CURTAIN CALL: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series Book 1 (Standalone) Page 5

  He draws in a deep inhale. Then he hands me his jacket, I suppose so I can place it over my shoulders. The jacket smells like him. I didn’t realize how cold I was.

  I think about how weird it would be to kiss my director, and how inappropriate, but he is a beautiful man and I am human.

  “It must be worth it,” he says, when I’ve almost forgotten what we are talking about.

  The words are freeing and tragic all at once, because it’s as though he doesn’t believe them. I look at the narrow streets lined with tall buildings all around us. Just like being in this city, being in a dance company is suffocation and elation all at once. No matter how badly you want to escape, a blind form of love drives you just as desperately.

  He’s looks at me in a different way than the usual, which is like there is a wall of armor between us. It makes me want to freeze the moment and invent a device that could record it, because I doubt I will ever experience it again.

  That’s when I hiccup.

  Shit.

  A few more hiccups come, only because there’s clearly no choice in the matter; it’s just the way it goes with hiccups. And they hurt.

  He laughs. It’s an anomaly, considering his usual stoicism, but maybe we are getting past that.

  “Don’t laugh.” My lips curve. “I never drink tequila.”

  He’s smiling. It’s like a success, as though we’ve broken through something. Yet I still have the sense this is all temporary. Tomorrow I’ll probably be wondering if we even had this conversation.

  Kent pays the driver and I steady myself into the backseat. The driver makes his way to the front door, and Kent locks onto my eyes one last time. It looks like they are saying, Are you sure you know what you’re doing? The armor is back.

  “Bright and early, Miss O’Hara.” His voice is stiff.

  He closes the door and presses his hand to the window, leaving behind fingerprints. It’s a short ride to the studio in the East Village, maybe because my mind is in so many different places.

  The flamenco music is blaring through the window and onto the street. I walk the stairs with the old sandwich smell and through the wide open door with no one to guard it this time. I begin to do the usual—hide in the washroom and wait for everyone to leave—while the last voice trickles out the door. I am about to take my place on the couch when I hear a familiar voice.

  “We’ll stay up all night if we have to. I need this section perfected by tomorrow.”

  Shit. It’s Judith Smart.

  There must be a company rehearsal tonight, and not the usual recreational flamenco class that goes on.

  There’s no easy way to do this. I leave the washroom and walk through the studio toward the door.

  Judith eyes me. “Hey, aren’t you Raina’s girl? You were in my class a while ago. What are you doing here?”

  6

  Ninety-nine percent of me knows that telling Judith is the right thing to do. I could fess up and tell her I have been crashing on the “community” couch. It was one of her people who told me I could stay here in the first place. Technically I haven’t done anything wrong, but the dance world is small. I didn’t think about how bad it would look for Kent Morgan if one of Driven’s dancers were so down and out that she’d been sleeping on Judith Smart’s couch, until now.

  “I take the flamenco class and forgot it was canceled tonight. I had to go to the washroom. Sorry to bother you.” I wave. Judith’s black eyes are on me, and my heartbeat resembles a sheet of music where all the notes are drawn outside the lines.

  I’m on a busy street in the East Village ready for bed, half cut, and expected to be in top shape by tomorrow.

  Now that Kent knows my secret anyway—though I really could do without Daniela and the other dancers finding out—it’s worth a shot to see if Driven is still open and crash there. I walk all the way across town, past the fashion district and Central Park. It takes me about an hour and a half as the wind bites at my ears.

  But the doors are locked. I press my nose to the window, but all I see are neon lights flickering, though I swear I can hear the buzz of electronica music. I hang my head and backtrack for another hour until I’m feeling more human. I Google hostels and call a few. All full. Then I walk down to Forty-Fourth looking for the cheap hotel we stayed at on tour with Raina. It’s booked too. Then I remember reading about those new Millennium Hotels, so I Google them. They’re still almost two hundred dollars a night, but there’s one nearby. The neon lights of Times Square glisten in the distance, as distant as the option of eating well this week. But I can’t stay up all night in my current state, even though there are all kinds of people still out and about. I need to kill that dance tomorrow. I’m also not going to drink shooters ever again. I’ll just have to figure out a plan for tomorrow night in the morning.

