Pas De Deux: A Dance For Two

by Lynn Turner

  Zack doesn’t want to change you.

  She tapped her foot, exasperated.

  Fine! So what if he likes my feet?? What of it, then?

  She wanted to scream at how pathetic she was, obsessing over such an insignificant detail. But her heart told her it was more than what it seemed on the surface, beating faster each time she replayed his compliment in her head.

  In the short time she’d known him, Zack had never spared her feelings. He was honest to a fault, painfully, infuriatingly so. But as brutal as he could be, he was equally as generous with his praise, leaving her breathless at his brazen admiration. He hadn’t been mocking her or playing to her ego when he’d given her compliments.

  Oui, her subconscious said. You’re catching on…

  Her heart did a sad little pirouette. It was much, much more than him merely liking her feet. It’s that he’d seen them for what they were, in all their perfect imperfection, and still found them beautiful.

  He sees you in your perfect imperfection, and he thinks you’re beautiful.

  Letting her tears fall this time, they streamed hot down her face. What was the point of stopping them? Few people interrupted her tumultuous thoughts, walking their dogs or taking a morning stroll, so she could succumb to her pity party in peace. She’d held back all night, and through the morning, through her workout and pointe class. Better to let go and cry it out now, so there was nothing left when she told him she couldn’t do this.

  Admittedly, she’d taken this role in a desperate effort to escape her haunted life, but the ghost had followed her here, and performing at Radio City Music Hall—exposing her soul to millions of people tuning in on Sunday—had yanked her from limbo and plunged her back into the world of the living. No longer transient in her own existence, she had a taste of what could be, and it awakened a hunger in her she’d been missing for so long it felt like someone else’s memory. She couldn’t get distracted. Not now.

  Mina’s eyes jerked up, her heart leaping into her throat.

  Where’d he come from?!

  The hooded figure hadn’t made a sound. He just stood there, shifting his weight for a beat…

  She opened her mouth to ask what he wanted, then hesitated. It was obvious from the way he hid his face that it was nothing good. Perhaps she could dissuade him with—he was so fast, lunging at her before she could gather her wits.

  “Non!”

  Pain stabbed the point where her arm met her shoulder as he practically ripped her arm from its socket trying to snatch her beloved Chanel bag. She cried out again. It was fight-or-flight. Acting against everything she knew to be smart, against self-preservation, she kicked at him and clutched the bag with both hands to keep him from making off with her…everything.

  Everything is in this bag!

  It was the only thought in her head in the heightened moment, her every breath and motion powered by a shock of adrenaline. Instinctively, her eyes traveled over his tall form in search of the tell-tale bulk of a weapon. Saliva tinged with bile flooded her mouth at that thought, and she choked, but she held on through the fleeting fear that he might hurt her, through the ache in her shoulder…

  “Lady, please!” her assailant gritted. “Just let go!”

  She froze at the first sound of her attacker’s voice—deep, but pitchy, cracking at the word “go.” Her eyes flew to his face—partially hidden in shadow, but unmistakably missing the angular features of a fully-developed man.

  Oh mon Dieu…

  Her lips parted in shock.

  He was just a kid. And he looked scared.

  Taking advantage of her distraction, the youth shoved her away, giving her bag another yank. Another piercing pain shot through her arm, and she wailed, letting go of the bag in defeat. Seconds later, he was gone, disappearing beyond a bend in the path.

  She struggled upright, new tears quickly pooling in her eyes, blurring her vision. Shaking, sobbing, her arm throbbing, she felt along the bench for anything that might have fallen from her bag during the struggle. Her mind was going too fast for any single thought to stick. Coming up empty handed, her sobs intensified. Her eyes darted left and right and behind her, seeking out a good Samaritan, widening at the thought that her attacker might return, then clouding again when she found there was no one. Her throat was too dry to scream for help, backed up by a lump she hadn’t the strength to swallow down. She looked despondently over the water again.

  Nothing.

