CLOSING NIGHT: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series, Book 2 (Standalone) Page 6

  More dancers than usual are piled onto the steps, all looking distraught and wearing street clothes. I narrow my focus, trying to read the situation. I am always on the lookout for the next catastrophe.

  “Cory sent all of us home for the rest of the day, can you believe it?” Simone looks befuddled.

  “No.” I frown, pulling out a smoke. “That’s odd.” I press the smoke to my lips and light up.

  “Tell me about it.” Simone rests a cigarette between her lips and lights the tip with mine. “I mean, he said we were all dancing like shit, and that we were the biggest disappointments—or was it sorest excuses for professionals?—ever. And that we had all let our technique slip over the break.”

  “Wow.” I inhale. “So that’s what all the stir is about?”

  I eye the dancers flailing their arms in the air, chattering while looking disgruntled.

  “Did you hear what I just said?” Simone’s eyes pop. “All of us.”

  “Even Daniela?” I raise a brow in thought.

  “Even Daniela.”

  “What do you know?” I squint while inhaling.

  Lexi moves away and hangs her arms over Alex and Natalie as they shoot the breeze. Rebecca makes her way over to me, wearing all black with a pair of Repettos and sporting the tan Sara Dean suede handbag I scored off a friend who works in the fashion end of the movie biz.

  “Hey babe, looking hot.” It’s the first time I have felt like smiling while sitting on these steps in a while. She does look good, so much better than last year, when she was trying to hide the sexual harassment of a sleazy financier and board member who got what he deserved in the end. I felt so bad that the scandal went on so long before the truth finally came out. The whole ugly scene was one reason Kent resigned. The other reason was that he pushed himself to burnout and really did need a break. It was why I agreed to work with Patrick last season. We both knew it might be our last opportunity to work with the genius. Conveniently, Branwen O’Hara was also due for some time off after wearing her knees out working for Raina Freehurst. So the two made off happily ever after together.

  “I can’t believe we haven’t run into each other yet.” Rebecca squats down beside me on the steps, wraps an arm around my back, and rests the top of her head on my shoulder before she looks back up at me. “Heard the news, I guess?” She squishes her lips together.

  “Yeah, Simone told me about Cory’s hissy fit, but everyone probably knows. I look over my shoulder, “Anyway, I wouldn’t worry just yet.”

  “I suppose…” Rebecca lets out a deep breath. “I just don’t know what I would do without this company. I have danced here my whole life.”

  “Which is still a young one,” I remind her, even though she’s only a year or two younger than me. Maybe twenty-five, though she seems even younger. Still, she has already sacrificed more than most around here, and that thought is clearly on both of our minds, even if it’s unsaid.

  “Perhaps,” she sighs and lifts my hand into hers and strokes my fingers. “I miss how you used to French braid my hair,” she says. “It never looks the same when I try to do it myself.”

  “Come here.” I nod, patting the spot below me on the steps, and she climbs between my legs, leaning her head back into me. “Do you have a comb in that sexy bag of yours?”

  She hands me a pick, and I run the comb through the golden blonde hair dangling over her shoulders, propping the handle between my teeth as my fingers sink in.

  The dancers have dispersed and mostly left for the day by the time I am finished Rebecca’s braid. I stand up to brush off my butt.

  “Well, I’d better go see what’s up with Cory.” I lift a brow.

  “I don’t even want to know.” She bites down on her lip. And I look over my shoulder to make sure no one else can hear me.

  “Don’t worry,” I wink.

  “Thanks, Londyn.” She smiles sweetly, and my heart melts a little for her, thinking of the dark secrets she opened up about last year, how devastated she was, and how horrified and torn I felt by the fact that I wasn’t able to help her. But she seems to be doing much better.

  Cory is sitting at his desk in board shorts and a Metallica T-shirt, with his legs propped up and a remote control resting between his fingers.

  “What do you think of this?”

  He presses play, and a video of a male dancer in choreography I have never seen before starts rolling. The choreography is some of the most physically grueling imaginable, and his extensions and jumps blow me away.

