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

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” I bite my lip, looking up at him, because, um, it is happening fast, and—I hold my breath—it’s a big decision.

  Kent’s eyes narrow, and his Adam’s apple bobs low in his throat, as he presses the button to the lobby and then pins me against the elevator wall.

  “Why, would you rather have sex at home? Because I’m pretty sure I just sold it.” I thought she said possession was in two weeks, but I’m not putting up a fight. Two weeks is just enough time to finish the rest of the shows. He trails a finger over my brow and licks his full lips. He lifts me under the rear, and I wrap my legs around his waist. His mouth closes over mine.

  Once we part for air, I take in the light scent of his cologne and warm skin, and get that dizzy, stirring sensation I get every time we’re in tight proximity.

  “I mean, are you sure about selling the penthouse?” I swallow, having a hard time saying it. “And leaving Manhattan?” My chest tugs as I look into his eyes, and I don’t know why I had to ask. Maybe I’m unsure, or maybe I’m still nervous about the part I play in his decision to give everything up. Like me, his fate has been cut out to some degree.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t.” His eyes slice into mine, and my heart lurches. I gulp when a smile breaks on his lips.

  “Oh my god, was that a joke?” I blink up at him, but he presses his lips to the side of my ear as his fingers crawl up my skirt.

  “I never joke,” he whispers in my ear.

  “I can’t believe you just made another joke.” I pull back, and he brings his focus back to mine. I have my answer. It’s something in his eyes and in his smile, something that tells me that this is the right thing to do, even if it’s totally impulsive, and I will always love this city, because it’s the home of Driven Dance Theater for one thing, and the place that has given me so much more than it has taken from me.

  “I’m sure, Branwen. Are you? Because we can stay if you want.” He looks serious this time.

  What if two-and- a-half kids, and that dog and the cat, the backyard and Sunday picnics, the house in the burbs, and the Jeep packed with beach toys—what if all of that is just as intoxicating as the glamorous city herself? What if it isn’t just a fantasy? What if it could be real too?

  I swallow, shaking my head. “Why on earth would I want to stay? Anyway, we can always come back.” I lift my shoulders, and Kent’s smile reaches his eyes. For a change, I might have said exactly the right thing.

  “True.” He tilts his head and looks up before pulling me into him.

  We can always come back.

  He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, and his mouth closes over mine.

  Or not.

  Epilogue

  Rebecca stands on the steps in a yellow dress, her blonde hair catching the light. Kent and I walk up to her, and I grab her hand in mine and squeeze as we wait.

  “You’ve got this.” It’s my mantra from earlier this year. It reminds me how the man holding my other hand encouraged me to trust myself months ago.

  “I’m nervous,” she says, and my heart sinks to think she has second thoughts. “But the truth has to come out.” Her lips lift into a brave smile.

  “Only if it sets you free,” I remind her. I know this from the things I have avoided facing head-on, have denied in the past and never let go. That was probably why, like a boomerang, they came back to haunt me three years later. “Whatever you decide, know that you’re not alone,” I remind her. “You have the support of every other woman in the world right now.”

  “And don’t forget the men.” Kent lifts his eyebrows—so cute—and it makes Rebecca’s shady smile break into one that is fuller and brighter. “I’m sorry that Charles had the opportunity to take advantage of you, Rebecca, and that Driven didn’t support you. We’ll back you any way we can. The whole company is behind you. Charles will not get away with what he did to you. You have more than my word.”

  “Thank you.” Rebecca sucks in a long inhale, and I pull her in for a hug, hoping that everyone will look out for her and others like her, and that this isn’t an issue everyone will make a big deal about only to forget weeks or months later.

  “But what if they don’t believe me? What if…” Rebecca’s eyes shift.

  “Everyone already believes you. Just look at what’s happened to Anderson. His stocks have plummeted. There was an announcement this morning that he would be stepping down as CEO.” I worry that my words won’t hold weight when the person who promised to be here to back her up hasn’t yet shown up.

  “Sorry I’m late. Traffic is terrible!” Daniela jumps out of a black car and skips up the steps. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her use the word sorry. She’s full of surprises. “Are we ready?” She puts on a brave face, holds her shoulders back and her posture tall, as does Kent. But there’s a stir of anticipation behind their eyes and in the air. When Daniela agreed to tell her story too, I thought her parents would stop her from reporting that Anderson had threatened her position too, and that was the reason why her parents had stepped up to the plate in such a big way by funding past productions themselves.

