “Good.” He nods and makes his way as I wave.

  3

  My old friend Marnie pulls a paper-bag-covered bottle out of her purse and places it on the table.

  After being unable to meet up the night before, she insists on buying dinner at a packed Italian restaurant in the West Village where you can bring your own booze. She came prepared, and I am determined to return the favor once I’m gainfully employed, which may or may not happen soon. I tell Marnie about my strange encounter with the infamous Kent Morgan and his unorthodox way of discovering talent for his company.

  “Do you think that’s odd?”

  “How odd can a guy be when he just gave you the opportunity of your life? Take the gift and own it.”

  “I will—when, and if, he actually hires me.”

  I decide not to mention that dancers are a dime a dozen in this town. Marnie rolls her fork between her fingers to spool spaghetti onto it. “It’s not a bad hiring strategy, when you think about it.”

  Or maybe it’s a strange coincidence. Whatever it is, I have a proper audition with a decent company, and I am going to focus on that—not on the reason I avoided that company in the first place. My stomach is full of pasta, the room is warm, and the wine is giving me a glow. It’s the closest thing to relaxation I have felt in weeks.

  Marnie and I catch up. She tells me about her growing side business as a matchmaker and gives me the lowdown on our ex-coworkers at the shoe store who have mostly moved on.

  “And how are your mom and sisters doing?” They used to visit the shop and buy shoes all the time. Her mom frequently brought us freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. They were famous among the staff.

  “My sisters are great. Busy.” There’s a look on her face that tells me there’s more, but she doesn’t want to talk about family. We are finishing our tiramisu and making small talk when she brings up her next networking event in October.

  “I expect you to be there.” She points her gaze and slides the empty dessert bowl to the side.

  “I wouldn’t miss it.” I half-smile, because I have no idea if I will be here next week, never mind a month from now.

  “I’m so excited for you, by the way.” She lifts a brow.

  I sigh in disbelief. It has been quite the day. But before I can put my thoughts into words, our table is cleared, and Marnie is standing up.

  “This has been fun, but I have to call it a night.” Marnie collects her Marc Jacobs purse off the chair, and my neck pain is back. I shouldn’t have eaten so quickly, but it’s been a while since my last hot meal, and I have yet to find the right moment to ask her for a place to stay. “I have to open tomorrow, and I have so much work to do. The matchmaking business is picking up. Maybe I won’t be a shoe salesperson much longer. Not that it’s a horrible job.”r />
  I detested the job, but I ask her to put in a good word for me anyway, in case the next audition is anything like the others and I don’t get a call from the schools I applied to. She looks over the bill and places two twenties on the table. “You, darling, are going to be way too busy starring at Lincoln Center and hobnobbing with New York’s most eligible bachelor.” She rolls her eyes.

  I decide not to remind her that it’s an audition for a job I don’t have yet, while I summon the courage to ask her that favor. But her phone rings.

  “I need to take this,” she says in VIP mode before she turns her back to me. “Sorry, gotta run. One of my clients is torn up over the date I sent her on. I thought the two were so compatible.” She air-kisses me.

  The corners of my mouth quiver. “Thanks again for dinner.” I could ask to crash on her couch, but she’s biting the curb. Orange leaves are trapped in the storm drains. She hails a yellow cab, and the lights on its rear blaze off into the distance. The streets of the West Village are twinkly. A couple deep in conversation slides into a cab holding hands. A group of girls with shopping bags giggle as they walk past me in their Manolos.

  Judith’s studio is lit up. Flamenco music funnels out a cracked window in the East Village. I walk up the stairs, past the open door, take a breath, and sneak in while the flamenco group wraps up. Class Card Guy said I could crash here. But I hide in the washroom anyway until the last voice is gone and the lights are all out.

  I use my phone as a flashlight, tiptoe back inside the studio, and check the locks. I wedge a conductor’s baton inside the fire escape door to lock it and find a sweater in the lost and found that covers a shoulder and the top of my butt. I curl up on the beat-up couch. Ah, sleep, my long-lost love. You are heavy, dark, warm, and don’t make me think. I dream about my meeting tomorrow and getting that damn job. That’s why I’m here. I need it for so much more than just the money. And not because it was time I returned to the place I should have stayed. I need that job even in my sleep. Because if I don’t get it, the consequences will be so much worse than sleeping on this couch and consuming a doughnut diet for the rest of my life. Not to mention that Judith will never give me a second look now that I missed her class.

  4

  I hear a voice. There’s a light in the distance. I take a moment to think about where I am. I can’t move my neck. My legs are throbbing, and I reach for a painkiller before I remember they’re in my stolen bag. My knees still haven’t recovered from my last show, for which Raina had me contorted in ways one should never be bent.

  Bass thumps. Rap booms. A deep voice belts out profanities. What the—? I look at my phone. It’s 5:00 a.m. I get up from the couch as quietly as possible and peek around the corner. There’s a guy in a long black trench coat, black steel-toe boots, and gold chains bobbing to the beat while he examines the stereo. This might be my time.

  I am going to die today.

  My pulse races. Think, Branwen. Think. I need out of here. Fast. My shoes, where the hell are they? I spot them a few feet from the couch. If I move he’ll see me. He turns his back to me, still grooving, and I start to creep toward them. The music stops, and I freeze. There are footsteps. Trench Man spots me. He stops bobbing and glares in my direction. I grab my shoes and dash for the door. Then I remember the conductor’s stick lodged in the fire escape exit. Shit. I tug on it. But it’s stuck. Oh no. Gangsterland shoves his hands into his pockets and struts over to me.

  “Who are you?” The dude with gold chains nods up.

  “Who are you?” I snap back. The stick is getting looser, but the corner is stuck on the frame of the door.