  “His name is Lake Leduc. He dances with City Ballet in San Fran and is looking for a way out—some kind of tension with Milla Rose.” He says the familiar name with a mocking tone. I try to remember where I have heard it before.

  “That reality TV show choreographer?”

  “Yep.” Cory sighs. “He probably should have come to the Big Apple a long time ago.”

  “He’s good.” I nod, changing the topic. “How did it go in the studio today?”

  “Good.” Cory looks up at me. “You have to see this.” He presses play again and the male dancer lifts into a leap that outshines any of the ones prior.

  “He should be dancing for Liz Grant,” I say, referring to a company well-known for its athletics. Driven has always been more on the theatrical side rather than the physically showy, even if the dancers are incredible.

  “Or me.” Corry pinches his lips. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. I played that music and did all of the things you suggested—which were brilliant, by the way. I have decided to make it an all-male choreography.”

  I tilt my head and eye him in disbelief.

  “Uh…” I press my lips together and try to read him again, but he actually looks serious. “Eighty percent of your dancers are female, dancers who, may I remind you, have been with this company for a very long time. They’ve devoted themselves to this company. And my costumes—the ones you practically begged me to start on—are not being designed for a… man.”

  Cory bites down on his bottom lip, nodding. “I know, but I am really excited about the possibility. You know how masculine and athletic my movement is. Think about it. It’s actually a pretty good idea.”

  Maybe he is onto something. His movement is more physical than Kent’s, but Cory would be changing the whole image of the company and messing with the dynamics that are already in place.

  “I don’t know.” I shake my head.

  “I’ve already put out an audition call, and the videos have started rolling in.”

  “Really?” I squint, rubbing my bottom lip with my finger. “But the music is a little… sensual for an all-male choreography, don’t you think? Not that that’s a bad thing. Just…”

  “Hmm.” Cory tilts his head in thought. “It is kind of sensual, isn’t it?” He zones his focus back to me.

  “Uh, yeah.” I shoot him a sarcastic look.

  “Do you know why that is?” Cory narrows his gaze over me suspiciously.

  “No.” I jerk. “How would I know that?”

  He laughs. Like, he tilts his head back and starts hysterically laughing. Oh my god. He is really losing it. I take a seat, prop my elbow on his desk, and rest the top of my head in my hand. There is not much to do other than surrender. Welcome to the madness.

  “I’m just fucking with you,” he finally says. “Though I would like to create an all-male choreography, maybe next year. And I think I am going to hire Lake Leduc and make a few other changes around here.”

  “How nice.” I blast him a very fake smile. “But you won’t be doing much if I kill you first.” I narrow my eyes.

  I suppose I should be irritated by his games, but seriously, I am just happy that he is getting some of his mojo back, and so quickly.

  “It was worth it to see the look on your face, especially when I asked you why the music is so sensual.” He crosses his arms over his chest, flexing his biceps under his punk band tee. “Don’t think I didn’t see that package you shoved under your table when
I walked into wardrobe earlier today.”

  Was that today? I shake my head. What? Could all of that have happened in one day?

  “You’d better not push your luck, mister.” I eye him, stand up, and make my way to the door. “Um…” I tap my finger on the doorframe on my way out. “I wanted to ask you: how is Rebecca doing?”

  “Good.” Cory presses his lips together and resumes his video watching.

  Twenty-four hours go by, and no sign of Patrick. It’s a nice relief, even if I keep looking up at that damn steel door and wondering when he is going to barge in and interrupt my train of thought. I’m on edge about it. I am also thinking about my last conversation with my mom. She sounded so down that I suggested she go on a trip to get out of her rut. That’s when she told me she couldn’t afford it. After downsizing from her home in upstate New York to a small condo in Florida, she’s worried about her retirement. All after spending her life catering to my tycoon of a dad’s aspirations. I let out a furious sigh before I bury myself in my work.

