CLOSING NIGHT: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series, Book 2 (Standalone) Page 4

  “Look. I won’t ask you what you think of my designs if you don’t ask me what I think about your work. We don’t have much to talk about, really.”

  “We don’t have much to talk about?” He glowers, and I try on a look of dismissal, but I might have suggestively licked my lips and gulped at the same time. I take a deep breath and try again.

  “You think the music has potential though, right?” He rolls his shoulders back.

  I shut my eyes before they blink back open. I don’t know why his insecurity is so attractive.

  “I don’t know.” I swallow hard. “It’s not my favorite piece of your music, but Cory absolutely loves it. He’s already brainstorming with it and will be devastated if you make any changes, so it’s a done deal.” I force the words out, look down and away, because if I do look into his eyes, he might see how much I am lying.

  “I don’t care what Cory thinks. I care what you think.”

  Our eyes lock together.

  I swallow hard and try to force my expression into something unreadable and neutral.

  “I know you, Londyn. I know how you hide behind your tough and trendy exterior to protect yourself from being vulnerable like the rest of us. You pretend to be a gruff, whiskey-drinking, chain-smoking hipster to hide your fear of being weak, when you are the most feminine… and sexy woman I have ever met.”

  I take a deep breath, trying not to back away from his focus, and wonder how long I can fight the urge to run into his arms.

  “And I also know you loved the fuck out of my music.”

  That comment helped a bit.

  4

  There’s another voicemail from Mom. My heart sinks. I’ll call her back tonight. I reach into my bag to grab a pack of smokes, realizing I am completely out. Shit. I throw the empty red and white package into the trash can.

  I cannot understand why Patrick is so intent on stirring up old feelings. Sure, last year was intense and it brought us closer together, maybe closer than ever before. But it was a terrible idea to go home with him that night, even if the evening was cut short. We have a past. And please, there are beautiful women stalking this building night and day. Does he really want me? It makes no sense.

  But every time he looks at me, every time he walks into the room, it’s like no one else exists in the world, and for some reason he seems to feel the same way. But I will not make myself vulnerable to him again, even if we have a crazy chemical attraction that seems to grow stronger with age. We have to stop this, and the only way to do it is to be physically apart.

  That’s why the first thing I plan to do is knock on Cory’s door and tell him that my decision stands.

  “Londyn, good to see you.” Cory stands up in a black suit and closes the door behind me. “There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

  “But—”

  “Just hear me out.” He waves a hand and starts his pacing routine. “I know this might sound a bit unorthodox, but I was sort of hoping that you could start the costume designs for my new piece right away.”

  I cock my head, eyeing him, not understanding. What he’s suggested is far from the traditional approach. He looks at me with a pained expression. “You’d be helping me out if you’d just take the music.” He hands me a portable disk drive, and I flinch when I see it.

  My eyes pop, and he holds up his other hand. “Now just listen. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I didn’t think it would help with the creative process. You and Patrick have always shared such a creative spark, and I think it would be an amazing way to start off the process.”

  “You heard me say I was quitting, right?” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “But you’re still here… and you’re Londyn.”

  “So?”

  “So you live and breathe this place.” His lips iron together.

  My jaw drops, but I can’t exactly argue what he said. He can go ahead and think he is pulling the wool over me. But anyone can see the words written on the wall. By the anxiety written in his eyes, it is clear: we have just started back and Cory is already anticipating a creative block. He doesn’t have one fricking idea what to do with the brilliant music he has just been handed.

  I let out an unimpressed sigh. “If I am going to consider doing this for you, then you are going to start getting your shit together, into the studio, and creating something. Don’t forget who taught you the only tricks you know.” I grab the disk drive from his fingers and march to the door. Now I really need a smoke.

  “Thanks, Londyn.” Cory shoots me a meek smile and shoves his hands into his pockets.

