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

  His arms maneuver me.

  Flip me.

  He tosses me like pizza dough and forces a sharp inhale.

  Here goes.

  My weight slides into him as my feet touch the floor.

  Thank god.

  We catch each other in the eye before lifting off again.

  Flying.

  Flying.

  Flying.

  Landing.

  His lips curve up. My fingers brush the side of his damp hair.

  Slices of wind dart underarm and overhead before his hands land on my waist.

  Lift.

  Lift.

  Lift.

  The room is a dizzy blur of white.

  Eyes are all around us, all over us.

  Katherine’s legs cross in the front row, her eyes pointed above her sunken cheeks.

  Push. Push. Push.

  Lift.

  Lift.

  Lift.

  The room spins.

  I press my hand on Sterling’s shoulder.

  I trust you with my life.

  He grabs me by the ankles, and my face travels at high speed to the floor.

  And…

  The music crescendos.

  Sterling catches me midair, just in time.

  Ta-da.

  The room lifts into applause. Cory presses his fingers between his lips and whistles. Sterling lowers me onto my feet. Smack. He kisses my cheek and leads me forward to take a bow.

  When the room settles, Kent introduces Sterling as the new dancer from Push, leaving out the suicide attempt from the equation. Patrick walks over to me. He has rock-star hair and green eyes. He is wearing black pants, black army boots, a white T-shirt, and a khaki cargo jacket. He is hipster perfection and I wonder if Londyn dressed him.

  “The new face of Driven?” He looks me over. I blush because of what he’s said, and not because of how handsome he is.

  “We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Patrick Moss.” He holds out his hand.

  “So you’re the one.” I smile, and he looks at me funny. “You know… responsible for the twenty-four-seven buzzing in my ears and relentless contemplation of my mental sanity… I’m a big fan.” I refer to the electronica always playing in the lobby.

  He grins, and we shake.

  Then I look around the room. There’s a thought at the back of my mind, one I would not openly entertain. Not even to myself. I need compliments. It’s not that I am a bad person, but let’s be frank, I have grown-up in an unhealthy, narcissistic environment, and it’s possible I may be a tad messed up. Plus, I just performed my ass off and could use a little kudos.

  Kent looks my way. His lips curve. Did he just smile? Smile? I turn back to Patrick and try to block Kent out. Then Londyn steps in and wraps her arms around both of our shoulders, which are higher than hers, so she kind of hangs like one of those red plastic pieces in a barrel of monkeys between us.

  “It’s going to be a masterpiece. A fucking masterpiece.” Her slivered eyes sparkle. It makes me relieved, not for myself, but mostly for Kent and the integrity of this entire insane bubble.

  “You look amazing these days. Is there something you should tell me?” She squints at me as she does the red monkey hang.

  Patrick’s eyes glare back at her in a similar way, a sly look on his face. They look like they are from the same planet: Cool. They are so damn cool and confident, yet beautiful—eyes keen, purring for one another.

  Stripping out of my drenched uniform: it is such a relief the day is finally over. I can’t even begin. The pressure was beyond palpable. My legs are rubber. My whole being is worn right through, yet blissed. This is way better than drugs, even if in a day or two things will be grayer than gray. You might find me scraping my head off of the floor thirty-six hours from now; the highs and lows of a performer are trippy. I yank on my skinny jeans and reach for my wool coat.

  Kent is in the hall near his office when I leave the change room, and I think about asking him if he had any notes after the showing. No one is paying attention to us. They are all deep in conversation or heading out the door, so I decide to go for it. Plus, there’s an opening happening between us.

  “Do you have a minute?” I place my hands in my pockets.

  His eyes are clear and focused. He pulls his hair behind his ear tensely and motions me into his office of stark brushed concrete walls and minimal furniture.

  He pulls out a chair and sits down on the other side of his desk. My cheeks are tense from smiling so much earlier and my throat dry from talking after.

  Even though his lips attempt to curve up once or twice, he doesn’t seem as pleased by everything. I am of the theory that something is bothering him.

