CURTAIN CALL: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series Book 1 (Standalone) Page 7

  Sterling rubs his chin in concentration. Kent steps away and Cory lifts Daniela’s legs over his head. They slide apart like scissors opening. Sterling cocks a brow and chuckles under his breath as he maneuvers me into a back bend and lowers his chest to mine.

  I place my hands on his biceps to pull myself up when I realize why Sterling looked at me like that.

  “Did she just… vagina fart?” His eyes go wide. The look on his face cracks me up, and my ribs jerk, and we almost miss the next step. But I suck it in, and he lets out a fast breath. His palm cups my thigh. Internal laughter comes to me as a delayed reaction. But there’s no time. His other hand steadies my back as we spin.

  Kent is watching us when I land on my feet. I suck in a breath. Composure. Daniela nods Cory into another go. Sterling holds out his hand for mine. I can’t look at him. He’s trying not to laugh too. His nostrils are jiggling.

  My name is chicken-scratched inside a box on the schedule the next morning. There’s another slot that says Kent and Branwen and nothing else. I read it a few times. Then I get why everyone’s been looking at me strangely. This is the thing we all secretly want. The thing that means that I am important enough for the director to take time out of his busy schedule—that he believes in me, has plans for me. I try not to read into it. Even if it’s the second time it’s happened.

  Kent paces into the studio, wearing his usual black button-down shirt and black pants. He looks up as I slide through the door.

  “Warm?”

  Relatively. I pull my knee to my chest to pop a hip, roll my neck, and swing my arms a few times. He cues the music.

  Once it starts, I reach my arm into space and press my heels into the cool floor.

  It’s hard to be anything but hyperaware when it’s just my director and me in the same room. My limbs weave through the space. I listen to the music without counting it, but I’m having a hard time getting into my body.

  I try to make it happen. But it’s just not. I’m not connecting.

  “Sorry.” I stop before the music does. My jaw clenches, face twists. “Can I try again?” I ask, but my eyes are stinging.

  Kent scrubs the back of his neck.

  Shit. The way he is looking at me, I feel flanked. I’ve been dreaming about this opportunity. And the dance is nothing like I imagined it would be if I got the chance to perform it for him again. My brow knits together. I suck in a deep breath, let it out in one hard huff, and prop my leg into opening position. Extending my arm into the space. I point my focus across my shoulder to the far front corner of the room. The music starts.

  I try to surrender. The presence, once acute, is slipping past my grasp. My chest is achy, my skin exfoliated. His eyes are a million tiny razor blades, and my limbs belong to someone else. I push through the first staccato movements in an unpleasant out-of-body experience, praying that automatic will kick in and I can relax into the music. I have always been a performer—like a light bulb, something switches on once the curtains lift—but this is different. Intimate. There are so many built-up emotions and expectations to throw me off. I’m walking a thin rope.

  He’s standing there. Watching me. It’s impossible to relax. I give it another attempt; glide into position and shift into the floor. I become aware of my breath. I exhale the tension in my chest, but miss the cue in the music, and curse, as I stumble out of the phrase.

  The music stops. The room falls silent. I press my hands to my hips, struggling to get air. My breath is the only sound in the white room.

  It dries the back of my throat. My face is hot. I’m filled with the frustration of not being able to engage in something that should come naturally but eludes me when it matters.

  “Branwen?” His voice is warm. “Work with it. You’ve got this.”

  Something melts in me. I expect his face to have changed—it’s in his voice—but I’m unable to look at him. I swallow a harsh gulp of air and rearrange myself into opening position. Once I begin, I flick my focus past him. My eyeballs reach the far corner of the room, but I can’t help but register the new information. The way he is looking at me now that I’m moving. He thinks I can’t see him. But I can. His penetrating gaze makes me feel like I’m not wearing any clothes, and not just because of this suit.

  My eyes close. Nerves fizz. My skin is being peeled off and placed back on inside out, and it’s not even mine.

