Bad Reputation

by Stefanie London

  He nodded, feeling far more pleased with himself than he should have.

  * * *

  By the time they made it to the restaurant, Remi felt as though her limbs were aching from the push and pull between her and Wes. At his place, showering in his bathroom and breathing in the scent of his shower gel—which smelled so good Remi was certain it couldn’t be legal—she’d been unable to ease the tangle of feelings battling for supremacy. Perhaps she shouldn’t have gone with him. It’d been bad enough arriving at the parking garage to find a pristine, white Maserati, but then he’d taken her to his apartment on the Upper East Side and she’d almost turned straight back around.

  She’d had flashbacks of sneaking away from her company friends to be with Alex in his blinged-out Como Tower apartment in Prahran. Wes and Alex had so much in common it terrified her—swank homes, expensive toys, upper-crust education, family pedigree… All the things she never had. All the things that had led him to dump her because they’d been found out, and rather than acting like a man and stepping up to be a father to their child, he’d told her to “get rid of it.”

  Remi swallowed and shook the bad memories away.

  “We’ve got a table for you in the back corner.” The server led them through the small, crowded restaurant. The air was heavy with the scent of spices and herbs, and Remi’s mouthed watered.

  The crew piled into the table in a jumble of limbs and coats and scarves. Wes, ever the gentleman, pulled a seat out for her and then took the spot right next to it.

  He’s slick. Too slick.

  Her pas de deux partner, Angelo, sat on her other side. “How’s it goin’, Aussie?” In his thick Bronx accent, it sounded more like “ossie.”

  “You’ve got to pronounce it like the s’s are z’s,” she said with a grin. “Ozzie, not ossie.”

  “All right, mate.” Angelo chuckled. “Strewth!”

  “Nobody says that.” Remi rolled her eyes. “We don’t say crikey either.”

  “You mean the Crocodile Hunter lied to us?” Angelo pressed a hand to his chest. “That’s a bloody outrage.”

  It was officially the worst attempt at an Australian accent she’d ever heard. “Stop it. My ears will start bleeding.”

  Angelo chuckled. “Can’t have that. The boss would have my head if I damaged the shining star of the show.”

  Across the table, Remi caught Lilah’s eye, but the other woman immediately turned away, as though she hadn’t been listening to their conversation.

  “Glad you’ve got your priorities right.” Wes leaned forward to give Angelo a mock-stern look and, in the process, pressed against her arm. “We’re going to keep this show injury free. Bleeding ears included.”

  The table was tight, and when the food was delivered, they knocked elbows reaching for the bowls of potato curry and veggie samosas. Under the table, Wes’s knee bumped against hers. The innocent brush of contact sent awareness zipping through her veins, giving her stomach a fluttering fizziness. She didn’t move away.

  It’d been so long since such a benign action had stirred any excitement. Since she’d come to New York, sex had been about fun. Fulfilling a physical need. If she met a cute guy at a bar and they were both into it, she’d allow herself to have a good time. But never with someone who had any real connection to her. Never with someone where the relationship mattered.

  Wes was her boss. Her lifeline. She shouldn’t be playing with fire. Again.

  “I did ask you here tonight for a reason,” Wes said suddenly. A hush spread over the table as all eyes turned in his direction. “You might have seen an article online that speculated we’d lost funding from Leonardo Marchetti.”

  “I saw it today,” Lilah said, and a few people at the table nodded.

  “I had hoped to shield the cast from this side of things, but at the same time, I want to be transparent. We’re a small production, and I consider us to be like a family. Secrets won’t do us any good.” He sighed. “The truth is, we did lose our big investor.”

  “Why did he pull out?” Remi asked.

  A stormy look flared quick and bright, like a flash of lightning. “Have you heard of a website called Bad Bachelors?”

  Had she ever? The damn thing was practically her wingman—or was that wingwoman?—in the dating scene. But she wasn’t about to confess that she’d read all about Wes and his “attributes.”

  There was a murmur of recognition through the cast, but Wes was looking straight at her as though he wanted to know her answer in particular.

  “Uh, yeah.” She nodded. “I’ve heard of it.”

  “So the guy we had lined up to invest in the show is a big player, but he’s conservative. He didn’t like the idea of working with someone who was splashed all over the internet.” His lips tightened. “Let’s just say the content of the reviews are…not very wholesome.”

  Remi swallowed. “That’s not good.”

  “The thing is, I would normally write it off as gossip,” he said, raking a hand through his dark hair as he turned back to face the rest of the table. “I’m used to people making shit up to sell advertising.”

  Somehow, Remi wasn’t entirely convinced that the reviews were making stuff up. And they were mostly positive reviews, unlike when her friend Darcy had started seeing Reed. Those were some reviews to be worried about.

  “Are they really saying such bad things?” she asked, feigning innocence.

  You are going straight to hell, Reminiscent.

  Damn, she knew it was bad when she started calling herself by her full name.

  “No, not really. To be honest, I had a skim through, but I didn’t read them in too much detail. It’s weird.” He shook his head. “Makes me feel like I’m a product on Amazon or something.”

