CLOSING NIGHT: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series, Book 2 (Standalone) Read online

“I still can’t believe Kent ditched.” One of the dancers sighs.

  “This company will need a miracle to keep its reputation intact.” Another lets out a solid breath as my stomach starts playing a game of Twister with itself.

  My guts are still cramped when I slip out of my white and black patterned kimono in the morning, and it isn’t because of the shots of Jack Daniels I drank last night, poring over the design concept I began before Patrick interrupted me.

  I step into a pair of distressed denims, slide a L.I.E.S. Records tee over my head, secure a pair of Matsuda sunglasses on my nose, and stop at Fuel on the way to the studio for my usual Americano, happy not to see anyone I know.

  “Londyn?”

  I spoke too soon.

  Cory is patiently waiting at the other end of the counter. A barista hands him two steamy paper cups.

  “Man, you really are whipped.” I shake my head at the coffee he gets for Daniela every morning. “Aren’t artistic directors supposed to be the ones served coffee, not the gofers?”

  I always did like Cory. He just doesn’t have the edge to be a world-class choreographer.

  He looks at me as though something else is on his mind. “Londyn, am I ever glad to see you. I need to talk to you. Can you meet me in my office, in say… fifteen minutes?”

  “I’m just grabbing a coffee before I pack my things,” I say and place my order with the barista.

  His shoulders slouch. “Let’s have a quick chat first,” he says, and that spasm in my gut lives on.

  “Okay, I’ll stop by after a caffeine fix.” Or two.

  On my way to Cory’s office, I pass the viewing room. Sergeant Katherine snaps out the tempo for dégagé in the center.

  Front, side, back.

  Back, side, front.

  Side, side, side.

  The dancers stand in perfect straight rows. The balls of their feet brush through the floor, and their toes jab like sharp sticks. Heads flip side to side in opposite directions as legs and arms float in a seamless shift of positions above as I sip on my Americano.

  Faster.

  Katherine snaps her fingers to the tempo and Robert, the class accompanist, picks it up a notch.

  Front, side, back.

  Back, side, front.

  Fingertips flutter, and lips bite down in concentration. The music rolls to a pause. The front row parts down the center and exits to the sides to line up along the back of the room. The second row moves forward.

  Robert replaces his fingers on the keys.

  “Faster,” Katherine snaps.

  “Ribs,” she warns, and jutting, breath-held chests drop throughout the room in one fast exhale.

  “I didn’t mean let your guts hang out.” Her eyes flick to the far corner with a sly smile. “Natalie, I can see the vegan pizza you ate last night, and Alex, since when do you drink beer?” She tries to throw them off their game, but they do not flinch as their toes hit the beat and the room breaks out into giggles.

  Front, side, back.

  Back, side, Front.

  Faster.

  Robert inhales through his nose.

  Katherine walks across the front of the room, her chin tilted high.

  “Rebecca…” She turns around, and her eyes land on a spot in the center of the room. “… will demonstrate Adagio.”

  Robert rolls the piano notes in crescendo, and Rebecca turns out one foot in front of the other and sways her arms gently at her sides in preparation. Her damp blonde hair, tied back loosely, sticks to her back.

  I hold my breath. You’ve got this.

  Rebecca’s toe slides up her ankle, then shin, to her knee, before it unfolds into a developpé held high in the air. Eyes watch her from every part of the room. A few others practice the same movements beside her.

  Katherine nods in agreement. My lips curve up. Good for you.

  When the exercise is complete, Rebecca turns around and frowns at me.

  The first row parts like a deck of cards, and the second row moves forward. A few plastic water bottles swish as they are tilted back, and sweaty foreheads are scratched in concentration.

  I leave the viewing room and head to the third floor to knock on Cory’s door.

  “Close your eyes.” Cory paces back and forth across the room once I’m inside.

  “What?”

  “Just sit. You have to listen to this.” He points a small remote at the Bose sound system.

  With a sigh, I plop myself on the hard, cold leather chair across from his desk. This better be good.