  But I know the steps and push through the barriers holding me back. I’m not sure what happens, but before I know it, I’ve forgotten about all the jarring emotions. I forget about the eyes on me and how badly I need to impress them.

  Step step.

  Spin.

  Ripple through.

  Spinning. His concentration is spreading all over me.

  Like jam.

  Quick, quick, quick.

  S-l-o-w.

  Slow quick

  And again.

  Slow, slow, s-l-o-w.

  The muggy air has its hands all over me.

  I am lost somewhere ten stories up.

  He is the white dance floor, the white walls.

  Moisture eats its way down my forehead and my arms, tapping the floor.

  Pause.

  Bliss. Real. True. Bliss.

  The music winds down.

  Don’t end.

  I collapse my hands to my knees in exhaustion.

  The dance is slipping away, becoming invisible as it always does.

  My chest pumps in, out, in, out—trying to find equilibrium.

  I wait to be replaced back in my body.

  If only I could stay inside.

  Forever.

  Kent shifts his knuckles over the barre. He pushes his heavy body off the wood beam and walks up to me. My lashes lower to his strong stance next to mine. He takes my hands in his so that our fingers touch. His look large next to mine. And I thought I was having an out-of-body experience before. Just saying.

  “You killed it.” He squeezes. Then he quickly pulls away, like he just realized we are touching and that it might be inappropriate rather than a friendly gesture of encouragement. He shoves his hands snug in his pockets.

  I killed it.

  He steps away. He scrubs the back of his neck.

  “But unfortunately it won’t make it to production.” That tic in his jaw is back with a vengeance.

  “I can try again if you want.” It’s a delayed reaction, even though I detected defeat in his voice. He’s already walking away. He places his hand on the steel door, pauses, and pushes it open. My innards are queasy from exertion.

  He pauses. The movement inside of me stills.

  “Excellent work today, though.” His voice is firm. Then he’s out the door. Gone.

  My chest collapses.

  10

  It’s a few days before the ‘showing’ for the board, and no one’s told us if Daniela and Cory are performing the duet, or if Sterling and I are, though I suspect it’s not us.

  Sterling looks like he’s been through the meat grinder and is still waiting for the plastic wrapping. He has dark rings under the eyes. It’s like I am physically hurting him when he lifts me.

  He grunts low in his belly as I land on my feet, and then tells me he’s misplaced his meds. It’s the exact day we are supposed to be proving ourselves worthy of the showing for the board.

  I almost offer him a painkiller, but stop myself. I don’t need him asking why I have them on me, or why the bottle is nearly empty.

  “Someone took them.” His nostrils flare. “I always leave them on the counter in the men’s room with the rest of my stuff, but they’re gone.”

  At first I think he’s joking. He does that a lot. But it would not be funny this time.

  “I can’t get more, my doctor is in Brussels.”

  “We have doctors in America.”

  I look at him, trying to figure out if he is serious as he places his fingers on my shoulders and pulls my back into his chest for the next lift. I think about stopping. His comment has me concer
ned, but… he glides the back of his hand down my hip and reaches for my thigh. Okay… then. Just go with it. I close my eyes. We move through the movements until I’ve forgotten about the whole meds issue.

  Press, step, push, loop, and wrap around, elbow, thigh, and hip.

  Whoosh—

  I suck in a quick breath and dig my palm into his shoulder. Kicking both of my legs back, my chest dives to the ground, when he catches my ankles. I flinch every time. It’s not my favorite lift in the first place. It’s kind of like driving with your eyes closed, or without anyone at the wheel. I just hope for the best. There are a lot of things in life like that. We execute the catch and follow-through as always. Sterling is a professional. I’m in good hands. I let myself go. We glide, toss, and spin, and my lips even curve up at the corners without being asked to. Dancing a duet, when you trust the other person, is the closest thing in human existence to flying. My feet crawl up his back to balance on his shoulders, and I ride the fine line of leaving my body as I extend above his head. He rolls me down to his chest, cradles me in his arms, and then wraps one hand around to find my leg.