  Remi blinked. She’d never really looked at it like that before.

  “Who cares about some bullshit website?” Angelo said with a shake of his head. “So what?”

  “The public cares,” he said. “But I don’t want you to worry. I’ve already got plans in place to hook another investor. We’re doing great work with this show, and now that we have Remi on board, we’ve got a full product to showcase to anyone who’s interested in investing.”

  Gee, no pressure or anything. She swallowed.

  “If you have any concerns, you all have my cell number, but I didn’t want you to think I was hiding anything from you.” He smiled, though there was a stiffness to his expression. “This production means everything to me, and you have my word I will do everything to make it the success it deserves—and that you all deserve it—to be.”

  Well damn if her heart didn’t pirouette in her chest. She’d missed that passion, that drive and ambition in her life the last few years. She’d missed the hunger that fueled people in this industry.

  Without thinking, she pressed a hand to Wes’s arm before snatching it back, suddenly conscious that everyone was looking at her. “I know we can do it. Out of Bounds is incredible, and I’m so honored to be part of this talented cast.”

  His eyes swept over her, and it was like being lowered into a warm bath. And with that, everyone went back to their meal. Across the table, Lilah watched her, a curious expression on her face. Remi shrugged off the uneasiness and made a point of chatting to everyone at the table, trying to ignore the tugging feeling that drew her to Wes.

  She owed it to everyone here to give this show her all. Most of all, she owed it to herself.

  Chapter 11

  “When Wes looks at you, it’s like you’re the only person in the room. My advice: don’t get addicted to that.”

  —ExMarksTheSpot

  Remi’s head was going to pop with all that was clanging around inside it. But getting to know the cast at dinner had been much needed. Comforting. Despite her initial reservations, the other dancers were friendly and welcoming. Well, for the most part.


  Maybe if you weren’t so in your own head all the time, you might be able to learn these freaking steps.

  Remi rose up and down in relevé a few times, coaxing her feet into warming up. The studio was cold, since the heaters had been turned off when they left. After dinner, she’d begged Sadie to borrow the key so she could practice in solitude. It was late, which meant the other dancers would have headed home for some much-needed rest. And while she needed that too, what she needed more was time alone with the choreography.

  The steps were messing with her head. They pushed all the boundaries of what she’d been taught, what she knew. Then there was the element of the chair and the person who would be sitting right next to where she was dancing—right in kicking range.

  “Stop freaking out,” she said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “You’ve never kicked anyone before.”

  Not even with some of the more athletic, acrobatic pas de deuxs. Her partners had always felt safe in the knowledge that they wouldn’t get a pointe shoe to the face.

  She glanced at the dummy in his velvety suit and cravat. “I promise I’ll try my best not to hurt you, Alfred.”

  She swallowed and sucked in a long breath. Practice makes perfect. That’s what her teachers had said to her over and over as she was training. If a step didn’t work out, you did it again and again and again. And then when you thought it was perfect, you kept doing it again and again and again.

  “Three, two, one,” she said, counting down for herself. “Relevé, relevé, retiré.”

  Her arms floated out and in with each movement, like bird’s wings. Then she leaned forward and gripped the back of the chair, stepping up with one foot. Then two.

  “Swish, swish, kick,” she muttered, going over the steps in her head as she moved. “Swish, swish, ki—”

  Her foot struck Alfred straight in the nose.

  “Shit.” She climbed down and brushed her hands down the front of her gauzy training skirt. “Three, two, one…”

  This time, she got a few more beats through the routine before bringing her foot down on top of Alfred’s head. A jittery feeling stirred in her stomach. Like the beginnings of panic.

  She gritted her teeth. “Keep. Going.”

  Swish, swish, kick. Smack!

  Tears pricked the backs of her eyes, frustration and fear mixing like a toxic swirl in her gut. She gave her dancing bag a frustrated jab and blew a loose strand of her hair from her face. Then she counted down from the top again.

  Swish, swish, kick. Swish, swish, smack.

  “Bloody hell,” she muttered. “Why can’t you get this?”

  “Maybe because you’re trying too hard.”

  Remi’s head snapped up.

  Wes stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. How long had he been watching her? She’d been so deep in concentration that she hadn’t noticed him come in.

  So much for solitude and avoiding the source of her distraction.

  “Did Sadie tell you I was coming to rehearse?” she said, climbing down from the chair.

  He nodded.

  “And what’s this about trying too hard? I thought you’d be grateful that I’m doing my best not to give your paying customers a broken nose.”

  “That’s part of your problem,” he said, walking down to the stage. “Your mind is going straight to the worst-case scenario.”

  “The worst-case scenario is that I fall off the chair and break my neck. I thought the bloody nose was a good middling scenario.” She couldn’t keep the jagged edge of frustration out of her voice. “You could have told me I was auditioning for a part in Cirque du Soleil when I came to see you.”

  “I know you’ve been out of rehearsal mode for a long time, but it’ll get easier.”