  “You know, if either of you are having second thoughts, we don’t have to go ahead with the interview. I’ll have Renee issue a formal apology on behalf of Driven without further comments.”

  “Get over yourself,” Daniela scoffs. “Who do you think we are doing this for? You?”

  Kent opens his mouth and shuts it again when Daniela interrupts him—something else I have never seen or heard before. “This is for all of the women out there who have been made to think they can only be a star if their power is taken away. Never mind the dancers. This industry has been prehistoric for too long.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better.” Kent nods, and I kiss him on the lips, because I can.

  “To the sisterhood of Driven.” Daniela raises her arms in the air, as though all of us woman who made up the company are there in spirit. For the first time, we’re coming together and rooting for each other rather than against one another, and it feels pretty amazing, considering the circumstance.

  The interview is a success. Rebecca is glowing after an emotional recollection that has everyone in tears. It looks like a weight is lifted after she admits that Drivenless was a revenge ploy that she deeply regrets, but at the time, she did not have a voice. She makes a public apology to those she offended, and Kent apologizes to her for turning a blind eye to her victimization during Driven’s rise to success, though he had no idea what had happened. For that he is sorry and is determined to encourage others to shine the light on industry corruption and abuse in all forms. Daniela is on fire and more empowered to do good than ever before, and she is determined to organize the first injection of funds into Kent’s dancers’ rights advocacy, which she also brings up in the interview. There is a candid review of Kent’s creative process, which reveals his journey as the youngest artistic director in the history of the business, how he was in ways exploited too, and all the reasons he feels the need to take a break for personal growth. He really is an inspiring director, with an insightful process that always kept the dancers at a distance—until I broke the ice.

  Daniela calls Kent for the fourth time on a scorching Saturday while we are enjoying a picnic of tuna salad sandwiches, watermelon, and sliced strawberries on the beach. He answers with a grumble as she babbles his ear off.

  “Great, those are all wonderful ideas…” He rolls his eyes at me as I reach for his hand and place it on my thigh, where it slides, higher and higher. “Which is exactly why you should take over the mission,” he mumbles. I press my lips to his, hearing chatter through the receiver. “I’ll be there to support the cause all the way… but right now, I have a few other things I need to focus on.”

  He hangs up, rolls me onto my back on the towel, and props his weight over me as I brush a wayward strand of hair from his eyes. “Like make babies,” he says, crushing his lips to mine.

  Oh, and building that white
picket fence, for real.

  For Driven’s trendy costume designer, Londyn Verona, and sexy musician, Patrick Moss’s, story of second chances KEEP READING!

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  Thank you so much for reading Curtain Call: Driven Dance Theater Series Book 1!

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  Brianna

  Sneak Peek of CLOSING NIGHT

  DRIVEN DANCE THEATER SERIES

  BOOK #2

  CHAPTER ONE

  “We did it again, babe.” Patrick’s breath crawls down my neck as I slap away the fingers reaching for my hips.

  “Hands to yourself, mister.” My neck tilts and my lashes lower as I say it.

  No one would’ve believed it a month ago, but it’s true. Tonight, we pulled off another masterpiece. Driven Dance Theater’s artistic director pops a bottle of champagne and steps onto a black box backstage. A technician hands him a microphone.

  “After one long and crazy season, I think it’s safe to say we now know everything about one another.” The temperamental genius takes command of the room, and he spots me through the crowd. My heart palpitates as his sly smile turns the heads of company members, artistic staff, and technical crew my way. “And if there’s still something you don’t know about someone, just ask Londyn.”

  I mouth, “I’ll get you back,” and everyone laughs.

  Thing is, I am not laughing or thinking about anything other than the way Patrick keeps looking at me from my side, the palm of his hand warming my back. The director moves on to his next target. I wiggle my spine away from Patrick’s touch to concentrate. A male soloist whistles loudly, and the unified group making up the backstage space divides into smaller fractions. Patrick reaches for two flutes of champagne and hands me one.