  My Americano is sitting on the table beside my drawings, and I finally reach for it to take a sip. Yuck. Cold. Humph. I tilt my head with a satisfied smirk. It’s been a while since I was so absorbed in my work that I left a half cup of Americano sitting beside me to go cold. I look up at the big round clock on the wardrobe wall and can’t believe the time. Class and first rehearsal have been over for a while, and no one has barged in here with shocking news. Wow. That could be a good thing or a bad thing.

  I make a few last touches to the designs that are nearly ready to cut and test, rest my pencil on the table, pour the contents out of my cup into the sink, and chuck the paper in the appropriate basket. Making sure my smokes are there, I loop my bag over my shoulder. The halls are quiet except for the hum of typing and the chatter on the phone coming through the admin offices. I wave to the girls and walk toward the viewing room of the largest studio, where full company class and rehearsals occur.

  Cory is demonstrating an exercise at the front of the room, and the dancers are nervously trying to pick up the physically challenging movement. I nod my head. Things seem to be going okay. We can only hope. It is way too early to tell for sure.

  I flick my focus over to Rebecca. Her feet plant into the floor in precision, landing a challenging jump and rolling through her metatarsals. She tosses her arms and bends back into a deep curve. I think of those ramps at skate parks. The graffiti. My lips curve upward as I imagine my black costumes covered in white paint.

  Rebecca’s shoulders are square and tall, her eyes motivated. She moves through space, defying gravity. Last year her shoulders would have been slumped, and her focus on the ground. Her eyes dart through the space and straight into the mirror as the angles of her jaw slice the air.

  Stark black limbs are making lines across the white floor.

  Cory smiles at Rebecca. She smiles back, looking over her shoulder and following his lead. His knees bend and his arms wind up as he lifts out of the ground.

  Ahhhhhhhhhh.

  You can almost feel the wind under his arms.

  Flying.

  My eyes shift.

  Thump. Slice. Pow.

  Lines, limbs, and patterns with grainy edges: you can almost smell the harsh scent of aerosol paint. With the expensive material from Milan, why not? I rub my forehead in thought.

  Cory lands hard on his feet, knees bending and retracting into an extension, his back bends in half. He finishes off the movement by striking a pose down on his knees.

  Ta-da.

  Lexi looking as fantastic as ever: check.

  Simone, brilliant: check.

  Is it possible for a costume designer to have pets? It’s only natural to have a connection with certain people, especially if they are the ones who open up to you the most. The black bodies in the space rush to the side, and Cory points to two dancers in the back and waves them over. He crosses his arms over his chest as he eyes them. One bites down on her bottom lip. The other snaps her focus straight into the mirror.

  Fear. Desire. Anxiety.

  Edge.

  Limbs lash out in every direction. White slashes everywhere. Black lines slice through the air. Cory’s eyes pierce a black arrow through the room as he shakes his head in disappointment. The dancers clear the space, looking down, and a new grouping is waved over.

  “No.” Cory shakes his head. “That’s not it.”

  The new group exits immediately with their tails between their legs. They start furiously going over the routine in the far background. You can hear the beats of the music in their heads over the music present in the room.

  The silence that isn’t very silent at all.

  A dancer’s nostrils flare. Breath is heavy.

  In, out, in, out, in, out.

  Water splashes inside a plastic bottle. You can taste the plastic.

  The smell of perspiration is as sweet as roses.

  Daniela stands up close to the mirror, checking herself out. She picks something out of her teeth with a long pinky nail. Lexi smacks Daniela’s butt, and Daniela’s lips curve into a sassy smile and she wraps her arms around Lexi’s neck, stepping side to side in a social dance, taunting Cory with her teasing eyes, trying to make him laugh.

  He isn’t biting.

  I don’t wish Daniela unwell—actually, the opposite. I hope that Cory growing a backbone will ultimately give her the edge she needs to put her focus in the right place, and that it will be in her best interest.

  Cory gives Daniela a dirty look, and she rolls her eyes. Stepping away from Lexi, Daniela’s long arms dangle to her sides as she sits into her hip.

  The next group is waved on. The music starts brewing.

