by Susan Ward
“A Miss Mendez and Mr. Padilla are asking to come up,” the doorman announces.
“Send them up in five minutes, Yuri.”
Jacob sits on the edge of the bed. “I’ll shower and dress first, babe. You take your time. I’ll entertain them until you’re ready. Do you need anything? Ice for your feet?”
Something in Jacob’s voice makes my insides sharply adjust. It’s like the glow has gone out of the evening and I’m not exactly sure how that happened.
I curl into his pillow, watching him move around the room. “No, baby. I’m good.” But I no longer feel good as Jacob disappears into the bathroom.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, laughter greets me as I step from the bedroom. I pause at the end of the hallway and my eyes go wide.
The lights are dimmed, every candle in the loft is lit, and music pours from the ceiling speakers. Where are Jacob, Cass, and Xavier? The kitchen is vacant. No one is in the living room area. The terrace doors are open.
I go to the glass and pull back the sheer drape. More lit candles surround them as they sit on the plush loungers facing the city. The smile and the light flush on Jacob’s cheeks makes my insides shimmy.
They’ve been drinking. I note the food set out on the low table between the chaises, a party on the fly à la Jacob, since we didn’t know today both Cass and I would be invited into the corps at NBBC and there would be a reason to celebrate tonight.
I lay my cheek against the frame of the patio door and watch them. Whatever that mood was in the bedroom it’s gone. Jacob looks happy and that strange uneasiness inside me is banked instantly. We’re good again.
“Krystal. Finally, you lazy girl.” I shift my gaze to find Cassandra’s brightly animated eyes on me. She smiles above the champagne flute dangling in her fingers. “We’ve almost killed the bottle without you.”
“Kill the bottle. I’m drunk on life,” I tease.
Her laughter sounds like tinkling bells. “No. You’re drunk on your husband. Your fabulous husband who did all this”—her hands flutter gracefully above the small buffet and candles set between us—“and takes such wonderful care of my dearest friend. You’re drunk on your husband. I would be, too.”
“Hey,” Xavier rebukes good-naturedly. “I’m sitting right here, Cass. I can hear everything.”
“Of course you can, darling,” she purrs, closing her face to his and shimmying her nose to his nose. “That’s the point. To make you love me how Jacob loves her. I want to have everything like Krystal does.”
They laugh, and color crowds my cheeks as I cross the patio and sink down close to Jacob.
Xavier fixes me in an intense stare. “What is it your husband does? He won’t tell us. No matter how often we ask. He doesn’t look like a banker or a criminal or even old money, but you live like this when no one has money these days.”
I shrug as I pour a glass of champagne. “He loves me. That’s his job. Cass already told you.”
Cassandra shakes her head until her dark curls dance. “Yes, but his work. Three years and as far as I can tell, you’re the only thing Jacob does. He’s like a balletomane on steroids. He takes you to Juilliard and picks you up. He’s at every audition—by the way, you can thank me later for not letting him hit my father—and as far as I can tell, you two are never apart. I can’t figure out when he has time to work.”
I pretend to find this amusing, but I don’t. “What do you think he does?”
Cassandra’s brows shoot up. “I think he’s a criminal.”
Jacob laughs. “I’ve already told you. I’m her husband. That’s my job.”
Xavier leans into Cassandra, grinning. “I should marry you then because I’d like to live this way.”
Laughing, Cassie falls into him. “Trust me. We’re not living this way on a corps salary from NBBC.”
Xavier pouts. “No?”
She kisses him. “No. The paperwork we got today said something like 42K annual salary. We can’t even live how we already live on what I’m going to make as a professional dancer. I need to find you employment like Jacob’s, only they’re so mean they won’t tell us what he does.”
I sneak a glance at Jacob from the corner of my eye as I scoop a small serving of brochette onto a plate. Christ, they’re drunk, and I worry about Jacob’s reaction to this conversation—the rude where does the money come from chatter Cass frequently subjects us to—until his hand closes on my thigh and gives me a light squeeze. Fire runs the surface of my flesh, warming my entire body, telling me we’re OK even with this overly invasive nonsensical prying from our friends.
