by Lisa Edward
I placed one hand on his thigh. “Why aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “I couldn’t cut it.”
“But you were such a wonderful dancer. You should audition, too. The ad said they need strong male dancers.”
Baxter shook his head and leaned back into the seat. “Not really dressed for it.” He ran his hands over the denim covering his strong thighs, then lifted one foot to show his sneaker.
“Since when did you worry about dressing correctly?” I teased. “You used to come to class in your street clothes.”
He shrugged again. “I’ve been down that road so many times I’ve lost count. I don’t dance anymore.”
I leaned into Baxter, resting my head against his shoulder.
“Got a few small parts but even they dried up after a while. Figured they were trying to tell me something. That I wasn’t good enough.” He threw his hands to the side in defeat. “So I gave up, right around the time I gave up on you ever coming to New York.”
WE JUMPED off the train and ran the two blocks to the theater where the auditions were being held. There were around one hundred people, mostly dancers from the way they were dressed and carried themselves, but also a few friends, family and hangers-on. Jaz bounced excitedly on the balls of her feet, and I couldn’t help laughing as she gripped one of my hands with hers and clung onto my forearm with her other.
I’d missed her. As much as I’d told myself I was over her and had moved on, standing here beside her, basking in her energy, I realized there had been a huge, gaping hole in my life.
She got her number, and we entered the theater and found a seat. It felt strange being back in this environment with her. Happy memories flooded my mind of sitting in the conservatory together, huddled close and whispering to each other, trying not to disturb anyone, before inevitably a laugh-snort would erupt from Jaz and we’d quickly sink down into our seats.
“Nervous?” I asked, taking in Jaz’s tense jaw as she ground her teeth.
Jaz dried her sweaty palms on her shorts and grunted as she shook her head.
I knew that look—the wide eyes that screamed fear. “You’ll do great, Jaz. If you’re half as good as you used to be you’ll hit it out the ball park.”
She shook out her hands and legs to dispel the tightness of anxiety, her lips pulled taut.
“Jaz.” I paused. “Jazzy-girl.”
Vivid green eyes flashed at me.
“Jazmeister …”
She grinned. “Why don’t you try out?” One brow was cocked. “They need a strong male lead.” Her eyes swept over my torso and down my bicep. “You look strong … and you’re a man.”
I chuckled as my chest puffed out a little. “Thanks for noticing. I thought I may have to remind you.”
She turned scarlet and I laughed softly. She was still so easily teased after all these years.
James Buckshaw took to the stage and everyone fell silent. He introduced himself and then brought out Pierre Delaconte who was to be the director and choreographer for the production. I’d heard of Pierre before and not too favorably—he had a reputation for putting the hard word on the chorus girls. From his arrogant air to his designer dancewear, I took an instant dislike to the guy.
Next to take to the stage was the assistant choreographer, a woman in her thirties who would be helping to teach the routines to the cast, and finally, the general manager. These were the people who would be deciding the fate of Jaz and everyone else with stars in their eyes who hoped to finally get their big break.
The first group of numbers were called and Jaz checked hers, even though I was pretty sure she knew she was number eighty-seven and they had only called the first fifty. Her legs jiggled as she perched on the edge of the seat, gazing around the theater with a wide-eyed stare that wasn’t really taking anything in.
“Babe, you’ll be fine. Relax.” Fuck! I squeezed my eyes tight, hoping she hadn’t heard the babe slip from my lips. It was so easy to fall into old habits even after so long.
She looked just the same.
I felt just the same.
Those adolescent hormones that went straight to my chest, then made their way to my dick had woken up.
Reaching out, I took her hand and pulled her toward me. “Best out of three. Loser buys dinner.”
Jaz’s eyes widened before a massive grin stretched across those plump, soft lips. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you remember.” She gripped my right hand with hers, our fingers locked together, thumbs at the ready. “One.” Our thumbs moved to opposite sides. “Two.” They moved back to the starting position. “Three!”
Of course I could beat her easily in a thumb wrestle. I could back then, and I was pretty sure I could now, seeing as my huge hand engulfed her petite, delicate fingers. But I always let her win, although I didn’t make it easy for her.
The concentration on her face was hysterical as her mouth twisted with every attempt to better me. It was finally time for the first round to be won as she miraculously managed to pin my thumb down.
“Ha!” Jaz punched the air in triumph. “I’ve still got it,” she teased cockily.
“All right, you got lucky that time. Let’s go again. Best out of three, remember?” I bit the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing and we lined up again for round two. This one I knew I’d win. And I did.
Jaz rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck from side to side before gripping my hand for the deciding round. When she managed to pin my thumb, her arms reached for the ceiling in victory.
“Yes!” She giggled, crinkling up her button nose. “I can beat you every time.”
I admitted defeat gracefully, as I always had. “You’re just too good for me, Jazzy. You always were.”
The first batch of dancers took to the stage one at a time to perform their audition piece that would either earn them automatic entry into the next round or send them home with their tails between their legs, scrutinizing their every turn, foot position and expression while they beat themselves up for not making it. Not being good enough.
I’d been there far too many times to count. I’d been too contemporary for some roles. Too classically trained for others. Not the right look. Too tall, short, broad and muscular, and definitely too tattooed. Whatever the reason, I’d failed at having a professional dance career so had been forced to find an alternative.
Jaz had relaxed a little, which had been the aim of distracting her with thumb wresting. She slouched in her seat, her knees bent and her feet resting on the back of the seat in front.
Dancer after dancer gave their all for two minutes while the audition panelists sat perched up on a raised platform and scribbled notes.