  He looks out over the skyscrapers through the window in the distance and turns back toward me, swivels his chair, and rests his face in his hands on top of the desk with a deep sigh. Then he rakes his fingers through his hair, and his eyes do this weird thing where they drop his composure. For a moment he looks as lost as me, or as wounded as Sterling when he isn’t making inappropriate jokes.

  “You’re improving.” His eyes burn into mine. It’s a relief that he says it and I don’t have to ask. I am elated about the performance and feedback, but I’d like to ask him that if he thinks I’m improving, why scrap the work we did together in the studio?

  But I am aware that improving is not enough. It’s merely an invitation to an endless, vicious cycle.

  There’s a knock at the door, and the tense focus held between us snaps.

  “Just a minute.” He stands up and leaves the room. All alone, the buzz of the digital screens of past Driven repertoire playing in a cycle rings in my ears like a million tiny insects. They say that being swarmed by bugs when you’re lost in the wilderness can drive you mad, and it’s obvious why. I look at one of the screens, really look at it, and it’s as though it’s looking back at me, speaking to me, while the images flash. The door swings open, interrupting the gray trance I am falling into, and Kent’s eyes meet mine—like the tsunami.

  His eyes flicker against his strong, placid features. The door shuts behind him, and instead of sitting down he starts his pacing routine against the window in front of the skyline, so I can see the cut lines of his profile.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, sensing something is on his mind.

  He stops. His eyes are on guard, unlike the way they were on me as Sterling and I performed today. It’s different—but not all that different—from the way they were on me more and more each day. I think that if he were to stop looking at me like that, I might wilt like a plant that’s starved of light.

  He paces again, and I stand up from the chair. Because it’s strange to be sitting while his very present figure stalks the room.

  When he sees me standing next to him, he turns to face me, and I reach my arms to rest my fingers on his shoulders, calming him the way he did for me in the studio not that long ago. Even though I know I shouldn’t be touching him, I can’t help it. Just seeing my fingers placed on his black shirt and spread over his cut shoulders stuns me. I can’t believe I have the audacity to touch him. He looks at me again, like he doesn’t know what to make of my bold gestures and is still trying to figure me out.

  He pulls away.

  “Drink?” he asks, as though it may solve something or create a distraction. He pours from a clear bottle and walks over to hand me a glass. “To your duet.” His eyes slice into mine.

  My duet.

  I sip on his words. The vodka burns my mouth, watering my eyes. Kent takes a deep breath and looks up at me, his eyes equally glossy, and we both swallow.

  “You made it,” I say about the duet, even if I’m touched by the concept of it being mine.

  He places his glass on the desk with a pause.

  “That’s kind of you,” he swallows, and I rest my empty glass too before looking back up at him where the space between us becomes smaller. In a dream world, we’re so close that anything could happen. His ey
es forge into mine. The space is smaller. Yet something could be happening. Is happening. We drift. My eyes start to close. Time stops.

  Smaller.

  But before there’s time to decipher up from down, never mind find one hiding sound in the back of my throat, he pulls away. But I am still reeling, and my eyelids have a mind of their own.

  “Branwen?”

  “Uh huh…” I mumble to the sound of his breath when it hits me that he may be trying to tell me something. I blink until we’re looking square into each other’s eyes.

  “You did good today, but you can always do better. Always.” His eyes cut into mine.

  Huh? I step back to catch my breath, grab my purse off the chair, and mutter, “I have to go.”

  11

  I get a call back about a teaching position I applied for when I first moved to New York. The studio needs a sub for a preschool ballet class in Brooklyn. I could use the extra thirty bucks, even if my metro stubs will severely cut into it. But it could lead to more teaching on the side and therefore enhance my income.

  It’s the first time I’ve taught tiny tots. And I must admit they are a little scary. Understatement: a lot scary; give me the Black Swan pas de deux any day, and I’m no ballerina. From the first moment they squeal my name and run away from me in various directions, I clap my hands in the air. I sweet-talk them. I raise my voice. I even bribe them. I can’t get them to stand in lines, not even a circle. I don’t know how the other teachers do it and make it look easy.