  While sipping on another Americano, inhaling a cigarette outside of Fuel, and crossing Forty-Ninth to get back to the studio, I can’t stop stewing about Cory. He has been given the most amazing piece of music to work with and he still can’t pull a half-decent idea out of his ass. How on earth did he become Artistic Director? The worst part is, now that he has all but confessed his limitations to me, how can I possibly leave Driven? God. I stub out my cigarette and cross the street.

  Fuck it. Why should I go back to that building when I could really use some retail therapy? I hail a yellow cab and ask to be dropped off at the The Bowery Market flagship shop.

  I walk in and take a deep breath, inhaling the fragrance of new collections hanging on the racks inside the exposed brick, post-and-beam building. The scent of an early fall adds a crisp note to the bouquet. Besides spring, this is the season when all of the innovative designs hit the market. After being greeted by the doorman, who recognizes me as a regular, I walk down the aisle, taking in the new designs. Something catches my interest in the far back corner. It’s Dolce & Gabbana’s lingerie collection inspired by vintage postcards.

  I always have had an appreciation for fine lingerie. Even if no one ever sees it, I’m usually wearing a set of not too showy, elegant and—sigh—too-expensive undies to make me feel right. That is when I don’t forget to wear a bra… My cheeks feel toasty, enduring another flashback of the scene in the lobby earlier that day. But it’s true: having style is not always about the things people see on the outside. Style is through and through.

  “I see you have your eye on the Dolce & Gabbana collection. Would you like to try something on?” The girl tending the racks smiles at me.

  “Why not?” I shrug, and she asks me my size, and hangs a satin and lace black bra and panties on the inside of the change room door.

  I put on the black briefs over my own. It has all the right detailing, with retro style, and the bra gives my breasts that extra push.

  The garments give my spirit a boost as I try them on, and I can’t help posing in the mirror for myself. There is something about wearing sexy undies that makes you want to pretend you are in a lingerie ad. That thought, of course, takes me back to the images of Patrick I too frequently try to push away. Because that’s exactly what Patrick looks like: one of the models in a Calvin Klein underwear ad. I shake my head. Stop with the nonsense. It’s time to start thinking Dolce & Gabbana. One of those ads where the woman is a sight to be seen posing all on her own. I laugh at myself, anything to take my mind off the shit at Driven Dance Theater. Although Patrick looks like a model, and the dancers are the beautiful ones—I am always behind the scenes—I do receive a few compliments on my appearance now and then.

  That was fun. I button up my jeans and slide my arms into my Band of Outsiders jacket. Then I place the lingerie back on the hangers before clutching them in my hand and stepping out of the change room.

  Oh my god. I freeze.

  No— Shit, shit, shit.

  Patrick? Here? Now? Say what?

  And he is with a woman. I should have known. This has always been his favorite store too.

  “Hey, Londyn.” Patrick’s gaze moves to the lacy lingerie clutched in my hand, and I blush, shoving the set behind my back.

  “Meet Sylene.”

  What kind of name is Sylene? Of course she is gorgeous, with long blonde hair, long legs, prissy plump lips, and
a long sleek nose. But that’s not what gets me. It’s her amazing orange Sies Marjan dress suit. The kind I fantasize about wearing but could never pull off.

  In my day-to-day life I am more of a jeans and trendy T-shirt girl, with the odd chic accessory: shoes, glasses, and—last but not least—handbags, of which I have a few too many. Anyway, I am not the one I make designs for. It’s always about accentuating the body that is in front of me.

  I blink up.

  Sylene even has a pair of blue-lensed Matsuda sunglasses that are more current than mine.

  Patrick has found a girl who has better taste than me? That just hurts. Though maybe I should be happy. Now he might lay off me. But man, my jaw is in knots.

  “Hi.” My voice comes out high-pitched.

  “I like your shirt.” The corners of Sylene’s lips turn up.

  “Thanks.” I blush, really wanting to cover my chest. If only I wasn’t hiding sexy unmentionables behind my back. If only I had kept that bra on and brought out the price tag to pay with so that the whole world would stop looking at my nipples under Patrick’s favorite record label shirt.