  Unfolding my foot, his fingers glide over my slick ankle to their final position. We’re inside of the dance, not counting, or thinking, just one-hundred-percent present.

  But…

  “Fuck—”

  My ankle slips from his grip, and my face plummets to the ground—and just like that, my stage life flashes before my eyes. They say a car accident happens so fast there is no time to react. But I’m not in a car. I’m in my body, the body that thinks faster and smarter than my brain, never mind metal.

  My hand braces the impact just in time. Then, it buckles. Bam. My shoulder hits first, and before I know it I’m in a fetal position on the floor with everyone crowded around me. Even Daniela and her skinny plucked brows are knit together. There is a human inside. Funny, the thing that comes after trauma.

  Like Kent hovering over me, piping orders, as though I’m in a dream. He’s fuzzy around the edges.

  “Where does it hurt?” he asks, and I move my hand in the direction of my shoulder. I see stars. The room clears out. “Anywhere else?” His large diagnostic hands on me are intriguing, maybe because I just had the wind knocked out of me and this caring behavior is new, partially.

  He pulls out his phone and calls a doctor while he supports me with a strong arm. I should have just told him I’m okay, because doctors aren’t my friends these days, but my brain is temporarily on hold.

  “I’ll be fine, but Sterling might need to see the doctor. He said he thought someone might have taken his meds.” I only say this because no one is around now, and I remember him asking Sterling to get ice.

  “Does this hurt?” He maneuvers my arm gently. “What about here?” I don’t know if I answer. I’m looking at his face. There’s something odd about it. It’s present and cleared of its points and arrows. His eyes are receptive, as though they need to be. We hold eye contact. It’s gentle, like a doorway has swung open inside. I swallow. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, and we pull away at the same time.

  “Maybe Sterling isn’t up for this,” I say as Kent lifts his hand off of my arm, and we are both staring at it as though it has six fingers. Maybe Daniela and Cory should perform the duet, if they aren’t already. My voice fades with every wish inside of me. Sterling’s health is more important. What am I thinking? I’m more driven than I give myself credit for.

  The doctor walks in holding a black leather case. Renee from admin is standing next to him. Kent stands up and shakes the doctor’s hand. He says something to Renee and she excuses herself. The doctor opens his black kit on the modern chair.

  “I heard you had a nasty fall.” He sits down beside me, and unfortunately he doesn’t leave anything out of the examination. He looks me over earlobe to toenail, checks all my reflexes, and even examines my skin.

  Kent is in the room, but I can’t tell if he is listening when I’m asked to move my eyes in opposite directions and fold my body in tested positions. The doctor maneuvers my knees like putty with his cold fingers, while I sit and pray he doesn’t say anything about the swelling. That would end it all. He pulls his glasses off with a sigh and turns to face both Kent and I.

  “I think she’s okay. Keep icing, and if there’s a certain movement that hurts, don’t push it.”

  Phew. Renee walks in with Sterling before they exit down the hall to a private room.

  “Are you sure her shoulder is okay?” Kent doesn’t look at Sterling; he’s eyeing the doctor firmly.

  “Well, I can’t say for sure unless we do an X-ray, but…” The doctor scratches his brow.

  “Then let’s get her an X-ray,” Kent says, and my stomach twists.

  “I’m fine; it’s unnecessary radiation.” It’s the best excuse I can think of, and I’m starting to panic. Not that a shoulder X-ray would indicate anything about my issues, but I do not need to prolong the investigation.

  Kent shoots me a look, and the doctor frowns. “I’m afraid she’s right. I’d be happy to order one, though…”

  The doctor looks at me, and I realize my eyes are wide, and I’m biting my lip, and I tell myself to be less obvious.

  “My suggestion would be to lay off it a few days and see if it improves. We can always take a deeper look at that point. It’s probably just a deep bruise, maybe a pulled ligament.”

  Oh, thank god. I let out a breath of relief, and not because I was worried about my shoulder.

  “We’ll talk later,” Kent says like it’s an order, and I wonder if he saw the thing that the doctor didn’t name. Why else would he want to talk?

