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

  Kent is still leaning against the counter in his intense way once they’re gone. I return to my spot beside him in silence. The potency becomes stifling. I think about making my rounds again. I’m sure he is thinking the same thing. But I can’t now. That would be disrespectful. Plus, I really don’t want to.

  “How’s the living situation?” His jaw tenses, creating a shadow.

  “Good. My roommate is never home.” I’m partly joking, until he looks at me. “She’s not bad, but she doesn’t understand artists.” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “Not many do.” His lip cocks, and I wonder if he might be joking too. But I look around at the abnormally proportioned bodies with their posture hypererect and their toes pointed out—a contrast to the pedestrian audience members—and I can’t help but shake my head.

  “We are all a bunch of freaks, aren’t we? But in a good way.” I make sure to add the last part. His eyes flicker into my mine. Briefly.

  “I mean, except for you, of course.” I smile, and he gives me a look that is hard to interpret.

  “That was the right thing to say.” He reaches for the coffee mug on the counter and rotates it in his wide palms.

  Londyn’s comment keeps coming back to me.

  “So, there’s something I’ve been wondering, and maybe you can clear it up for me. How much influence does Charles Anderson have at Driven, and why does he have a bad rep?” I blurt, but my timing is off.

  “What do you know about Charles?” He swallows. His eyes slit and his jaw clenches. Jeanette walks toward us with a tight smile, and I regret asking.

  “Nothing, really, just that he’s an important decision maker,” I say quickly.

  “Or an impulsive and controlling one.” He coughs. Kent’s focus narrows over the room, and he sucks in a breath through his nose, which lifts in his chest and widens his square shoulders. He’s about to say something else when Jeanette interrupts us.

  “There are a few more people who’d like to ask questions, if that’s okay.” She leads Kent away, and he looks back at me briefly, shadows beneath his cheekbones.

  Londyn creeps over with her smoker’s breath. She, unlike me, has impeccable timing. “Having fun?” She leans in. She has on a pair of jeans with a black blazer that could be from any one of her go-to designers. “Me neither,” she sniffs before I answer. But dancing in the schools isn’t all that bad. Then, in her usual raspy voice, she says, “Rehearsing with the director tomorrow?” She’s sipping from a white mug of coffee too.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Do you ever read the schedule?”

  “I was running behind this morning.”

  “Weren’t we all?” She rolls her eyes and leans against the counter beside me, the place that Kent used to occupy. Our eyes wander his way.

  There’s a group of mothers, children, and female teachers gathering around him. He’s attentive, stoic, and patient—if guarded—as he signs autographs and answers questions. I cannot figure him out. He looks back at me. There’s a shadow of doubt written in those strong eyes. I squirm, and he looks away.

  Rehearsal tomorrow: just him and I. It gives me shivers.

  Londyn eyes him over her coffee. She lifts her glasses higher on her nose as the teachers and kids giggle.

  Kent’s fingers rake through his hair. His presence is so large. There’s so much to know about him, and it’s no secret that Londyn and Kent are friends. But it isn’t safe to ask Londyn anything about anyone, never mind Kent, and I’m thankful we aren’t drinking tequila.

  8

  I walk to the dancers’ lounge to check the schedule first. Sure enough, my name is chicken-scratched into the noon slot, which is Kent’s usual. The studio is as sterile as a hospital, and wardrobe isn’t open, so there’s no uniform waiting for me. Luckily, I brought a spare set of tights—black, of course. I am on my third coffee and plan to warm up before I go over the solo he had me perform last time.

  I work my way through a barre, plié to grand battement, and I still have an hour to go over a few things before noon. I wipe my forehead, take a chug of my water, and begin.

  Pause.

  Move. Move.

  Pause.

  I recall the steps. It’s automatic, and I wonder if there is such a thing as rehearsing too much, if it makes you lose some of the spark, or if you become less aware. The thought of a private rehearsal with my omnipresent director, which is what I assume is to occur today, has me on edge.

