CLOSING NIGHT: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series, Book 2 (Standalone) Page 5

  “Sorry, it’s been a hectic day. What up?” I kick my legs up and try to be bubbly for her sake.

  “Nothing,” she says flatly. “It’s so boring here. You’re lucky you have an exciting career.” There’s a tone of resentment in her voice, though I know it isn’t pointed at me personally. I can tell she’s been stewing about the past again.

  “Did you do anything? Go shopping, or to one of those killer beaches?” I bite my lip. What else do people do in Florida? I have no idea. I have never been a beach bunny myself. My skin burns too easily.

  “There isn’t a beach close by, and the highways are atrocious.” Mom sighs.

  “Well, you can always come back. There aren’t any highways on the island.”

  “Honey, I will never go back to Manhattan. Maybe when you have some free time you can visit me. We can check out one of those beaches. I should let you go. It’s been a long day, and I’m so tired.” She lets out a heavy breath and hangs up before I can think of something upbeat to say.

  5

  When I walk into wardrobe with my coffee cup in hand, there is a small package on my design table, and a card. My first instinct is general surprise followed by a strange giddiness and—when I realize what might be in the package—dread.

  Dread and giddiness: a very bad combination, especially when compounded by nicotine and caffeine. Maybe it’s not what I think it is. Then again, holding Patrick’s hand all afternoon yesterday was not a smart idea. I only have myself to blame if there are consequences. I compose myself, hang my jacket on a hook, take a seat at my worktable, sip on a steamy Americano, and slide my finger into the edge of the envelope to tear it open.

  The note reads: Thanks for yesterday. You never cease to amaze me. Miss you, babe.

  I shake my head with a smile and press my fingers to my lips. I am so up shit creek.

  “Why is your face red?” Cory barges into my wardrobe, and I slip the card under another piece of paper. He eyes the unwrapped lingerie in front of me.

  I tuck the unmentionables back inside the tissue and shove them to a shelf beneath the table and out of sight. Luckily, Cory seems to have too much on his mind to notice.

  He lets out a fast sigh and starts the pacing routine, which makes me think that’s why he came here in the first place: because the wardrobe has more room to pace than his office.

  He looks up at me, rubbing his neck. “So have you come up with anything yet?”

  “You’re joking, right?” I half-smirk and take another sip of Americano.

  “No.” He rubs his hands over his face quickly and lets out another agitated sigh. “I’m just freaking nervous. I don’t freaking know how to be an effing director, and there’s just so much pressure. The Board is already breathing down my neck. I get calls from the media on a daily basis wondering what happened to Kent and if I have the salt to replace him. To top off everything else, the premiere is happening at the end of January this season rather than June like the past two years, so that Push The Limit can go on the road in the spring.” He looks at me with anguish between his rows of pacing. His pale complexion is turning a blotchy shade of red, and his fingers nervously twitch.

  “You need to get yourself together. Your motto right now should be this: calm and cool. Repeat after me. And breathe in through your mouth down into your belly while you say it.”

  “Calm.” He breathes in. “Cool.” He breathes the word out and then looks up at me. “I never asked for this. I’ve always wanted to create, but not like this, not under this kind of pressure. I am set up for a fall here.” He clasps his hands behind his neck.

  I choose to ignore his last tangent. “Now stop the pacing. You really need to find your own style and your own voice. Copying everything Kent did will only confuse you. You are going to need your own approach. And you have it. Whatever happened to your skateboard? You used to wear Vans and shorts with long underwear under them and punk band T-shirts and now you are wearing black, sleek, expensive clothes. You need to be yourself. And…you didn’t get coffee for Daniela again this morning, did you?” I eye him.

  He gives me a guilty look, stops pacing, pulls out a stool, and finally plants his butt down. He drops his head into his hands and runs his fingers through his hair tensely. “I am so effing screwed.”