  Cory’s booted feet hit the floor while he paces back and forth, followed by a few opening thumps from the sound system speakers. The ambient beats fluidly fill the room as synthesizers and rhythmic melodies take over.

  It’s the kind of music that makes me want to move without a dancer’s bone in my body. My new design floats in my mind, multiplies, and changes patterns in a choreography of shapes. My ankle rolls to the beat, my chin starts to bob, and something in my chest digs in deep and tugs as emotion rises from under my ribs and behind my eyes and then slithers down into my roots, and—whoa—my breath catches high in my throat.

  I blink, practically jumping out of the chair as though I’m being electrocuted.

  “Well…” Cory gawks at me. “Was that fucking fantastic, or what?”

  It’s probably the best musical score Patrick has ever put together. “It’s okay. Sorry, I need to go organize my things now.” I swing open the steel door.

  “Londyn. Wait.” Cory paces to the door behind me. “I thought once you heard the music…”

  “I would tell you it’s a good thing I’m the one moving on from Driven, because Patrick’s music is clearly impossible to refuse?”

  He thinks for a minute. “No. I thought you would be more excited about working on the production with us, maybe even inspired.”

  Oh, I am inspired.

  “Can we talk about this later?” I roll my eyes up and force a smile.

  “Absolutely. Take all the time you need to rethink things.” Cory walks me to the door.

  I won’t bother telling him there is nothing to think over. It’s just that I really need to have a smoke and get out of here. Away from that… music.

  “Talk to you soon.” Cory watches me as I leave.

  “Bye.” I wave.

  Something about that music hits a nerve. Maybe it’s the nail in the coffin. There is no way Patrick will leave now, although I am dying to start the costumes that formed in my mind the second that music started to play.

  But I’ve already quit. Why I am self-negotiating?

  And… shit. I can practically feel Patrick’s rough fingers pulling me close like they did that night I’ve tried to forget. His music brought it flooding back to me. Can music really make you crazy? It is about memories and emotions, I suppose, and it definitely has the ability to stir things up. Of that I am certain.

  I step into the elevator to head down to the lobby and pull a pack of smokes out of my pocket.

  “I thought you quit.” Patrick frowns as he rounds the lobby corner in faded black jeans sitting on his hips, that beautiful utility jacket, and army style boots—I can’t make out the brand, but they’re definitely Italian-made—and damn, a L.I.E.S. Records T-shirt, which I can see his muscles through.

  “I did.”

  “I brought you an Americano.” There’s a paper coffee cup in his hand and an apologetic look in his beautiful eyes.

  “Thank you, but I’ve already had two.”

  He gives me a look that says he knows me better than that, and I reluctantly take the cup.

  We stand there for a moment in the lobby, our arms crossed over our chests. A hot cup clutched in my hand. But his eyes do that thing they do whenever I catch him staring at me. We could be in the studio, in a meeting, or at a fundraiser, and every time I look at him, his gaze is already placed: on me. Unfortunately, I really like it.

  “I’m going that way.” I nod, making it clear he is in my way.r />
  “Where were you just now?” He eyes me with suspicion. My mind goes back to the music that jarred me in Cory’s office a few minutes ago. The reason why the day hasn’t even started yet and I’m already heading out for a smoke.

  There is no way to describe the music other than extremely sensual. Just the thought of his rough fingers gliding over the keys and the other places those fingers—along with those thick lips and his delicious tongue—have explored makes me nearly wet. My nipples harden against my cotton shirt, and I almost die when I remember I forgot to wear a bra.

  Patrick’s eyes lower. “Londyn?” He cocks his head.

  “I was just talking to Cory about something, and now I am heading out to enjoy the last Americano you are going to buy me.” I nod again to indicate that he should move.

  “Did he play my demo for you?” Patrick studies me.

  I look away and back. “A very short clip,” I mutter, trying not to notice how attractive he looks, and how good he smells.

  “And… did you like it?”