  Even her silent companion had abandoned her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Zack was eight, he’d run away.

  It was Thanksgiving Day, and he’d broken a dish (while running through the house again) that belonged to Foster Mom Number Four’s mother-in-law—an ugly, misshapen glass bowl with painted flowers on it he’d later learned was called a gravy boat.

  A fancy dish for gravy?

  Stupid.

  The sentiment was something he’d felt compelled to say aloud and earned him “ten licks” from Foster Dad Number Four. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so angry—which was saying something for a kid who was always angry. He’d taken the second-story window to the fire escape, down the ladder, and quickly along the sidewalk to the subway while everyone else was preoccupied with champagne and trying to outdo each other’s thankfulness.

  Assholes.

  He still remembered his excitement when the subway doors opened at Times Square, and the circus that greeted him as he took the stairs two at a time and stood gawking at his first glimpse of Broadway and Forty-Second Street. Balloons the size of Godzilla, floats carrying his favorite heroes, and laughing, deliriously happy people had filled the streets for blocks and blocks. The sky opened up and rained down streamers and confetti. Police rode horses in this magical place, and everywhere he turned, another vendor sold a new, mouth-watering treat. His eyelids had stuck open like window shutters.

  It was exactly as he’d imagined.

  The fact he was escorted back to Foster Home Number Four in the back of a police cruiser instead of on horseback, and the wonder of Broadway had been slightly over-sold by the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, was inconsequential. He’d been bitten by the theater bug, and it was a malady of the incurable kind.

  He would never be able to recreate the exhilaration he’d felt that first time, but damned if stepping into the theater to rehearse his first musical on Broadway wasn’t a near-perfect second.

  The theater was an absolute circus by the time Zack arrived well after two o’clock. Members of the chorus line were doing vocal warmups in the wings, filling the air with a blur of idiotic sound. Some principals were bouncing stage banter off one another in the aisles, quick on the draw with one-liners and exaggerated expressions, their obnoxious voices mixing with the vocal warmups to form a sound like a swarm of mosquitos in the amplified space.

  He grinned, feeling the familiar rush in his veins. It was glorious.

  “On eight!” called Will, the assistant choreographer.

  Like little marionettes, dancers who’d been slouching against each other and gossiping in low tones snapped to attention. They moved into position, risking life and limb on a floor glossy with sweat, waiting for the count. It came, and with the music, they sprang to life. This was his tribe, a sentimental pack of theater fanatics trapped in eternal childhood. It was a quality he looked for in every cast and crew member, from stagehand to star.

  Speaking of… He studied the slight figure lifted precariously over his understudy’s head. Where is my star?

  The young lady was about the same build as Mina, her hair pulled into the same neat bun, and her skin glowing like the moon on a clear night. Pretty, but his leading Lady in Red looked more amber beneath the stage lights.

  Dammit.

  He’d anticipated some distance from her once they’d left their bubble of euphoria and re-entered the real world. He was prepared to be hit with her metaphorical emotional wall.

  Or her literal hand.

  But not s
howing up at all?

  Unacceptable.

  It’s not that he couldn’t empathize with a healthy melodramatic freak-out. He’d been caught up in his own version of it for two days. Like now, for example:

  The two actors in the aisles with their animated expressions and body language looked like live-action Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. Working with Pete to tweak the script last night (again), and polishing the choreography (again), and consulting with the costume and stage designers over the last two days, had been more of the same.

  It was his trustee childhood defense mechanism springing to action, his brain transforming his retinas into fantasy lenses. He could escape into the fantasy for hours and still be aware of the real world around him. It was like…sleep walking. But the fantasy wasn’t enough to suppress the little thud his heart did when he thought of her. Yet, he was here. It was a trick of the trade to be able to multitask, and he expected it—demanded it—of his people, too. No excuses.

  Two days. He missed her. And now he had the added pleasure of being annoyed.

  Professional annoyance. Not the deeply personal kind.

  Right.

  He cursed.