  Katherine Morris watches me struggle my way through the exercises with my breath heavy. I bite my lip in concentration, trying to hide behind the other dancers, but it’s no use. After class she walks up to me.

  “Miss O’Hara.” She lifts her nose in the air. “You shouldn’t party on a week night. You should concentrate on your work.” She walks away with her toes pointed out. Her penguin ancestors would be proud. That would have been my chance to tell her I was out with Londyn. Londyn has seniority over me. But Katherine is already gone, and pointing fingers won’t help.

  After class, Kent’s scent rises from my locker like a dirty secret. How on earth am I going to get his jacket back to him without anyone seeing? There’s nothing to hide, but the last thing I need is public speculation. I throw on a change of clothes, shove the jacket in the bottom of my large dance bag, shut the door, and click the padlock shut. Pheromones scatter like dust. I strip out of my drenched tights and slip into a new suit as Daniela walks into the women’s change room.

  It’s hard to believe Daniela was my shadow at one time.

  “What were you up to last night? You looked like shit in class.”

  Daniela swings open her metal locker across from mine, stripping off her uniform. Her breasts, small and perky, pop out from her tight suit; her nipples are dark and her skin tanned without lines. She must go to those tanning beds that cause cancer. She rolls her tights down her hips, revealing a shiny pink stud in her belly.

  “Cat got your tongue?” She wipes down her damp body with a gold-monogramed towel. She steps her legs into the holes of another sleek suit, and I grab my water bottle and bag.

  Electronica music buzzes. My head throbs. Most of the dancers are hanging out, waiting for rehearsal to begin. The last thing I need is more comments about how shitty I was in class. So I try to find a quiet spot down the hall. Turning the corner to the hallway, Kent practically runs into me. He always manages to show up at the worst time.

  “Miss O’Hara.”

  I step back. My cheeks get hot when I remember how he caught me slightly compromised, and the way he opened up to me as though we were friends.

  “Thanks for lending me this.” I pull the jacket from my bag and hold it at arm’s length. I manage to keep my gestures mechanical.

  He gives me a serious look that is nothing like the one he had when we were talking on the steps last night.

  “Come to my office.” He nods, and I wonder if I did something wrong.

  I follow him down the hall, and the other dancers pretend not to watch us.

  He holds out a chair for me, takes a seat in his, lets out a breath, and opens a drawer.

  He writes up something on the desk and hands it to me. “This isn’t personal. You need your rest if you are going to make it in this company.”

  It’s a check. Not a very big one, but enough. “But…” I swallow.

  His gaze is firm. Penetrating. “It’s an advance. I’ll take it out of your paycheck incrementally.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I don’t do anything unless I’m sure.” Somehow that does not surprise me.

  I’m at a loss for words. He’s still holding it out when
he starts to look impatient, and I stand up and take it as the office phone rings. He answers it at the same time I thank him, and he nods before swiveling away so his broad back is turned to me.

  Londyn is smoking on the steps when I leave the building.

  “Hey, babe.” She pulls a cigarette to her lips and inhales. “What are your plans over the break? Going back to the West Coast to see the family?” She exhales a stream of smoke.

  “No.” I prefer not to explain.

  “I never set foot off this island.” She lets me off the hook and grinds her cigarette into the paved step. “We should go shopping.” She narrows her eyes. She must have noticed me wearing the same jeans every day.

  “Did I hear someone mention shopping with Londyn?” Lexi sneaks up from behind us. She plops her black Dior bag on the steps and slides a gold-plated cigarette holder out of her purse. “Branwen?” She holds the case open to me and then retreats. “Right, almost forgot you’re one of the good ones.” She lights up. “But is it my imagination, or were you totally hung today?”