  They veer off and then crash into each other, cry, giggle, and scream. I show them how to point their toes. Half of them attempt it, the other half claps their hands on the mirror, leaving fingerprints, or make faces at each other, and then we play a game. They fall asleep on the floor and I spend the rest of the class pulling bubble gum out of a three-year-old’s hair as she looks up at me with her big brown eyes. We accomplish nothing, but still their parents praise and thank me. I thought they’d be mad I tried to bribe their children with candy. Well, one of the moms looked a little miffed.

  I am collecting my things and turning off the lights to the studio, telling myself never again, when the girl with the ringlets pulls her tiny hand out of her mom’s grip. “Wait!” She balls her fists and digs her chubby legs into the ground. She turns around and runs toward me. She wraps her arms around my leg and buries her curly-haired head into my knee.

  “I love you, Miss Branwen.” She looks up at me with her big earnest eyes, and I almost cry.

  I look at my phone on the metro. I almost forgot I was supposed to meet Marnie for a drink. But it’s like I’ve gone through the spin cycle on high speed. I’m in that bad a shape. I cancel. She understands, of course, since she does it to me all the time.

  Liz is out when I get home. I slip under the sheets and bury my head into the pillow. Man, it feels good. After couch surfing for over a month, having my own bed is something I will never take for granted again.

  It hurts to put on my dance suit the next morning. I’m that sore. And it’s snowing.

  “What was with the walk of shame yesterday?” Sterling turns to me, and I freeze. I wasn’t expecting him to know about my meeting with our director. The first thing that comes to my mind is that Londyn knows I went to his office after the showing, and that therefore everyone knows. And then I start to get nervous about him getting in trouble if anyone thinks he made an advance, which he so did not.

  “Nothing.” I reach for my coffee.

  Sterling cocks a brow. “Well, that hurts,” he teases, and I realize he’s talking about how I left right after our performance together without saying anything to him. Oh god, that’s a relief.

  “You killed it yesterday, by the way.” I take a sip of my coffee. Man, if thoughts were transparent, what kind of world would we live in? Because all I can think about is the moment I placed my hands on Kent’s shirt and how we drifted together before he put me in my place and I dramatically left. Not to mention there’s a different message in his eyes—or a few different messages—every time we’re in the same room. I should try to be more professional around him. It’s not his fault he is so beautiful. I wonder how many dancers he’s had to fight off over the years. “Sorry, I left right after the showing. I had to teach a ballet class for three-year-olds in Brooklyn.”

  “Ew,” Sterling says.

  Cory enters the lobby from the studio. My post-performance afterglow has been seriously compromised over the past twenty-four hours. Thirty-six hours was an overly optimistic speculation.

  “Mr. Chance.” Cory nods at Sterling and then looks me over. “Nice work yesterday, Miss O’Hara.” Cory rests his hand on my shoulder patronizingly. It’s strange he doesn’t seem to mind that Sterling and I did the run for the board instead of him and Daniela.

  “Kent asked me to coach you guys. I am taking over all rehearsals this week and then we’ll see.” He nods at each of us and walks away, his butt doing a chassé. Sterling turns to me, “Miss O’Hara,” he mimics. “Please don’t tell me we have an aspiring egomaniac on our hands,” he mutters before adding, “He wears hair gel, you know?”

  I choke on my coffee. Sterling’s humor always catches me off guard.

  “It’s not funny—he’s completely lost without his tube of Dep. I hid it on him one day before class, and he had a mental breakdown.”

  “This was him.” Sterling scampers around, yanking at his hair with his fingertips. “Where’s my hair gel? It’s gone! Someone took it! It was just here!” He comes down off his tiptoes and crosses his arms over his chest. “And I’m supposed to take him seriously?”

  I grab my things from my locker and push my earbuds into my ears. The rhythms of bass are pounding against the gray painted walls when a raspy voice startles me.