  I walk through the steps one more time, sense the air on my skin, ‘see’ everything around me, drop into my body—foreword, side, back, bend. My breath is held as I strike the last extension into a final collapse. I roll onto my back and look at the clock. Only two minutes have gone by, so I decide to refill my coffee in the lounge to kill time. It’s so quiet—eerie in every artery of the modern building.

  When I open the steel door and walk down the hall, the elevator bell dings. Kent steps out wearing all black, including the black Alexander McQueen jacket he lent me. The scent of his light cologne mixes with the leather. I’m not a cologne girl, but this one is significant.

  “Miss O’Hara.”

  He doesn’t stop as he greets me. He walks down the hall, his black pants and coat swishing, and pushes open the steel door to the studio. I walk past quickly and make my way to the center of the room.

  I stretch my calves and swing my arms in circles a few times, and then start going over Daniela’s solo, while he leans against the barre and crosses his arms over his solid chest.

  “I have something else in mind.” He scrubs the back of his neck, and my mind trips. This is not the expected. Yet so many things about Kent Morgan are that way.

  “From the top,” he says, once he’s given me the lyrical steps, and I take a deep breath before positioning myself in the center of the white room. I slam my lids shut, going over the new choreography in my head. The rhythm.

  An arm extends. Blood rushes out my fingers and the wind tickles my skin. I make a line that extends beyond my fingertips. My weight pours into the floor like sand, and steam lifts out of the top of my head, as though a kettle lid has been lifted.

  His eyes land on me, searing me as they normally do in rehearsal. The music guides the transitions. I have to think hard to remember every new position, but my body manages to stay one step ahead. I hold my breath and push myself through the final reaches, completion is nearing, the music stops, and I fall out of the trance.

  I blink my eyes, catch my breath, and plant my hands on my hips before instinctually looking to see his reaction.

  His gaze meets mine. Briefly. For a moment I forget who he is. We are just two witnesses to the language of movement we are unlocking together.

  “Good.” His voice is sharp as he walks up to me. “Now…” His eyes drop from my eyes to my hand, and he wraps his long fingers around my wrist. He places my arm higher on my shoulder. “Here.” He adjusts me by sliding my arm down my chest to my waist. I’m hyperaware of how close we are and how his skin is on mine. It’s normal choreographer behavior. But it’s not just any choreographer. It’s him. I can smell his cologne and hear his breath. I look up. We make eye contact, and I swallow. He lifts his fingers and takes a step back.

  I nod, trying to focus on the movement under his watch.

  “That’s it.” His firm voice tracks my moves in concentration. And then I catch him in the eye. Something in him changes. It’s as though he realizes his expression is relaxing, and that he never smiles in rehearsal. He rubs his hands over his face quickly. His lips drop, and his focus strains into the more serious one that came before. He sucks in a deep breath, and I try the movements again before watching to see his reaction.

  He nods, I dip my chin in response while holding my breath, and our eyes lock into focus before he breaks contact. I take a sip from my water bottle and he pauses to look at his notes. I lift my arms into a stretch, not knowing what else to do with them.

  “So, what made you want to be a choreographe
r?” I ask, tired of the silence, and maybe secretly wanting to find that place where we are not just director and dancer, but friends. Though he’s been colder since I blurted that awkward comment about Charles at the fundraiser.

  He smirks at my comment, like it’s obscure, which it kind of is. He’s young for a director, and beautiful. By the way he dresses, he reminds me of a Wall Street type. And as far as I know, he didn’t have that much of a career as a performer. He went straight into creation. But he’s never said much about his past struggles, which he shared with me, in any of the articles.

  He eyes me. “It’s not something you choose.”

  “It chooses you,” I mutter in reaction, following his lead. It was such an obvious answer to an ambitious question that I regret asking, and I decide to give up on small talk all together. But his eyes narrow into mine in an instant of recognition that sends a cool rush of air through me.