  The look in Patrick’s eyes kills me. He always did appreciate my artistic advice, even after we broke up and over the many projects we had been thrown in together. Every time he made something, I was the first person he ran to share it with. I was often the first person to tell him how talented he was. And sadly, it’s true.

  “It was very short.” My lashes lower.

  “Are you blushing?”

  “No. And the music was okay.” I tilt my head up at him and swallow.

  The pain in his gaze slices through me. But what am I supposed to say? Tell him his music makes me crazy, cuckoo horny?

  He looks away with a tic in his strong jaw. “That fucking hurts.”

  “Why? It’s just one opinion. I’m sure other people will feel differently.”

  He scratches his neck, and I push away the insane thought of my tongue on that smooth golden patch of skin catching the light.

  “It’s just that when I made that piece”—he clears his throat—“I was thinking about”—he swallows—“certain activities with you.” The words tumble off his pink lips.

  The heat in my cheeks erupts as our bodies move closer.

  “Maybe that’s the problem.” I press my lips together, and he half-laughs, a hurt kind of laugh.

  He pulls his wide shoulders back. “Which part exactly is the problem? The fluid notes that enter slow and travel each curve, or the hard downbeats aching to explore? Maybe the problem is the tension. It does have a long drawn-out rhythm, and all without the release.” His green eyes slit.

  Why can I not think of anything other than going back to his place on closing night?

  “Achingly so.” I swallow.

  “Yeah.” He smirks while looking pensive. “This song is… at least… seventy-five minutes, rather than ten or twenty like the last one.”

  “The last song was cut a bit short.” I scratch my hair away from my warm face.

  “It was.” His lips tug into a wicked smile.

  “Don’t be an asshole.” I snort when the part about the curves pops into my head, and I remember that I am not wearing a bra. At the same time his eyes drop to that very place, and I cross my arms over my chest and give him the evil eye.

  “Nice T-shirt.” He cocks a brow. Was it too much to hope he wouldn’t notice the fact that we’re wearing the same shirt? But the truth is we’ve always shared similar tastes: in art, fashion, and in music, among other things.

  “I’m so glad I quit,” I mutter to myself so he can’t hear me as I walk by his tall frame and out the front doors.

  On the steps to Driven Dance Theater, during a rehearsal break, Lexi starts to tell me the latest scoop on the Daniela and Cory scandal, and I nod while quietly enjoying my smoke. In a dance company, so much dirt circles around, and there’s no denying it’s all very entertaining, even when it’s dead serious.

  “Mm hm.” I nod and squint off into the distance.

  “Londyn?” Lexi gasps. “Did you hear what I just said? We might as well call this the Harrington Dance Company, because if your last name isn’t Harrington, you will never get a part. It’s total bullshit.” She huffs.

  “Yeah, not cool.” I run a finger tensely over my bottom lip.

  She stands up to pace the steps. “Daniela is my best friend, but it’s so unfair that she gets every leading role.” She plops her butt back on the steps and buries her head into her arms.

  “Hey.” I exhale a stream of smoke and rub my hand in circles on the back of her tight black suit. The season has barely started and already there are tears and drama everywhere you look. “Maybe you’re getting ahead of yourself, because Cory let me in on his idea, and it’s going to be good.” I press my lips together.

  “Even if the piece is good, no one has a chance. It’s just going to be the Daniela show. Daniela is good, but there are other talented dancers in this company too.” The muscles in the side of her jaw tighten as she stares off into the distance.

  It’s true. Lexi has improved incredibly over the past two years, surpassing even Daniela as a performer.

  Daniela’s a grade-A backstabber, even if it seems like she might have turned a leaf. Lexi genuinely deserves a fair opportunity, like many of the others who pushed themselves in Kent Morgan’s demanding process last year, and it has paid off immensely for them. Because Kent Morgan, beyond being the greatest choreographer of our time, knew like no one else how to push a dancer to the limit. Whoever had the opportunity to work with him always became a first-class performer, even if the work was emotionally and physically grueling.