  “Hey, lovely where you off to?” It’s Londyn. “You look like you could use a drink.” She studies me.

  I think back to the tequila, smoke rings, and that big black cloud that seems to follow her around. A drink with Londyn is probably the last thing I need.

  “Sure.” I pull the earbuds out of my ears.

  Sterling and Londyn kiss cheeks. They think they are Parisian. Londyn and I exit the building. The snow has already melted and there’s the sound of cars spraying slush as they drive by.

  Our feet nip the curb when Kent appears, dressed all in black. He tucks a stubborn strand of hair behind his ear. “Where do you think you are going, Miss O’Hara? Isn’t there a rehearsal you should be in?” His eyes slice into mine.

  Somehow I’ve gone from being Branwen back to Miss O’Hara. Shit. I must have read the schedule wrong or else there was a last minute change that no one bothered to inform me about. Usually Cory keeps everyone up to speed.

  Londyn goes quiet—an anomaly, really—and I stand my ground looking into his eyes, but I don’t dare say anything. It’s all in my face, how unimpressed I am with his tone.

  “Well, don’t just stare. There’s work to be done.” An irritating glimmer is hidden in his eyes. He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets as I roll my eyes at Londyn. But before Londyn can even bat hers, Kent is up the stairs and opening the door for me, looking patronizing.

  “See you after rehearsal.” Londyn purses her lips.

  “Londyn,” Kent warns through his teeth, and I duck under his arm, looking back. Londyn sticks her tongue out at him when he’s not looking.

  “I thought you were supposed to be away,” I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “I was.” That glimmer is still there even if he looks straight ahead.

  The doors to the elevator swing open, and to my discomfort it’s just the two of us in close quarters. The laws of quantum physics are challenged by the stopping of time. Three floors have never felt so long and far before.

  Finally, the elevator opens, making my escape imminent. Dodging a straight line to the women’s change room, I change back into a black uniform suit.

  In the studio, Dimitri and Rick, also known as “the twins” f
or their shared Eastern European accents, phenomenal technique, and penchant for goofing off, are performing handstand competitions in the middle of the room. The rest of the dancers are giggling when the door slams shut behind me.

  Kent clears his throat and everyone stops in his or her tracks. He throws his jacket on the piano and rolls up the sleeves of his untucked, black button-down shirt.

  “We were just about to go over the notes.” Cory looks up.

  Kent leans against the barre. He folds his arms over his cut chest. Cory cues the sound system. Daniela follows him with dagger eyes, and Kent pauses, his focus simmering.

  “Let’s see Mr. Chance and Miss O’Hara’s duet,” Kent finally says.

  My duet. I remember Kent’s toast and the way my heart doubled over itself.

  Sterling’s eyes push into mine, and I bite down on my lip. He hops out of a stretch, and we take the floor.

  “Places.” Cory’s finger rests on the Play button, and when the music floods the room, Sterling pulls me into him.

  “Hair gel,” Sterling whispers in my ear, and I shake my head. If I wasn’t so focused right now I’d be laughing, but Sterling is good at taking the edge off.

  “Rest—”

  Kent barks when we’ve barely begun, his knuckles white as he grips the barre. “Already there’s a problem.” He rubs his jaw. “Because before the first embrace begins—before the movement even starts—the look in your eyes when you two meet should send a shiver down our spines.”

  Sterling sighs and steps away to try the first gesture again as Cory re-cues the music, and we begin what is no easy task. Sterling looks at me, for a moment forgetting that he is he, or I am me.

  We are just two people.

  We could be anyone other than ourselves. For a moment I know what it’s like to be Lindsay, since the rumors must be true, as Sterling’s dark eyes melt into mine. He pulls me into him and we begin to dance when the music comes to a halt.

  Kent orders Sterling and I to try again from the top. This time we allow ourselves to linger in that place somewhere beyond us as the dance shifts us away from reality and we lose ourselves in the moment. By the time we are finished, the room has gone silent. Kent looks away. Pensive.