  Patrick eyes me with delight. I am really going to give him a piece of my mind later. He clears his throat, nodding his head, when I notice the woman who helped me earlier standing politely next to us.

  “Can I wrap that up for you?” She nods at the things I am trying to keep hidden behind my back.

  “Uh… no, thank you.” I hand them back to her, happy to have them out of my sight and my arms free to cross over my chest.

  “You can wrap them up for me.” Patrick shoots his focus to the woman, who turns as red as I feel. I shoot him an annoyed-slash-confused look.

  “No problem.” A smile lifts off her lips and reaches her awestruck eyes.

  Patrick turns his focus back to me. He is being rude to his friend, but she is busy texting on her phone.

  “You might want to ask your date her size first.” I look away.

  “Sylene likes your shirt.” He bypasses my comment.

  “I see you’re still a prick.” I roll my eyes. “Gotta go.” I’m flustered—that knot in my gut has moved higher into my chest. “Have fun.” I wave.

  “Londyn,” Patrick growls.

  “Why are you at my store, anyway?” I ask, seeing how Sylene has wandered into the men’s section and is intently examining the racks and making notes, probably deciding how she can update Patrick’s closet and make him hers in every way. “Isn’t it enough that you have invaded my workplace?”

  “Sylene,” Patrick calls over his shoulder. I eye him intensely.

  “What’s up?” She doesn’t lift her eyes off the clothes on the rack as her hands shuffle over them and her phone.

  “Sylene.” Patrick amplifies his voice so she can hear him on the other side of the store, his eyes still confronting mine. “This beautiful, young, feminine, and sexy,”—he says the last two words so only I can hear them—“woman is one of the best designers in New York. She might have a few tips for you.”

  I cannot believe him. I tighten my arms over my chest and laser my gaze into him. Sylene doesn’t seem too fazed. She is definitely more understanding than I am.

  “Oh yeah?” she says with disinterest, collecting a few items off the rack and walking toward us. She hands Patrick the clothes. “Try these.”

  Patrick takes them from her but doesn’t take his eyes off of me. He really needs a lesson in manners. If I were Sylene I would be kicking him in the balls right about now, which I might do even though I am not her. “We don’t have much time.” She gives him a stern look.

  He clears his throat, “My publicist Sylene, here, doesn’t like to make the photographer wait, but I’ve told her over and over again that since she is engaged to Vin, the head of the record label, she can do whatever she wants.”

  Sylene shakes her head and releases the closest thing to a smile I have seen during this whole weird exchange. “We aren’t engaged.” She looks past me. “We’re just…” she shrugs.

  “Spooning,” Patrick mouths to me, and Sylene rolls her eyes.

  “Try these on already, we have an album cover to shoot. We only have the best photographer in all of New York booked, and we aren’t going to make him wait.”

  “Fine.” Patrick takes the hangers in his hands. “But I am only wearing these if she approves.” He smiles at me. “And she can join me if she likes.”

  The woman who’s been packaging my underwear opens the door to the change room, looking at me with envy, as Patrick winks at me. I give him a good shove.

  “Go,” I say with warning in my eyes.

  By that point Sylene and I are both smiling and shaking our heads at each other as we wait for Mister Model to change.

  Somehow Patrick convinces me that he can’t go through with the shoot without me and that it will be the end of his career if I am not there. I am the only person whose taste he trusts. He closes the deal with the puppy eyes that I have such a hard time saying no to, and I reluctantly show up at the exposed brick photo studio in a warehouse on the Lower East Side.

  Terry Brunette, one of the best photographers of this decade and someone on my radar for his innovative fashion shoots, is adjusting lenses and lights when we walk in. He is wearing a pair of faded jeans, a white shirt, and a stack of masculine friendship bracelets on his wrist that look like they’ve been collected from around the globe. He does casual well.