  He inhales through his nose, rotates his broad back, and I copy his position before going back to the step that came before. “So you want the first balance to be more like this?” I shift my stance while freezing into place.

  He eyes me for a second, and I have no idea what he is thinking. He doesn’t comment, either. Instead, he only asks me to show him the steps one more time, and I take my position in the space, executing the new movement from the top.

  When I’m done, he blinks up at the clock then slides his arms into his jacket to pull it over his shoulders. It looks like he hasn’t shaved for days. I’m still waiting for his feedback.

  “That’s enough for today.” He straightens the jacket collar around his neck. I can’t believe it’s already six o’clock, but I don’t need to be reminded how sore I’ll be tomorrow. Learning a dance for the first time, muscles that were in hibernation are certain to be reworked, and the lactic acid builds up.

  “I might be walking with a limp tomorrow, but I think we’re on to something.” I try on a smile, but my comment doesn’t lighten the mood. He just cocks his head with that serious look in his eye that tells me I crossed the sacred line between the “dancer” and “director.”

  It’s a very clear line.

  “Good night, Branwen.”

  He turns away, and I hook my heel on the barre to stretch and touch my nose to my knee, still very aware of him.

  His hand lands on the steel door as he looks over his shoulder, so I can see the outline of his cut profile, and I lift out of my stretch to stand up. We thank each other in that formal way we always do. But something in his tone is different, maybe it’s the way his jaw is more relaxed and his eyes are less pointed. Once he’s gone, I realize what it is.

  He just called me by my first name.

  9

  Sterling Chance pushes through the studio door just in time for our first bend of plié at the barre, shaking black curls from the side of his head that isn’t buzzed. Robert slams his fingertips down on the white keys, and musical notes fly through the air. Katherine Morris points her nose in Sterling’s direction. His knuckles grip the barre. Everyone secretly steals glimpses between swaying their arms side-to-side and forcing their eyeballs straight into the mirror. She places her small cold hands on his silky white shoulders and whispers something in his ear.

  The rumors slither through the air about the infamous lead dancer with innovative Brussels dance company Push, and his fiancée, Lindsay Turner.

  “Is it true?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Did you hear? Lindsay left him for the music director.”

  “No…”

  “Did he really try to take his own life?”

  “Who told you?”

  They found him just in time, an empty bottle of pills tilted on its side and vomit stains on the white sheets. He was wheeled out of his Brussels flat on a stretcher, sirens and red lights swirling in the night air. Word is spreading.

  Londyn was right: Sterling is nice to look at. He has sharp, chiseled features that are soft in the right places, and his black hair is trendy and severe. Everything about him is dark and moody. Fucked-up guys are hot but not to be dated.

  “Sterling, you’ll be partnered with…” Kent follows Sterling in and looks around the room in concentration as it stills. Everyone knows Sterling was infamous at Push. It’s not just his reputation, which precedes him. He is insanely good. Kent scrubs the back of his neck, and Daniela clears her throat. “Branwen,” Kent finally says and walks back to the front. Daniela huffs, and I lift my shoulders, taking in a big breath. Okay. That caught me off guard. Sterling shakes his hair away from his face and walks up to me. Daniela rolls her eyes when it looks like she is inevitably stuck with Cory.

  Sterling laughs. “You okay?” He kisses both of my cheeks.

  “Of course.” I snap out of my daze. Dark shadows are in his eyes, even though his smile is radiant. I look down.

  “Let’s begin,” Kent says, and Sterling wraps his arm around my waist until we face each other. We begin the feat of breaking through the barriers with a new body. Feel each other out. We sense each other. We push through awkward moments, the occasional, oops and sorry followed by an awkward laugh, at least on my part. Sterling’s laugh is confident and husky.

  Sterling, Cory, and I all thank each other and Kent, that same gesture of respect that normally ends each rehearsal. Kent nods in distraction, and Sterling follows me out of the studio into the atrium. He wipes his sweaty neck with a small towel. Our lips curve up in awkward relief. We made it through our first rehearsal together.