  Londyn eyes me as Lexi matches her sly look. Londyn probably takes all of the new dancers out for drinks as an initiation. If only they knew about the scene with Kent, they’d be gnawing at me. Not that it was a scene, but we spoke in private about personal things. He called me a driver. This seems like a normal thing to do in a dance company, but it’s not normal for my stone-cold director to act human. But the check—now, that was pretty nice. But for all I know he looks out for all of his dancers. It would only make sense.

  Lexi’s small pink mouth wraps around her cigarette as she inhales and exhales. “This company is so going to corrupt you. You have no idea.” Her eyes sliver as my fingers grip the rail behind me.

  Daniela barges out of the steel door in high heels and couture.

  “Cory is making me tear my fucking hair out,” she huffs.

  Londyn eyes her in the same way she’s been eyeing me since I joined the company, as though she could spot a butt pimple through my clothes. “The new Sies Marjan collection.” She looks impressed.

  Daniela poses for Londyn as I slowly fade into the background and out of the conversation all together.

  “Did you hear what Cory said today? He thinks he has seniority because of his mommy. If I say Kent told us to do the choreography a certain way, Cory’s determined it’s the exact opposite.” She turns her back to me as she vents to Lexi and Londyn.

  “I’m calling him Mr. Cory from now on,” Lexi smirks.

  Londyn blows a slender ring of smoke into the air.

  “Coming?” Daniela yanks on Lexi’s arm as Lexi peels her behind off the steps and reaches for her designer bag.

  Then it’s just Londyn and I and a long stretch of silence where I can’t think of one thing to say. I’ve been the pushover in the corner through this whole exchange—and I am having a hard time resurrecting myself. “I should get going.”

  “‘Kay, babe.” Londyn watches me, fishing in her pocket until she retrieves her pack of Marlboros.

  When I’m out of ears’ reach, I call Marnie and ask her if Liz has found a roommate yet.

  “You’re not going to believe this.” Marnie has that frustrated sound in her voice. “She did find someone, but their check bounced.”

  “Get out.” I smile. It was probably someone she set Liz up with.

  Marnie might be better sticking with shoes. Then, again, she did help me find a place. I make arrangements to drop off the check in Chinatown and sign the lease. But first, I run back to the modern building with an urge to share the good news. I hop up the steps, push through the front door, and press the elevator button. The cart arrives and I step in and impatiently wait for it to open. Then I’m halfway down the hall and knocking on Kent’s door.

  “Miss O’Hara.” He opens it. He looks annoyed, and I realize there’s a man with silver hair sitting at his desk staring at us. “I’m in a meeting.” He frowns and looks over his shoulder.

  Of course. What was I thinking, that just because we shared a few words the other day, he’s my new bestie?

  “Sorry.” I swallow when he looks back at me. “Just wanted to tell you I found a place…” I lower my voice. I can’t believe I came here to tell him that. But he seemed to care, earlier, sort of. And there are not a lot of people who do right now.

  “Great.” He half smiles, and his eyes still look concerned, or preoccupied. But there is a lift in his demeanor. He looks over his shoulder again and inhales through is nose. The tension is back.

  “Right, you’re busy.” I smile. “Just thought you should know, since…” I’m babbling.

  “Thank you, Miss O’Hara.” I’m not sure if he is cutting me off or not, but I back away from the door. There’s warmth in his eyes.

  “See you tomorrow.” I wave. Ugh.

  7

  “Not more dancing in the schools.” Dimitri moans on the street outside of the studio. He’s talking about the dreaded outreach trip.

  No one responds. Instead, we stare at the dirty sidewalk and wait for our ride as steam rises out of sewer vents and traffic stop-starts.

  I can see how this was planned out. It’s the lowest ranking in seniority called upon for this little field trip, at least in the dancer department.