  I take a sip and cross my arms over my chest, feeling the heat of his body next to mine. His full lips smile at me, and I instinctively sink into the side of his arm. It was a huge stretch to work with him so intensely after our devastating breakup last year, and what are we now—‘friends’? I step away and clutch the stem of my glass. Tightly. Patrick and I called a truce when Kent Morgan asked us to work on the same team for his monumental departure year. We would be amicable, but that was it.

  “Stop looking at me like that.” I roll my eyes and look away, feeling the corners of my lips creep upward.

  The way his eyes are on me, the way his smooth skin makes way for his full lips, the way that long rock star hair I’ve always loved brushes over his shoulders, has me temporarily weak. His green eyes flicker into mine teasingly, but the weight of his gaze lifts with one of his renowned half-baked smiles and a soft chuckle. It was an emotional and highly successful premiere after the tense and drawn-out months working up to it.

  With Patrick so close, it’s hard to breathe. Think. It’s been so long since I let myself feel anything, never mind the desire I spent the entire season determined to escape: him. He moves in closer so his breath heats the top of my ear. “Why don’t you want me to look at you, Londyn?” Gaze heavy. Voice husky.

  Earlier this evening, before the curtains went up and the performers took their places on the stage, I wouldn’t have dared to dream it. But now… I let out a breath and close my eyes. It was such a fucking fantastic night. Branwen killed it, the press ate it up, and the fans were more than thrilled. The music, the costumes—the whole thing—was a dream, and Patrick’s affections seemed to grow stronger every day.

  My feelings for him: stronger every day.

  “Because it makes me want to leave here.” I lift my lashes and pull down a tight swallow. “With you.”

  He brushes a tangle of my hair over my shoulder. I have the kind of thick, curly hair that I can barely run a comb through at the end of the day, and I’ve given up on straightening it.

  “Then come home with me.” Patrick’s focus cuts into mine. I slam my eyes shut, tugged in opposite directions. The familiar scent of him seeps through my seams as he strokes the side of my arm reassuringly.

  Dizzy. I can’t seem to make myself sane. Every part of my being is up against the hard wall of my better judgment. I was so broken two years ago when he left Manhattan for Los Angeles to cut his first album with my nemesis, leaving me hanging. I’m just starting to get my groove back.

  I look away. Everyone in the room is elated, loose, and ready to go home with someone to celebrate the success tonight. Maybe if I gave into every impulse in my body, I could purge my attraction to him for good.

  “Just one night, though.” I lick my lips with a thick swallow and his eyes dart to mine with suspicion before the corners of his mouth lift into a sexy curve. I cannot believe what I’m suggesting. I don’t want to wait, either. Even if the thought is crazy, the faster I get him out of my system the better. There’s a tingling in my crown. Just go with it. I exhale and take one last breath of surrender as I place my hand in his, and we leave the backstage room without formal goodbyes.

  The rest is a blur. The valet hands off the keys, the passenger door to the vintage sports car is held open, my head ducks through the frame and falls back into the leather seat cushion, his fingers force back the stick, a wash of city lights and people zoom by, and we reverse into park with a halt. The car is gone and we are on the top step, the same one I know well, because I used to live here with him, but now it’s different. My tense fingers scrape at the back of my neck, and they knock Patrick in the face on their way to reach for him. He lifts me off my feet and pulls me inside, before I can say…

  “Sorry,” I stammer, because there’s more to the apology than the scratch to his brow. Although right now I am not sure he’d notice if I took out his eye.

  Then it hits me. The smell comes first. Then the sounds, like the loud hum of the old air-conditioning unit lodged in the window that takes me back. The last time I was in this apartment, we had a huge fight. I packed my things and left. He took off to the other side of the country in pursuit of his success shortly after. It wasn’t the first time a man in my life destroyed the relationships around him in the name of achievement.

  I pull my hand from his grip and make a turn for the door. “Sorry, but this…” My breath catches. I turn away from him before he can see my eyes burn.

  His hand cups my shoulder. The other settles on my lower back.

  “Just one night,” he whispers, as though he is also reassuring himself. Right. That was why I came here in the first place. Dammit.

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  About the Author

  Brianna Stark writes romance with an edge. She spends her summers with her BF in a log cabin in the Pacific Northwest, where she is happiest writing. In her spare time she practices yoga, craves coffee more than she would like, and goes for walks with her three-pound Pomchi, who stops to kiss everyone. She is the author of the Driven Dance Theater series.

 

 

 
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