  “You’ll have to snarl a little louder,” Faye said from his left side, handing him a cellophane-wrapped turkey sandwich and a bottled water. “My ears are still ringing from the vocal warmups.”

  Relief flooded his veins.

  Turkey sandwich on wheat.

  Making a grateful noise from the back of his throat, he ripped open the sandwich and tucked into one of its diagonally-cut halves. “I know why my understudy is up there,” he said between chews, “but barring a natural disaster—which I can categorically dismiss—or broken legs, Mina should be the one with her ass in mid-air right now.”

  Faye angled her head and stared at him blankly. “I take it tea time with Norma was unpleasant?”

  He scowled, taking another bite and scanning the theater again. In case she’s hiding in the orchestra pit? For fuck’s sake…

  “On the contrary,” he grumbled through another mouthful. “Vera bought a theater.”

  “Huh.” Incredibly, Faye didn’t bat an eyelash.

  “My exact response.”

  “Did it come with a unicorn or a two-headed dragon?”

  “Not that I recall, but I’m sure there’s still time to put in a request.”

  “Slow news day, then.” Dramatic pause, and then, “Interesting read-through earlier. Can’t say I’ve ever done it without the two leads in attendance before.”

  Zack tried to smile.

  “Yikes.” Faye grimaced. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a human’s lips curl back like that—like a dog baring his teeth.”

  Grunting, he polished off the rest of the sandwich.

  She lifted her hands, palms-out. “Okay, fine. Let’s play Where’s Wilhelmina, shall we?” Sticking two fingers into her mouth, she whistled loudly. Several heads snapped up. “You.” She waved over one of the dancers who’d been breathing through a take five. Then to Zack, “I’ve seen Mina with this one a few times, maybe she knows something.”

  The quick-witted principal dancer with a gymnast’s body sprinted over, then put her hands on her hips to open her chest a little more. A few seconds later, her breaths came easier, deeper.

  “Kyoko,” said Faye. “Have you heard from Mina today?”

  Kyoko seemed suspiciously uncomfortable.

  “At ease, cadet.” Zack joked. She obviously knew something but coming in too hot would get him nowhere. “No one’s in trouble. But if something’s up, I need to know.”

  Kyoko swallowed, her uncertain gaze flitting between him and Faye. “That’s the thing, I haven’t heard from her all day. We were supposed to meet up for brunch and come here together.”

  “Where and when?” Zack asked.

  “On Eighth, like eleven o’clock.”

  “Cross street?”

  “Between Forty-Eighth and Forty-Ninth.”

  “Maybe something came up?” asked Faye.

  “Nah, you don’t understand.” Kyoko shook her head emphatically. “Mina might be the most anal chick I’ve ever met. She’s never late for anything, not even eggs. She would have called.”

  Zack nodded. Anal was an understatement. Death could call her up with a date and time and Mina would show up five minutes early. He tried to ignore the distinct drop his heart made to his stomach. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” Faye nudged him, and he tried again. “Did you try to contact her?”

  “Four times, but it went straight to voicemail.” Doubling over, she moved her hands to her knees.

  Zack’s brow ticked. “When’s the last time you ate?”

  “Yesterday.”

  He bit back a scolding remark. “Get out of here. Eat something.”

  “But—”

  “See you tomorrow, Kyoko,” Faye said firmly, but gave her a reassuring smile. “We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  Zack pulled out his phone and quick-dialed, ignoring Faye’s penetrating look. It didn’t ring even once before Mina’s softly accented voice asked him to leave a message. Cursing, he hung up and tried another number.

  “Who’s up next?” Faye pulled out her own cell.

  “Physical therapy.”

  She nodded. “I’ll try Perez. Mina’s usually up last for vocal training, but it’s worth a shot.”

  Fifteen minutes later, calls to Mina’s apartment building, gym, the studio where she took classes, and the costume department proved fruitless. Zack’s hackles were way up by the time he called Alex and the man hadn’t seen her, either.

  “Fuck me.” He turned on his heel and left the auditorium.