  A blue minivan races up to the curb, and the automatic sliding door creeps open. Apprentice Elena, with a thick hand-knit scarf wrapped around her neck, is sandwiched between Natalie, another apprentice, and Dimitri from Eastern Europe—the token male dancer of the group. We all have one thing in common: travel coffee mugs gripped tight in our hands and tired puffy eyes. Londyn and Kent step into a yellow cab behind us.

  A bubbly woman in a sheer blouse and high heels holds out her hand to Kent when we arrive at an elementary school across town. “I’m Jeanette Bean. Rosewood’s principal.”

  Londyn scoffs under her breath. “Diaphanous—now that is an interesting fashion choice for an elementary school in November.” She pulls out a cigarette and stays behind as Jeanette leads us to a gymnasium.

  Standing in front of a sound system, Kent rakes his fingers through his hair in his usual black shirt and pants. Natalie is snacking on something that looks gourmet. I heard her BF is a vegan chef. And Dimitri cracks jokes that no one laughs at. We are still not awake. Plus, his accent is so thick I have no idea what he is saying half of the time. I’m sipping on my coffee and doing a few pliés and tendus when the principal’s heels click by.

  Looks like we’re ready to start, and I haven’t yet made it to my favorite hip warmer, rond de jambe. The gymnasium fills up with neat rows of kids who cross their legs and look up at us with wide eyes.

  “That one is staring at you.” Dimitri leans into me as he steps into position. He nods at a boy in the front row who is picking his nose. We hold our postures as Jeanette introduces us with a quick blurb on Londyn.

  “After the performance you will get to learn about the fascinating world of costume design for the stage.” Her voice puffs up. “And you will hear some words of wisdom from the renowned Kent Morgan, who’s had a monumental impact on the art form of dance with his trademark choreography. Kent Morgan has been called a visionary and has been featured in just about every arts publication in this city. Please give a round of applause to welcome Driven Dance Theater.” Most of the children are not paying attention to her.

  Kent adjusts the collar of his jacket.

  The music starts.

  I try not to think about the texture of the dirty cold floor but about the steps to the group section we’ve been working on. Though I am dancing on a red-and-blue-striped floor for a non-discriminating crowd, I give it my all, because the looks on their faces are worth it. Plus, the most important audience member of all has his eyes on me. I can feel them. I am coming to rely on them.

  There’s a coffee mingle with parents, children, and school staff after the presentation. We answer the usual questions over veggies with dip and mini quiches. A few of the children are tucked under their p
arents’ arms, and others let out steam as they run around the room while their parents take our autographs. It’s flattering.

  In a quiet moment, I make my way to the coffee station in the crowded room and pour myself a much-needed java.

  “Miss O’Hara.” Kent exudes his usual authority, and I wonder if he might comment on my performance, since he seemed focused on it earlier.

  “Are my arms getting better?” I eye him over a sip of coffee, and he half-smiles.

  “Keep on top of it,” he says as he pours himself a hot cup and flashes me a look.

  “Wouldn’t dream otherwise.” I smile and lean against the counter beside him. There is nowhere else to go. We look over the room, and I become hyperaware of our every movement and breath. Dimitri dazzles a small crowd with his charming accent.

  “I’m not much of a schmoozer,” I say, though schmoozing isn’t quite the right word for this occasion. It’s the conversation with Londyn the other day that is coming back to me.

  “It’s part of the job.” There’s sharpness in his tone, which gives me the feeling he’s also talking about something other than this particular audience. “Besides, that one seems taken with you.” His eyes move to a five or six-year-old who’s followed me across the room and is demonstrating one of the poses from the dance we just did with her arms overhead.

  “I should take notes,” I say, and Kent smirks before taking another sip of coffee and placing the mug on the counter.

  I walk up to the girl. “What’s your name? You’re very good at that move. Do you know any others?”

  She fills me in on every detail of her life: the gymnastics class she takes on Saturdays, the little brother who messes up her room, and her vast collection of My Little Ponys. Soon enough, her mom steers her away with a frown. “Thank you. I think you have a new admirer.”