Clumsily pulling herself from Xavier, Cassandra holds up her glass. “We need a toast.” We all lift our glasses. “To the two newest Milo Bassard Ángels.”
We clink glasses.
“Who would have thought we’d finally make it, Krystal? Three years.” She giggles over her rim. “That first day at Juilliard I didn’t even like you. The only reason I talked to you is I wanted to fuck your husband.”
It’s awful, but they bust up laughing in a crazed way as Jacob chokes up his champagne into his glass.
His eyes alertly search my face. “Is she serious?”
It’s not exactly how I remember the day I met Cass, but Cassandra weaves truth like macramé, into shocking and somehow humorously spontaneous utterances.
“No, she’s just giving you crap. Besides, I decided to keep you so it doesn’t matter anymore,” I tease, kissing Jacob’s nose.
His forehead resting against mine, his shimmering hazel eyes block out the world around me. “I’m glad you did.”
“Me, too.” I lean in to claim his mouth and his kiss runs down my throat and shoots through my body.
“Look!” Cassandra cries, springing from the lounger and going to the concrete terrace edge. “It’s like being in Les Misérables. Only we don’t die. We drink champagne and become ballerinas.”
As I stare in the direction she’s pointing, the laughter clogs in my throat. Fires glow in the distant night. A sign that there are riots somewhere.
Xavier climbs from the chair. “You’re absurd, Cass.”
She lays her head on his shoulder. “All we have is our humor, Xavier, and my 42K-a-year corps contract. What’s left to do but laugh? Even the ballet companies are going bankrupt. NBBC has been in the red for four quarters now. All this work, the years of sacrifice and pain, and I might be unemployed and we might be on the streets with the protesters sooner than you think. The world we live in is absurd.”
Xavier stands at the rail, holding Cassandra against his chest, and I melt into Jacob, wanting him to hold me as well.
His lips touch my hair. “It’ll be all right, Krystal. This can’t last forever.”
Tears burn my eyes. “I feel bad that I’m happy.”
“Don’t,” Jacob chides, painting kisses across my face. “You’ve worked so hard, babe.”
“Never feel badly about being happy,” Cassandra exclaims, crossing the terrace to drop down on our lounger. “We didn’t create this fucked-up world. We deserve our drop of celebration. We did it. We should celebrate.”
I nod, though I don’t feel like celebrating anymore.
Her stunning smile fades from her face. “Besides, come Monday we’re in the corps, and we’re going to work like we’ve never worked before. On stage and off stage. Dancing and raising money at the galas. If NBBC doesn’t get new patrons this might be the last and our only season. My father says they’ll have to shut the doors.”
I stare at her, stunned. “You’re kidding, right?”
She shakes her head dramatically. “No.”
Xavier studies us from over his glass. “Why do you think we asked what Jacob did? For a hundred thousand dollars Jacob could get on the board.”
I’m startled when Jacob starts to laugh.
“Only a hundred thousand? Let me grab my checkbook,” he says, choking out the words between chuckles.
“Only the check won’t be any good because we don’t have any money. This apartment isn’t even ours. It belongs to a friend. We don’t have anything.”
Glancing quickly over my shoulder, the expression on Jacob’s face turns me cold. He just lied to them and I’m not exactly sure why.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Jacob”
“Shoulders down. Extend. Use all the music,” Sofia orders in her thick Spanish accent.
Barre work.
Endless barre work.
I sit on the folding chair outside the studio viewing window, turning my phone in my hand. I don’t look up. Barre work is my mental rest period since Sofia Ramos de Pérez instructs solo during the early morning hours before Milo Bassard arrives on the scene to ruin every remaining second of the day.