  Last season before Kent resigned, he told me that he felt bad about pushing the dancers the way he did, and that there had to be a better way. But my theory is that Branwen O’Hara ruined him for the rest of us by softening him up. From what I’ve seen, there is no better way to direct a company. There may be gentler approaches, but they don’t get the same results. And at the end of the day, making good art is the main goal—not making ourselves feel good.

  “Look.” I negotiate with Lexi. “Daniela has Cory where she wants him. But Cory is a decent guy, and he had the very best as his mentor. He won’t sacrifice what is right for the process and this company.”

  Hopefully he is capable of pulling off a great piece. He has the music to make it happen. I hope he can just zone in on what Kent taught him and not get off track.

  “At least not while I have anything to say about it,” I add, even though the company isn’t my problem anymore.

  The look in her eyes kills me. The corners of her lips turn up and she wraps her arms around me. “You rock.” She plants a kiss on the top of my head.

  “Don’t mention it.” I wave my hand in the air, and she skips up the steps to head back to the studio in her unitard.

  Once finished my smoke, I grab another Americano from Fuel and head back to wardrobe. The room is dead silent, and everything seems untouched and in its place.

  It’s the quiet before the storm.

  Time to pack up.

  Cory wouldn’t have any solid material for me to work with for at least a few weeks. At that point I would watch rehearsals to gather ideas for costumes to accommodate his movements. So I can decide to return later if he doesn’t hire anyone else. But… I look around the room, scratching my head. There is so much work to be done. The Push the Limit costumes, for example, need to be repaired and touched up for when the show hits the road.

  I take another sip of my Americano and adjust my glasses higher on my nose. A little rush of excitement hits me about the Milan material concept I hoped might go with Cory’s new program. It can’t hurt to play around with something, even if it doesn’t turn into costumes for Cory’s new piece. I do have the time—even if there is a pile of work to be done, there’s no hurry. But Patrick’s music, and the fact that I might run into him anytime I walk down the hall, makes me woozy.

  Maybe I am right to take a sabbatical.

  That is something I never do. I don’
t even know what I would preoccupy myself with.

  Though I am due to visit Mom. The thought is like a heavy weight pressing down on my shoulders. I would be out of the loop at Driven and outside the entire creative process. There’s just something about being in the same building, around people that are bringing the work to life, that gives me the creative boost to make something substantial.

  I take a lot of pride in my work. This may not be the House of Dior, but it’s the best dance company in the history of the art form, and if there is one thing I will not do, it is let my work slide.

  But if I take a few weeks away, maybe my work won’t have to slide. I bite down on my bottom lip and reach for my pencil. One last goodbye doodle is the only thing that will get me out of this rut and help take my mind off things.

  Of course, this is Driven Dance Theater, and there is no such thing as privacy or a quiet moment. The wardrobe door swings open.

  “Are you still here?” Patrick’s lips curve into a sly smile as his boots hit the cold concrete floor.

  “I was trying to concentrate.” I give him a dirty look.

  He sucks in a deep breath, walks up to the other side of the table, and plants his strong hands down below his broad shoulders.

  “I hear ya. Not easy, is it?” He studies me with his green eyes.

  “Isn’t there an album you are supposed to be working on? Or interviews you should be doing to earn the big check from that record label that just signed you?”

  “Yeah.” He slowly licks his plump bottom lip. “But I just can’t let go of the fact that you didn’t like the demo I sent Cory.”

  I purse my lips. “Patrick, it doesn’t matter what I think.” I press my pencil flat on the table, prop up my elbows, and clasp my hands. There is no way I will admit to loving his music, because saying I love his music would be the same as admitting I love ‘certain activities’ with him, and that is not somewhere my rational mind wants to go, even if other parts of me—like all the parts that aren’t my brain—beg to differ.

  “Yes, it does.” The serious expression in his eyes catches mine. “What you think is all that matters.”

  It’s not that he’s a liar. No. The Patrick I know would never speak about his work with any breath of a lie. I should know: we were engaged and worked together for half a decade. Isn’t sexual chemistry supposed to fade over time? Maybe that’s only when you don’t want it to.