  “Sorry we’re late.” Sylene huffs, her heels clinking across the polished concrete floor as she carries the wardrobe bags from the store. “Roz and Fern House agreed to cover the shoot, but they got the sizes all wrong, and we had to go to The Market to find a last-minute replacement, as I wasn’t about to have my artist wearing flood pants and bursting out of the seams, can you believe it?” She shakes her head, hanging the clothes on the rack. Terry barely looks up as he twists on a lens. The image of Patrick bursting out of the seams like the Hulk presses a smile to my lips.

  Sylene waves Patrick down. Then she points to the makeup artist who is set up in the corner and patiently waiting.

  “Uh-uh,” Patrick crosses his arms over his chest and mouths under his breath so that only Sylene and I know what he is saying. “I am not wearing makeup.” He lifts a brow at me, and I can’t help but smile and shake my head. Maybe it is a good idea that I came to watch Patrick sweat for a change, instead of me. “I told Sylene I didn’t want a photo on the cover. We already have a professional head shot. But enough about me, can I get you a tea?” he asks, eyeing the refreshment stand in the corner.

  “Me, tea?” I arch a brow.

  “I only suggested it because I have a feeling the coffee won’t be up to your standards. Don’t try and act like I don’t know every little thing about you,” he says suggestively.

  “I’m okay, thanks.” My eyes hit the floor. Perhaps coming here wasn’t the brightest idea, if I am ever going to get over Patrick.

  Sylene walks up to us with a frown on her face.

  “We are already behind schedule. Can you please get your makeup done now?” She hisses at Patrick under her breath, and I keep myself from smiling at his expense. By the look on his face, he does actually seem disgruntled about the idea of applying cosmetics.

  “Every other musician in my genre has a nice digital design on his or her cover, something abstract or atmospheric. Not their face plastered across it.” Patrick’s shoulders rise.

  Sylene speaks through her teeth. “We already went through this. Vin and I both agree that you are too good-looking for that, and we don’t want to waste any assets. The idea is for the record to sell, right?”

  Patrick shoots me a look, one I know too well, that reads, help me out here, am I being a total douche, or is she way off the map and going to make me look like a total cheeseball sellout?

  “I have an idea.” I tilt my head, and Sylene blinks up at me like who the hell are you to speak now? I don’t have time for this. It better be good.

  “Patrick is right
,” I point out. “In his genre you don’t often see a picture of the musician on the cover, but since he is so”—I shoot him a look to tell him not to use this comment against me—“photogenic, why don’t you use the photo that comes out of the shoot and subtly blend it in. Like a digital outline of his features superimposed against a wallpaper design. It will create intrigue and get people searching for cleaner photos of him, maybe buying an album while they are at it.”

  Sylene purses her lips and nods, as though she is actually thinking about my idea. She pulls out her phone and starts dialing.

  “You still have to get your makeup done.” She shoots Patrick a look, and then me a look like it’s my job to whip him into shape, before she walks away.

  “Thank you.” Patrick’s lip twitches into a crooked smile, and I tilt my chin to look up at him. His gaze burns into me, and my mind drifts back to the package of lingerie he bought earlier. His eyes flash with knowing, as though he can read my thoughts. I blush and look away, wondering if he is thinking about the same forbidden thing I am. “I owe you big time.” He places his hand on my shoulder with a squeeze, and we both look at it before he removes it.

  “You better listen to Sylene and get your makeup done. Don’t worry, they’re probably just going to put some mineral powder on your nose. You have too much facial hair to use much makeup anyway.”

  He brushes his hand across his five o’clock shadow as his lips curve upward. “I knew I couldn’t do this without you.” He takes my hand in his and leads me to the area he is going next. I let him keep hold of my hand, only as a form of moral support. Even though Patrick acts cool, I know how important his music is to him, and the opportunity to make an album with a huge record label for the first time is not something he takes lightly. Not even close.

  After the shoot, once I am tucked in at home, I call Mom back.