  “Not yet.” I comb my fingers through my hair. “Tomorrow you are not going to get Daniela’s coffee for her. She will get you coffee. You will stop wearing these clothes.” I wave up and down. “They don’t suit you. And you will shoo everyone out of the studio like you mean business. Send them home. Tell them it’s because they are dancing like shit and you can’t stand the sight of them. Then, you turn on this frigging crazy good music that has just been gifted to you and close your eyes. Block everyone out and start making some kick-ass skater boy moves that you do so well. The next day, when everyone shows up looking meeker and attentively waiting for your demands, hand them the video of you improvising and tell them that you want them to have it learnt by the next day. Focus on whoever does the movement the best, not your rich girlfriend. And then if someone else picks it up better the day after, move onto that person and drop the other person, until you have everyone on edge and dancing their best and not slacking off. Got it?”

  Cory takes a deep breath, nodding while looking down at the table. He presses his lips together with conviction.

  “Yeah.” He nods. “I got it.”

  “I will work on some preliminary costumes. We can always change them later if they are not a fit.”

  “Fuck yeah.” Cory swings his fist in the air. “I’d like to kiss you,” he sings.

  “Well, that’s not happening. Just put the enthusiasm in the dance.” I smile, and he storms over to my side of the table and holds his hand out for a high five. I hit my hand to his and he grins.

  “Oh, and Londyn?”

  “Yes, doll?”

  “Does this mean you are sticking around?”

  I roll my eyes at him.

  “Later.” he scoots out the door with a bright big smile.

  I grumble to myself. Not just because now that Cory is gone, the package and card I opened earlier are staring at me, but also because I am not so sure my little pep talk will be enough to do the trick. I could really use a smoke and another Americano, but shit, I have to get to work on a design. And ugh, with no movement, the only thing I have to work with is the music on the disk drive that is burning a hole through my pocket. I plug the drive into my desktop.

  Let the fun begin.

  While playing the track on repeat, I am more than agitated and look for ways to keep myself busy. Procrastinating over coming up with some concrete ideas, I decide to tidy up my workplace while the music seeps into my subconscious. It only takes me a few minutes to chuck my old coffee cup into the trash can, place a few items in my top drawer, and dust a few shelves. My eyes shift down to the messily folded package on my bottom shelf. I unfold it on my desk, admiring the simple beauty of the high-quality lace and vintage detailing before I get out my steam cleaner. An old habit.

  Every time a new item comes from a shop or comes through this wardrobe, I pay a visit to the steam doctor.

  I hang the lacy items on hangers from a garment rack, give them a once over, and leave them there to dry. It shouldn’t take too long, considering there isn’t much to them.

  When that’s finished, and the music I have so far managed to ignore keeps rolling, I look around the room for something else to do. There are the Push the Limit costumes to tend to on the far wall rack. But no, I sigh. That job will be on the back burner until I can give Cory something to inspire him, which I will do. Soon.

  Besides, working on costumes from a past repertoire piece while playing music for a new creation will only muddy the vision.

  I press my hands onto the table, force my eyes shut, and take a deep breath as the melodic notes sift through me. I reluctantly let my mind go. But the same thoughts keep overtaking me—the same images. And as much as I try to push them
away and make new ones, they are still there stabbing my mind with a hot fork.

  I shake my head in frustration. This isn’t working. When I blink open my eyes, that lingerie drying on the rack is staring back at me.

  “You aren’t helping, either,” I say to the lingerie. I guess there really is nothing to do other than stop procrastinating.

  Walking around the table and reaching for the lower shelf, I pull out the collection of pattern papers I made over the past few days, roll them out, and press my hands down on the curling edges, biting my lip in concentration.

  I just can’t see it.

  I was so excited about these designs. They were practically rolling onto the page faster than I could jot them down, and they were so vivid when Cory first played Patrick’s music for me in his office. But could they actually work for dance? If they did work, they would be extremely inhibiting for movement, but maybe Cory needs something to narrow down his focus. I just don’t know, and I’m overwhelmed and exhausted. The season has just started, and already it feels like the most intense one yet.