  —Stop—

  “Brutal.” Cory shakes his head. “Fucking brutal.” He waves a hand over his shoulder as if he is dismissing them.

  My lips curve upward as I tilt my head in curiosity, leaning against the corner of the viewing room window.

  The dancers leave the room, funneling through the door like a stream of black smoke.

  Two hands land on my shoulders. I jump and turn around.

  “You scared me.” I clutch my chest.

  “Sorry, babe.” Patrick smiles. I feel warm and flustered about the strange walk-ins we’ve had lately. The weird part is that even if I dread seeing him, I anticipate those moments that involve Patrick as much or more.

  Cory has the studio to himself:

  The black yang in a very large yin.

  Haa, thud, bang, pow. Haa, swoop. Hiss, whack—

  He throws his body into one challenging leap after the other.

  India ink is spilling all over the floor.

  White paint is being splattered over the material from Milan.

  I think of Jackson Pollock.

  Cory peels himself off the ground and winds up again.

  “Maybe he will pull this off. Maybe?” I squint.

  “Stranger things have happened.” Patrick leans his chin on the top of my head. “You didn’t have anything to do with his change of approach, did you?” Patrick lifts his chin. I peel my focus off Cory and the graffiti designs forming in my mind.

  “Why would you think that?” I arch a brow, while my eyes shift from his olive skin to the golden bristles spread across his strong jaw.

  “You do so much more around here than anyone ever gives you credit for.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  How much could a costume designer really contribute to a dance company? I am practically always the last one acknowledged on the long list in the program. But I put my whole heart into this place, not just because I want my designs to be featured and linked to high-quality art, but because I care about every single person in this building.

  Including the person in front of me, whether I want to or not.

  “Londyn.” Patrick sighs, and I lift my gaze to meet his. “This company would not be where it is if it weren’t for you, not even close.”

  I am not sure if he is ret
urning the encouragement I handed him the other day during his album cover shoot, or if he is just pushing all of my buttons again. But there is a part of me that genuinely wants the best for him despite everything, and I guess it’s possible he feels the same way toward me. Not that it matters. We can’t go back to being full-time lovers, but maybe there is another way that we can… be there for each other. Maybe. I bite down on my bottom lip.

  “You know that, don’t you?” He scans my eyes as our faces gravitate together. “Just like with us.” He swallows. “I would not be where I am today if not for you. You know how much you mean to me, don’t you? How much you have done for me?”

  His eyes are glossing over and mine are heating up when I realize that we are standing in a window and there may be a few eyes on us, since Cory’s gone now and the dancers are milling back in. I pull away and look on at the dancers below—that was the task at hand. Sure enough, there are a few subtle glances flashing our way. Not that it means the dancers have their noses in our business. They keep a tight rein on this window because even though they would never show a lack of concentration, they are curious about who might be out there watching them and what that means for their career.

  “I should get back to wardrobe. I am working on a few ideas.” My breath is heavy, and Patrick’s fingers are still tangled in mine.

  “Can I see what you’ve come up with?” Patrick lifts his shoulders into a modest shrug.

  “Okay,” I say reluctantly, and we leave the viewing area together to wait for the elevator.

  “These are great, Londyn.” Patrick holds up my drawings as I bite back the smile that is stretching widely across my lips. I tell him about everything that went into them, from the special material bought in Milan, to Cory’s freak-out, and then the joke he played on me about the ‘all-male’ choreography.

  Patrick laughs at the last one between eyeing me like he did yesterday after I tried on the couture for him, and brushing the bristles on his jaw with his fingers in contemplation.

  “Do you remember the time that Natalie went on stage with sweat pants on under her costume?” Patrick laughs now, but at the time it was the most horrific thing anyone could imagine happening at Lincoln Center. In a group of synchronized costumes and choreography, one dancer walks onto the stage with baggy sweats under one of the short fitted dresses I had slaved over for the better part of a year. Perhaps an easy mistake, but not one that was ever allowed to happen, especially not at that caliber of performance.