  “That wasn’t so bad.” Sterling pats my back. It could have been worse. We both release a polite laugh.

  “Except the last lift… Sorry about that.” I frown at the memory of one lift gone wrong. Jumping too soon, he nearly missed my waist and it went downhill from there.

  “Just happy the family jewels are still intact.” Sterling’s smile grows wider, and I blush. I try not to study him like he has some kind of mark on his face, like everyone else does. Then again, I know what it is like to be the subject of the wrong information escaping in vicious territory. Maybe that’s why I already feel comfortable around him.

  Daniela summons me. In rehearsal, we were told she’s to teach some of the choreography to me. She rushes through the movements with her slinky body.

  “Got it?”

  She huffs after she shows me once. Then, without waiting for my response, she grabs her bag, stuffs her layers in, runs her thumb over her phone, and says four words to me.

  “I am going now.”

  “Do you want to grab a drink sometime?” It’s beyond me why I lie down for her by trying to make amends. She just has that effect on me. It’s like I want to be accepted by her even though I try to convince myself I don’t care. I instantly regret saying it.

  “I’m not drinking alcohol. On a cleanse.” She avoids eye contact. “Full of sugar.”

  But that’s not the point. You don’t have to have a “drink-drink,” get vitamin water or a green vegetable smoothie for all it’s worth. It’s not like Daniela doesn’t drink—please. I should have at least made her show me the sequence more than once. I’m not sure I even remember it. She leaves the room.

  By the end of the week Sterling and I can do our duet in our sleep, and I wonder what happened to the solo Kent and I worked on before, because we are double casted or maybe even understudies to Daniela and Cory. Sterling picks up the movement quickly and our bodies work well together even though he always seems distracted.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask him, as we are splayed on the floor.

  “Absolutely. I love being birthed butt first out of a black hole,” he smirks. I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or moody, or if there’s truth to the dark rumors.

  “Well, you’re dancing well.” It’s the best I can do with what I’ve been given. He’s now performing push-ups anyway, and yes, performing is the word for it. There are muscles popping in his arms that I have never seen before. And I have seen so many. I wash down a painkiller fro
m a pill bottle in my bag when no one is looking.

  Kent enters, and we stand up to prepare. He scrubs his hands over his face quickly and looks at Daniela, who slips through the door. He nods her into the center of the room. Cory follows and heaves her into the first lift. He folds her into him by the knees. She does have enviable legs. I lean against the barre. Sterling twirls the stud on his tongue, watching. The afternoon goes on forever. Kent has this silent routine happening. He narrows his eyes in concentration. And we study him, as though there are petroglyphs written in his face.

  Daniela huffs. She moves through the steps and Cory shuffles underneath her, adjusting the position of his hands to appease her. He could be one of the king’s men putting Humpy Dumpty back together again.

  “Ouch.” She scowls. “My hair.”

  “Sorry.” He frowns and adjusts his hands on her back. “Better?”

  The annoyed look on her face implies otherwise. They walk around each other, marking through the steps. Her hands slip to his lower back as his lips curve. She shoots Kent a look that says, what next? But Kent is as readable as a petroglyph. It’s all about the translation.

  “Try your hand on his shoulder, lower, not quite…” He thinks. “Let me see.” He slides into Cory’s position. Daniela freezes, and they rejoin in the same shape as she and Cory were in. Kent scoops her under the butt, and her legs and arms flatten into a beam parallel to the floor before her back folds in half. She undulates out of the movement in an extremely suggestive way. Not necessary. My opinion. Her hands grip his shoulders, and her eyes close as she rolls through her spine. Her chin lowers to meet his gaze.

  He looks at her with a tight nod, and she blinks up at him, adjusting her suit as he steps away. Watching them dance together is sort of like swallowing a porcupine, I’m not sure why, and the movements look identical to the lift Cory executed. So I’m drawing a blank.