  My head collapses into my arms crossed over the table, and I close my eyes for a moment. I need something to take my mind off of all of this… pressure.

  Pressure?

  I never feel this kind of pressure. There are the deadlines that incite the panic of a ticking bomb, and the fears of living up to the choreographers’, the audience’s, and press’s demanding expectations, but I’ve never lacked a creative impulse. Although it’s not lack of impulse but more like a… misplaced impulse? Sigh. Maybe it’s because I have always had movement to work with. Every choreographer wants to think that their movement is most important and that the costume design is only there to accentuate it. Perhaps I should look at this as an opportunity to do whatever I want, and Cory will just have to accommodate whatever I make for him. Humph. Sometimes it really is hard to change old habits, even if you want to change them. The last thought makes me laugh out loud and shake my head. Are they ever hard to change?

  I lift my head from where it rested on my arms. Enough feeling sorry for myself! I have work to do. I blink my eyes and those beautiful, freshly washed and dried garments are smiling back at me.

  Maybe putting on a little couture will make me feel better and give me some of that creative zing.

  Class isn’t quite over yet, so none of the dancers will be stopping by to fill me in on the latest gossip, and Cory should be busy working on our plan. It isn’t like I don’t have a curtain to change behind if someone were to unexpectedly pop in.

  I will make it quick.

  Lifting the hangers off the rack, I place them on the hook behind the change curtain. It isn’t very often I use the change area. In fact, it isn’t very often anyone does. The dancers are usually happy just to strip down in front of me. The change area just adds an extra inconvenience.

  I pull my T-shirt overhead, fold it up, place it on the stool beside my table, and strip out of my jeans.

  Then I step behind the curtain, pulling it shut. The music is still playing as I kick off my not-too-shabby panties and replace them with the upgraded pair, slipping my arms through the bra straps and clicking the clasp shut. This is exactly the kind of music that makes you want to be a dancer. Even though I would never dream of changing the job I love more than anything for the relentless physical and emotional demands of taking the stage and the drab paycheck that goes with it. But this music seriously does it for me. And so does this lingerie.

  I giggle as I strike the silly model-like pose I was toying around with yesterday in the mirror to get me to loosen up. It’s all in good fun, and it takes the edge off the pressure. Plus, the undergarments are that gorgeous.

  I am already feeling ten times better.

  But when the music comes to an abrupt halt, my ears prick. Weird. I had the track on repeat. It’s probably some technical glitch.

  I reach for my jeans and shirt when I realize I placed them on the chair on the other side of the curtain. That’s when I hear the booted footsteps progressively getting louder.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  “Londyn?” a voice drawls.

  “Patrick?” I gulp.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, his voice husky, “other than listening to my… music?”

  Please tell me this isn’t really happening, and that it’s just a strange hallucination caused by artistic pressure, the stirring music, and… Dolce & Gabbana.

  “Uh… nothing. Can you do me a favor?” I bite down on my bottom lip and cover myself with my arms, even though he obviously can’t see me through the curtain.

  “What’s that?” His voice rises. I can hear his breath.

  “I… I just left my jeans and shirt on my stool. Can you please pass them over the curtain to me?” I say quickly, my heart beating faster.

  He clears his throat, “Uh, yeah… sure,” he says, and I hear his boots hitting the cold concrete floor again. “I see them.”

  My shoulders slump in relief. Thank god. I drop my hands to my sides and lean against the change room wall, waiting for him to pass me my clothes. He takes a few steps back to the curtain and then stops.

  “Quickly.” I wrap my arms around myself.

  “Sure thing,” he says, and I watch for the folded clothes overhead. “Uh… Londyn…?”

  “Yes?”

  “You aren’t wearing that lingerie I bought for you, are you?”

  I let out a huff. “Patrick, just hand me my fricking clothes already.”

  “Just one more thing.” His voice wanders.