I do a fast check of my watch, surprised it’s no longer morning. Noon and I haven’t seen the jerkoff yet. Maybe Milo won’t show today. Nope, I’m never that lucky.
Eight weeks.
That warning tension in my body hasn’t lessened when he’s near. I still want to punch him when he’s within a foot of Krystal, and worse, my wife doesn’t want me inside NBBC anymore because she’s decided my extreme dislike of Milo is nothing more than jealousy and I need to get over it.
Wrong—though I am jealous of any guy who touches my wife and it bugs the hell out of me whenever she talks about the great Bassard because, fuck, Madison was right about the brainwashing. It’s been eight weeks and Krystal now idolizes the abusive egomaniac—but that’s not what this is. It’s the IED feeling, that first warning I get when something isn’t right, and I can’t figure it out or fucking shake it.
I stare at my phone, considering for about the hundredth time since Krystal started at NBBC if I should make the call. It’s what I’d do if I were only her bodyguard and not her husband.
Why am I not doing it?
Yep, I know why—that jealousy comment.
I exhale slowly, trying to decide if it’s worse to piss off Krystal should she ever finds out about this or worse not to do what my instincts are screaming for me to do.
It’s stupid to debate this any longer. There’s no risk in doing it. There’s only risk if I’m right in what I’m thinking and don’t check it out. Besides, I can trust Jared to keep this confidential if I tell him to. Krystal won’t ever find out.
I stand up, taking a moment to stretch, and do a fast check that Krystal’s still busy in the studio before I head down the crowded hallway toward the street.
Swiping on the phone, I hit the Black Star Security icon. I pace in a small circle by the entrance to NBBC as I listen to it ring.
“Jake, my boy. How’s life in Manhattan?” Jared says good-humoredly and I can tell by the echo I’m on speakerphone.
“Not as sweet as in LA.”
He laughs. “Missing the west coast, are you?”
“Hoping Miss Harris”—my throat contracts for a second since I hate calling my wife that—“will want to visit the family soon so I can get a little fresh air and the beach.”
“I can send Brayden out for a few weeks if you need a break.”
“No—”
“Jake, if you need a break, you need a break. We take care of our men here. And fuck, you’ve been in that hellhole three years straight. Crazy Town, that’s what we call Manhattan these days. I know it’s not the best contract. We all need mental health days. You should take some. Let me talk to Brayden and get back to you.”
“No, that’s not why I called.” My insides grow agitated the way they always do every time my boss tries to reassign me for a breather, since it’s an inescapable reminder that no one in our lives knows I’m married to Krystal. “Pick up the phone, Jared. I don’t want to talk on speaker.”
I hear a squeak like he’s leaning in that massive leather chair in his office and then a click.
“What’s going on?”
“Can you run some background checks for me?”
“Sure.” He starts clicking away on the computer. “You sound concerned about something. Anything I should know about?”
“No. Probably just me feeling a little overly paranoid and jumpy.”
“How deep a background check do you want?”
“As deep as you can go. Anything. Everything. FBI. DOJ. Financials. The whole enchilada.”
“You got a list?”
“Nine names. Milo Bassard. Cassandra Mendez. Xavier Padilla. Sofia Ramos de Pérez. Also the five board members for the Nelson Bassard Ballet Company. I don’t have that list with me. Just look it up. And this is between you and me, OK? Keep it confidential. Don’t even tell Alan. And don’t bill it to the family. Bill it to me.”
“Bill you? Are you trying to be funny? Listen, I know what I pay you. You can’t afford this. Not if you want FBI, DOJ, and financials instead of a standard screening. No need to pick up the tab if you’re thinking you’re being overly cautious or worried you might have to explain the charges. If it’s Krystal you’ve got a blank check for anything you need from the family. There’s no authorization required when it’s about Alan taking care of his family. What’s up with the billing request?”
My jaw tightens.
Wrong, Jared. This is about me taking care of my family.
“Please, just do what I asked. OK?”