  They both knew it wouldn’t. Ballet never got easier, exactly—it just became part of you. The pain became part of you. The music became part of you. The choreography became part of you. But like most things in a perfectionist’s life, easy was never an option.

  “Do you think I believe a word coming out of your mouth right now?” A rough laugh vibrated in the back of her throat.

  “Not even a little bit.” Wes walked over, the sound of his dress shoes echoing in the silent studio.

  She was suddenly aware of how alone they were. How hidden from the rest of the world. In his apartment, light had spilled in through the windows. They’d had a timer on the clock, a reservation they couldn’t miss. In the restaurant, she’d been protected by the company of her fellow dancers.

  But now there was nothing to provide a line in the sand.

  Wes walked straight over to Alfred and pulled him out of the “death seat.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” she asked, aghast.

  “Getting a front row seat.” He dropped down into the chair and looked up her, motioning for her to continue. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

  “You’re crazy if you think I’m going to risk giving my boss a concussion.” She folded her arms across her bust. Goose bumps rippled across her skin. Was it nerves or excitement?

  “Stop making excuses.”

  She glared at him. “I’m putting your safety first.”

  “Not you’re not, Reminiscent Sunburst. You’re procrastinating and doing a shitty job of it.”

  She balled her hands by her sides. Of course he was pushing her buttons, poking her until she got riled up enough to have her “I’ll show you” moment.

  “If I ruin that pretty face of yours, it’ll be a crying shame,” she said, taking her position. “How on earth will you ever get another date?”

  “You never know. It might give me some character.” He grinned, completely unperturbed by her sarcastic tone. The guy was like Teflon with that stuff—the jabs glanced right off him. “Either that or you’ll have to take pity on me and be my date. You know, since you ruined my beautiful face and all.”

  Dammit. Why did this man get under her skin like that? Normally, she was the witty one, the one with the silver tongue. That’s what men loved about her—the sharp sense of humor, the snappy comebacks. But Wes’s words sashayed around her, taunting her.

  “Never.”

  “So coldhearted.” He leaned back in his chair, legs spread slightly apart. The pose was unabashedly male, and Remi shifted her gaze away from him, turning back to face the empty rows of seats representing the audience.

  The last thing she needed was the “Anaconda” staring back at her while she tried to nail these steps.

  “Three, two, one.” She counted herself in and rose up into relevé.

  Her toes protested, but she gritted her teeth. She couldn’t let Wes see she was struggling. Not when he’d placed so much faith in her.

  She stepped up onto the chair, her floaty, chiffon skirt swirling around her thighs. Swish, swish, kick. Her foot sailed over his lap, missing him easily and she tried not to be distracted by the blue eyes trained intently on her. Swish, swish, kick. She turned, stepping into an arabesque, facing him, her back leg extended away from the chairs. Her ankle wobbled, the chair uneven enough that if she didn’t rise up in exactly the right spot, she couldn’t get a flat surface to balance on.

  She wobbled again and fell forward, her hand coming down on Wes’s shoulder.

  “Whoa.” He grabbed her easily, steadying her so she could bring her other foot down to the chair.

  Humiliation burned in her cheeks. The other dancers seemed so much more at ease, so much more professional. They weren’t scared by the strangeness of the moves or the challenge of working with these props.

  “I wanted to practice alone tonight,” she bit out. She was annoyed at herself for feeling so far behind, rather than at him for turning up unannounced. After all, he had every right to be there. “I’ll get it, I promise.”

  “I know you will.” He stood, his hands still on her.r />
  Her chest rose and fell, the deep breaths threatening more emotion that she desperately tamped down. Wes moved in front of her, his other hand coming up to smooth over her hip. He settled it on the other side of her waist.

  “I’m going to hold you,” he said. “Go back into arabesque.”

  Swallowing, she rose onto pointe and stretched into the position. Her back leg extended behind her, pulling up to create a perfect, elongated shape. Her arms floated in front, one slightly higher than the other as she looked out over her fingertips, concentrating on the crack in the beige wall on the other side of the studio.

  She held the position, feeling safe with his hands holding her steady. It’d been so long since she’d had a partner to give her a safety net. To make sure she didn’t fall.

  Remi didn’t dare look down, fearing that staring into Wes’s eyes might bring the most painful memories rushing back. She’d fallen in love once before in this very predicament—frightened of a new challenge, but with a strong, charming man holding her steady.

  They’d been alone in the company studio, practicing. Her, an understudy for a coryphée role that had a small pas de deux component, and him, the handsome soloist on the rise. Remi’s usual partner was difficult, temperamental. He’d tried to push her too fast, his steps always seemed a quarter of a beat too early, making it look like she couldn’t keep up.

  But Alex had been there for her. His career was taking off with rumors that he would be tapped for a senior artist position the following year. Yet he’d made time for her, stayed late to help her walk through the steps. He’d seemed so much older, wiser. And she’d been smitten.

  God, how she’d been smitten.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the memory to stop playing in her head before she made even more of a fool of herself. Bringing her leg down, she turned toward Wes, ready to ask him to move out of the way. But his hands splayed across her waist, smoothing the fitted material of her long-sleeved top.