  “Give up the clothes, Patrick.” I try my best to be firm, but my voice comes out weaker than I would like.

  “Okay…” He sounds as if he is still thinking. “But do you think I could maybe see them?”

  “No,” I gasp.

  “Okay, okay, sorry… It’s just… it’s been so—”

  “Long.” I finish his sentence while lightly running my fingertips along the grain of the curtain, feeling his presence on the other side.

  “Yesterday was...” His voice is thick.

  Amazing.

  “It felt good to have you there.” He clears his throat, adjusting his position against the wall next to me. “And…”

  And…

  “I thought maybe you felt the same way.”

  Fuck.

  I do. It’s just not that simple. Our breakup crushed me, and even though we are still attracted to each other, I am just starting to feel like myself again. Though part of that could have to do with Patrick being around.

  “But if not, don’t worry about it…I understand.”

  His voice lowers, and my gut feels sick with longing when I remember the feel of his hand—calloused from picking the guitar and other instruments he uses in his music—clasped around mine. Even when our palms were uncomfortably sweaty from holding on so long, neither of us let go, until Sylene practically tore our fingers apart and pushed him reluctantly under the flashing lights. I stood by him, sending encouraging thoughts his way. What was so bad about that? Other than it being dangerous emotional territory.

  My shoulders rise and fall with each breath.

  Thing is, I want to show him the luxurious garments I have on—not to show him my body, but out of pure novelty. I have a weakness for couture, and I’m thrilled about the gift. I used to show him everything. We always showed each other everything that caught our eye, whether it was music or designs, or some new piece of furniture or clothing, or a rare vintage find. We were always the first to let each other in, even last year when we were no more than colleagues making the most exciting next step in our careers. Though that was some time ago, somehow almost sleeping together closing night changed everything and reminded me how fast and hard I could fall again.

  But what the hell.

  I rip open the curtain in true Italian house fashion, because Dolce & Gabbana is meant to be shared. And while I stand there nearly naked in one of the poses I had been playing with, his lips part open as his
tongue wets them and his eyelids become very heavy. His focus burns down on me in a slow simmer.

  “Shit.” His voice chokes. “How did you get to be so beautiful?”

  6

  I pull my jeans over my hips fast, zip them up, reach my arms into my tee to pull it overhead, and comb my fingers through my tangle of hair.

  Patrick stares at me with shaded eyes and a tense jaw.

  “Does that satisfy your curiosity? Is it safe to say that Dolce & Gabbana is mine now?” I look at him while reaching my arms into a black overcoat. It takes him a moment to respond.

  “I think it is safe to say that Dolce belongs to you and no one else.” He finally coughs.

  “Good.” I place my hands on my worktable. “Because Dolce and I have work to do. Cory’s asked me to get a head start on making costumes.”

  Patrick’s biceps flex as his arms hug his chest, his eyes gazing down in a distracted way.

  “So things are worse around here than we expected.” His voice is distant. Husky.

  “Much worse.” I curve my lips into a tight smile. “It’s pretty much the only reason that I have stuck around.”

  Patrick’s gaze slides down my body. “Yeah…” He scratches his bristled jaw.

  “Yeah,” I repeat. “You should be happy that you got that record label deal when you did, ’cause—just saying—I think this company’s hour of fame is about to end.”

  “That bad, huh?” He sucks in a breath through his nose, still running his long fingers across his jaw.

  I step off my stool and walk up to him, pressing a finger under his chin to lift his narrowed gaze. “That bad.” I nod and sling my bag over my shoulder. “I’m going for a smoke. Bye.”

  Fuck, am I happy to be out of there. I roll my shoulders and neck to loosen the tension while walking down the hall to the elevator; it was like being in a slow cooker or in a small cage with the big bad wolf. God, I can’t even think straight. I lean against the wall and catch my breath, while the elevator gears start shifting. Resisting the inextinguishable flames between Patrick and me is getting harder by the day.