“Sure, man. No problem. Is everything OK, Jake? You sound a little tightly wound.”
“It’s this fucking city.”
“Like I said, I can have Brayden on the next flight out there and you home for a couple of weeks of R & R.”
I run my palm across the back of my neck, then squeeze. It feels like iron. “Can’t do that.”
“Ah—you can. I’m your boss. You get paid vacation and you haven’t taken any since you started work. And I said you can.”
I can’t leave my wife, and she’s never leaving here.
“I’m good.”
“Well, if you change your mind.”
“I won’t. I’ve got to go, Jared.”
“Wait. Hold up. Bree wanted me to get a new checking account number from you. You closed the one we were sending your payroll to. She says she’s mailing you paper checks, but you’ve not cashed any in months. She asked me last week if you’d quit. Are you getting the checks?”
Fuck.
“Yep, I got them.”
“OK. You want to tell me why you’re not cashing them?”
“No. Not really.”
There’s a long silence that makes my taut muscles even tauter.
“Listen—”
Oh fuck. Jared’s I’m your friend voice.
“—you’ve lived with Krystal for three years. The relationships we have with our employers, the way we have them to do our jobs well, can get overly confusing. I get that. You wouldn’t be the first bodyguard I’ve employed who’s fallen for their asset or maybe did more and now feels guilty about it. It happens, Jacob. Graham Carson married his employer and he’s the best of the best in elite security. These things happen and whatever consenting adults do, that’s their business. But this one is a little different. This is the employer’s daughter, so you better come clean fast if there’s something I need to know before the family finds out so I can help you.”
“There’s nothing to tell. How long will it take to get the background checks I’ve asked for?”
“A couple of days.”
“Send me everything you get as soon as you get it. I’ve got to run.”
I click off the phone and shove it back into my pocket. Well, that went fucking great. Damn it.
Leaning against the concrete building, I take a moment to rein in what I’m feeling. I’ve been too on edge since Krystal started dancing with NBBC and the last thing I need is another argument with my wife.
Five minutes later, I’m halfway up the stairs to the fourth floor when I hear clicking heels hurrying behind me and my name being called.
I turn to find the
company administrator on the step below. Rebecca leans against the rail, trying to catch her breath.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she says with an awkward cackle. “I never got Krystal’s paperwork back. Usually I don’t have to chase people down. Ballet members can’t wait to get paid. But eight weeks—nothing, and I really need it.”
“I’ll talk to Krystal tonight, make sure she fills it out, and get it back to you in the morning. Is that OK?”
She smiles. “She’s signed her corps contract and releases. I need only basic information. Address. Contact list. Banking. Her file is on my desk. Do you think you can run down there and do it now?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
“I need to get this to Sofia. She tried to dance instead of instruct.” She holds up bags of ice and an Ace bandage. “Did you know she was Milo’s most famous prima before she tore a tendon that ended her career? He made her a star.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well, she was. And we’re lucky to have her at NBBC. Leave the papers on my desk when you’ve completed them.”
She darts past me on the stairs as I turn to go down to the first floor where the company offices are. It’s empty when I enter and I cross to Rebecca’s desk and sink down in her chair. Flipping open the file, I reach for a pen.
Oh shit, some of this I can answer and some of this I can’t. Social Security number, nope. Banking information, nope. Emergency contacts. I can do that section. I have Krystal’s entire family in my phone. I start tapping the pen against the desk. They want four. Why the fuck do they want four? What happens if I don’t give them four and put down only me?
I scan the rest of the questions, and flip the page only to find more. Exhaling, I lean back in the chair. Why is this bothering me? I filled out a packet like this for Jared. It was definitely more detailed and invasive, but my gut reaction is to tell them as little as possible about Krystal.
Current address—I fill in the box.
Prior address—nope, they don’t need that. I X it out.
Emergency contacts two through four gone with a giant X through them, and I put my information on line one. They get one relative’s name—me. Fuck them.