  Once he’s gone, I take the ice pack off my shoulder and place it on my knee, where the pain is throbbing that much deeper.

  The day before the showing, Sterling looks more civilized, and my shoulder has made a full recovery. I wrap my arm around him after class, even though it’s an awkward position. “How are you?”

  “One-hundred-percent, grade-A stud.” He stretches his arms overhead. You can always count on Sterling for a cocky reply.

  Hopefully whatever the doctor gave him clears him for operating heavy machinery.

  When we walk into the studio, Kent is doing his pacing routine. Daniela rests her designer handbag on the floor, and Mr. Cory struts in behind her.

  “Morning,” Sterling says to Cory, and Daniela turns to me when she thinks no one is looking.

  “Looks like you’re not the only wacko around here.” Her skinny lip curls. It looks like she might be getting a cold sore. I wonder if Kent heard her, even though she purposely spoke quietly so he wouldn’t, because he stops pacing. His eyes slant and his jaw ticks. I draw in a deep breath, and Daniela walks away like nothing happened to start bickering like an old married couple with Cory. He places his hands on her waist, nostrils flaring and butt cheeks clenched. I think he’s reaching his limit, if that’s possible.

  Daniela asks Kent if he wants to see a section, but he ignores her. He has his eyes on Sterling and I, while we also go over yesterday’s changes. He scrubs the back of his neck and clears his throat.

  “Tomorrow we run what we have for the board of directors, and Miss O’Hara and Mr. Chance will take the lead.”

  Sterling? I almost blurt but stop myself in time. Sterling smirks like he knew it all along and then stretches his arm overhead. Daniela swats at her maroon Gucci bag, and a tube of lipstick comes loose and rolls across the white floor. Kent grips his fingers in his hair. He paces out of the room. Sterling and I are wide-eyed.

  Holy crap.

  Kent talks to the board of directors, explaining the piece. He stalks the front of the room, running his fingers through the strands of hair that forever fall in to his eyes. I try to focus on what he is saying, but frankly I am too nervous. It’s the last few words that stand out to me.

  “... a work in progress.”

  When you don’t want to take full responsibility, just call it a work in progress. The four most used
words by choreographers. Londyn is studying the room, and all the company dancers are practicing, going over steps and stretching their long legs.

  “Hey, babe.” She walks over and leans her arm on my shoulder. She spots a guy I don’t recognize zipping around the room. “Damn.” she eyes Lexi batting her lashes at him as he smiles back at her. “Cameron Wright, Driven’s publicist. He knows everyone in this city,” she rasps as the extremely good-looking guy walks up to us. I recognize him as musician Patrick Moss.

  “Ladies.” He nods, and Londyn’s lips curve up as he kisses her on the cheek.

  The board is all kisses and fake smiles. My stomach is up inside my chest, my nerves uncontainable. I run on the spot, stretch, and pace. My heart palpitates to the point where I might have a heart attack, but I don’t care as long as it doesn’t ruin my performance. It can wait until I’m done. I wrap my arms around Sterling’s cut shoulders and bury my face into his hard, but yes, sweaty chest. It goes with the territory. Sterling who I just met, Sterling who looks like he just lost his dog—beautiful and dark Sterling.

  “Nervous?” He massages my tight deltoids.

  My hands are trembling, my mouth is dry, and I really could be having a heart attack. I press my hand to my chest and rub. Hopefully it’s just a pulled muscle, or a panic attack.

  There are starving children in Africa. There are starving children in Africa. It’s my mantra to get my fears into perspective as Sterling places his sweaty palms on my shoulders.

  His grip steadies me into the first lift. I push off of him.

  We unwind.

  My toes hit the floor. We stretch apart.

  The tips of our fingers hook. He pulls me back into him.

  A damp strand of his hair lands on my cheek. Perspiration perfumes the air.

  We let out a synchronized exhale. He bends his knees and slides a shoulder under my butt.

  I ride his collarbone until my back arches and my body coils around his neck.