  Faye followed behind him to the lobby, not saying a word as he tapped out the last number anyone wanted to dial. Her eyes matched his thoughts exactly:

  I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

  The line clicked, and a deep, authoritative voice sounded on the other end. “N.Y.P.D.”

  Ten minutes further, and the end of Zack’s rope had unraveled, caught fire, and disintegrated to a steaming pile of ash. “What the hell do you mean you can’t do anything for twenty-four hours? Have you checked emergency dispatch again? I’ve been on hold for five minutes!”

  Pacing in front of the glass doors, he absently watched the sprinkle of rain pick up to a steady stream. Faye had already wrapped rehearsal, and the only remaining personnel besides the two of them were cleaning the theater. He turned away from the doors to throw a homicidal look at the janitor who chose that exact moment to switch on the vacuum.

  Faye scurried to shut the theater doors, and Zack snapped into his phone. “I told you, she did not run away. She has no family in the area. She isn’t seeing anyone, abusive or otherwise. She keeps to a schedule like a clock, generally within a five-mile radius. She’s ten pounds soaking wet, but she’s kinda hard to miss. There are thirty thousand of you. I’m pretty sure you can spare two to patrol the goddamn radius!”

  “Zack,” Faye said tentatively.

  “Do not put me on hold again!”

  “Zack!”

  “What?”

  Faye nodded toward the entrance. “Ten pounds, soaking wet.”

  Three things happened when Mina walked through the doors of the theater.

  First, Zack’s expression went from livid, to shocked, to wild-eyed concern. It was like watching a silent film. Well, almost. For some reason, sound reached her ears like it was traveling through Jell-O.

  Second, his eyes ran through an impressive color spectrum. Forest pine, maybe? Then emerald, then that cloudy sea glass that reminded her of holidays lounging on the beach in Nice, and swimming in the warmth of the Mediterranean Sea. The memory made her smile, just before the third thing, when her heart sped up like she’d been running a triathlon, and everything went hot and fuzzy.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  Then the world went black.

  “Pulse is coming in stro
ng, but she’s dehydrated,” a sharp, feminine voice said. “Get me a—wait, there she is. Pupils look good. I need an oral rehydration solution. Help me sit her up.”

  “Nnnaagragh.” Mina tried to speak, but her brain was slow to catch up and her tongue felt thick.

  The calm, reassuring face of a medic came into clarity—and so did Zack’s deep, measured voice from somewhere outside the ambulance.

  “Is it standard practice to put people on hold, or is that unique to your precinct?”

  “I apologize for the inconvenience-”

  “Incompetence.”

  “Mr. Coen, if I could just ask a few questions…”

  Then Faye’s soft, “She’s awake now.”

  Mina shivered. She was soaked in rain and sweat, which formed an uncomfortable film over her skin. It had been so hot outside, but it was a refrigerator in the back of the ambulance, and the lights made her headache feel like her brain’s hemispheres were trying to split from each other.

  Merde.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, her sense of smell sharpened. She desperately needed a shower.

  “Mina, right?” said the blond medic, draping a small blanket around Mina’s shoulders. She didn’t look much older than her. “I’m Tara. You were out for a few minutes. Your vitals are good, but you’re dehydrated, so we’ve administered an IV.”

  Mina looked down at the tiny tube that narrowed into a not-so-tiny needle and disappeared into the back of her hand. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and moisture filled her mouth. “I-”

  “Bucket.”

  A small blue basin was held under her chin, and she retched and retched, until her abs constricted painfully, and her heaves came up dry.

  “Jesus.”

  “Sir…”

  “Is she okay?”

  “I’m still checking her, but it looks like she’s gonna be fine…”

  There was some commotion, and then Tara blew a resigned sigh, shifting to her left to continue her examination. The ambulance shook a bit, then shrank to the size of a shoe box as Zack’s athletic frame filled the limited space. He came to a squat in front of her, his eyes glued to her face. “Are you okay?”