  “The cleaner.” He shrugs, and my rapid pulse fills the room.

  The wand unlatches. Thank you, God. I toss it to the side and fall into the door as it pushes open, running as fast as I can down the stairs.

  There are people out and about. The sky is that eerie blue color, which promises light. I press my hand to my chest and gasp for air. My heart booms in my chest all the way to the Y, where I take one thirty-second shower after the other.

  My mind is doing back flips. What am I getting myself into? What am I doing here? Who do I think I am? The adrenaline rush from earlier this morning has not worn off by the early afternoon. I dig the black card out of my pocket and head to the studios of Driven Dance Theater.

  I slip into the concrete, glass, and steel foyer like I’m under a microscope. The contemporary building is huge, which makes me so small. The walls are white, and the floors shiny and cold. There are a few large repertoire posters mounted on the wall. A receptionist in a black suit behind a gray modern desk directs me to the third floor.

  You’ve got this. I practice positive thinking, though it does not quiet my pulse one bit. On the third floor, a rehearsal is going on in a large white studio behind a massive window.

  I see him.

  He commands the room as dancers’ limbs lash out in matching suits. He rakes his fingers through his golden-brown hair. His jaw knots in concentration as he paces back and forth in his stark black pants and shirt.

  Rehearsal ends with applause, and he pushes through the door to the lobby. He looks down and walks straight past me.

  “Mr. Morgan?” I hold my breath.

  He peels his dark focus from the floor at the small sound of my voice. He is tall and lean and—even with the plump pink flesh of his lips, the warmth of his skin, and his almond-shaped eyes—more intimidating than I remember. It could be because we are clearly in his environment. He studies me with a blank expression, as though his mind is elsewhere and I am an unwanted distraction.

  “Branwen O’Hara.” I swallow and hold out my hand.

  He looks at me like he doesn’t know what to do with me. My hand falls to my side. How to explain? I’m the girl you caught eating a handout doughnut.

  “We met yesterday.” That should do.

  He scrubs the back of his neck. “Right.”

  He continues walking through the gray concrete foyer, and I follow him as he paces down a hall. There’s a quiet ride to the top floor before the elevator door swings open.

  He motions for me to walk ahead with a strong arm, and then he brushes his wide shoulders past me to push open a steel door to an office.

  “What can I do for you?” He takes a seat, straightens the papers on his desk, and stares me down.

  The Chrysler Building looks like a needle in the background, reminding me where I am and how far I have to go. Shards of shadow make patchwork out of the pavement below. I cross my legs in the seat across from him.

  Should I explain everything from the beginning? I clear my throat. He’s the one who followed me. Maybe I should give him the honor.

  “I’m here to audition.” I tilt my head, and our gazes link together. His is dark and fierce.

  He’s distracted by what looks like a memo on his desk, and I keep going. “Do you nab dancers from all the choreographers in town? You must not have a lot of friends.”

  I can’t help myself from being smart, because—when I am not thinking about where to get my next bed and meal, and why someone in thick gold chains and a trench would rob a dance studio to disco music—the strange interaction between Kent and I has been doing a number on my brain. Then again, so many choreographers are elusive in their hiring practices. Since I quit Chances Dance Theater, I’d realized that the audition is a dying art form.

  “I’ve seen you dance before. You’re Raina’s girl.” His eyes do that laser thing as he rakes his fingers through his hair. It’s long on top and tapered into short sideburns, making it fall forward into his eyes at nearly every moment. He slides his palms over the desk and presses them flat to the glass surface.

  Another obstinate strand falls into his eyes, and he brushes it away.

  “I danced for Raina, yes.” I straighten my posture and decide that now is not the time to point out that just because you dance for someone does not mean they own you. Yet, over the years people had referred to me as “Raina’s g
irl” all the time. Besides, before there’s time to protest, he moves on to the next topic.

  “Your body is untraditional.”

  To the point, and not an ideal subject for an interview, but not the first time I’ve heard it either. A short breath pushes out his broad chest. His shoulders widen as he leans forward to prop his elbows on the desk.

  While eyeing me, he doesn’t stray from his stoic expression, and he certainly doesn’t smile.

  “Hopefully that won’t be a problem.” I hold my breath, meeting his gaze. It crosses my mind to ramble off a list of top dancers who did not have the perfect dancer’s body either. I am aware of them all.

  He cocks a brow as he slides a few papers to the side of his desk. There’s a clearing sound in the back of his throat as another one of those rebellious locks assaults his eyes. He leans back into his chair. If he’s at all like Raina, he prefers to keep dancers on their toes.

  I roll my ankle in circles. He sucks in a deep breath and scrubs the smooth skin of his neck. The light scent of cologne floats my way. I almost forget where this conversation is going. Every small movement of my fingers, breath, and posture becomes larger.

  “There aren’t any openings in my company at the moment.”

  His shaded jaw tenses, and I flinch. The edge of the seat digs into my thigh. Not this again. My heart pounds with fury. I stand up.

  “Well, thank you for wasting my time. My bad—I should have known you would be no different than any other choreographer in this city.” I smile tightly and head for the door. My heart falls heavy in my chest and my breath becomes labored as my hand reaches for the steel doorknob.

  What the hell do I do now?

  “Miss O’Hara.”

  My skin rises to the call of Kent’s thick voice. I am reluctant to turn around, to face any more disappointment. I tug at my jacket. I might have nowhere to live, but neither do I have any patience left for directors who hold auditions for companies that have no positions available. I take a step back and stare straight into his intense eyes. “I should have known you would be no different than Judith, offering out-of-work dancers false hope just to make yourself feel important.” I shake my head. There’s a guarded look on his face as I speak, which only fuels the tightness in my voice. “What am I thinking? You probably started the trend.”