“She was gooood,” Jaz whispered, leaning over after the ninth dancer had performed and skipped lightly from the stage. “Did she say her name was Tiffany Carter? She’s one to watch.”
I shrugged. “She was okay I guess.” Truth was, she was really good, but I was here to support Jaz so anyone else paled in my eyes. Mind you, I hadn’t seen Jaz dance in eight years since I’d left Boston for New York, but she’d been graceful and strong all those years ago, and I knew she would be brilliant today.
Finally, after watching the first fifty dancers, all of varying degrees and ability, the next group were called, including Jaz. Literally jumping from her seat, she bounced around for a few seconds, circling her arms and stretching her body from side to side before reaching into her bag. She tugged out a bunched up slip and shoved it under her arm, then went back into the bag and dug out a lip balm. She swiped it quickly over her lips then hesitated for a split second before kissing me briefly on the cheek and running off.
Fuck … strawberry lip balm. My eyes closed so I could focus on that delicious sweetness. After all these years I couldn’t believe she still used the same strawberry scent. Sighing, I let my mind wander back to the first time I’d smelt it. We’d been partnered in a contemporary ballet class that I’d almost refused to take. I was a dancer, sure, but there wa
s no way you’d catch me prancing around in tights. She’d been my partner … so shy she could hardly meet my eyes, but when we’d danced she had to let me touch her. She had to let me hold her close and if I was bold, even nuzzle her hair a little. After a while, she’d let me touch her even when the music wasn’t playing. I knew I’d been her first … everything, but even I wasn’t so egotistical to think there hadn’t been anyone for her since. I mean, I’d had girls during the past few years once I read online that Jaz had signed with Boston Ballet and had broken her promise to follow me to New York. But the thought of some other asshole touching what was mine still filled me with anger.
While each dancer performed their most well-rehearsed routine, I gazed around the theater. Auditions and the entire process had always bored me. So many dancers who dedicated their existence to being the best would run from the theater believing they weren’t good enough because some pretentious asshole had told them they had bad feet, or poor extension, or the wrong body type. Every dancer was beautiful in their own right—what they needed to understand was that they just weren’t right for a particular part.
Sinking farther down in my seat, I dropped my head back and looked directly up at the ceiling. I hadn’t been to this particular theater before but it looked as though it had recently been renovated. The ornate gold on the ceiling was a bit over the top for my taste, but the seats were wider than normal and well-padded which was just as well, because I had a feeling my ass would be in one for most of the day.
Guy after guy leapt and pranced around the stage, and I scoffed.
“Strong male dancer, my ass,” I muttered under my breath when yet another male dancer skipped and fluttered out from the wings. I brushed my hand over my mouth to hide the grin. This guy, in his white tights, pale blue crop-top, headband, nail polish, and eyeliner, looked like he was one step away from getting his period. He looked more suited to the female lead than the male.
Jaz’s number was called and I sat a little farther forward in my seat. She’d pulled her shoulder-length blond hair up into a messy ponytail. Smart move—she had an amazingly slender, sexy neck.
She’d lost the T-shirt and was in the lightweight white slip that skimmed over her hips and stopped midway down her thighs. She was toned and tanned and breathtakingly proportioned, with legs for days and the most perfect little peach ass.
Jaz introduced herself and then took her position. The music started—Taylor Swift’s “Say You’ll Remember Me.” I couldn’t help grinning. Up until now, everyone had gone for heavy, classical pieces. This was different; it would be remembered.
Slow, controlled movements began. Standing split, perfect grand jeté followed by split backflip. I nearly clapped right there and had to sit on my hands. She was captivating; the years at Boston Ballet had propelled her from a great dancer to fucking phenomenal.
As her movements took her down to the floor, I craned my neck to see better, even though I could view the entire stage perfectly. Time stood still as a flood of memories and emotions took hold, and I thumbed a tear from my eyes. Geez, I hadn’t cried since I’d realized Jaz wasn’t coming to New York when I’d lost her six years ago.
She was a star who belonged on the stage or in the sky—at the very least a really high pedestal. Boston Ballet Company had been a blessing for Jaz. I’d been selfish, wanting to keep her all to myself.
As the music came to an end, I had to refrain from jumping up and cheering. She gave the selectors a courteous nod, they thanked her, and she left the stage. What the fuck was wrong with these people? They should have given her the lead role on the spot. Crawled on hands and knees to kiss her perfect little feet and beg her to take the part.
Jaz raced down the steps at the side of the stage and skipped over to me, beaming from ear to ear.
“How was it? I think I messed up the a la seconde fouette combination; the last two turns were wobbly. I always lose my center when it matters.” She giggled nervously. “Maybe they didn’t notice.” Jaz plonked down on the seat beside me, a dramatic contrast to the graceful dancer I’d just watched.
“You’ve always had trouble with that,” I commented casually. Her smile dropped. “I didn’t notice though,” I blurted out. “I’m sure they didn’t either.” I squeezed her hand, then relaxed but kept holding it. “You were incredible, Jaz. The best so far by a long shot.”
Jaz wrapped her arms around my bicep and cuddled up. I flexed a little. No harm in playing to my strengths and showing some muscle definition.
“You’ve bulked up so much since Boston,” she commented, huddling in closer.
“Yeah,” I said with a shrug. “Been working out a bit.”
After another hour of watching routines that varied from classical ballet to contemporary and interpretive dance, the first round of cuts was complete. All the remaining dancers were called up on stage, and again Jaz kissed my cheek before jogging up the stairs at stage right.
Now they were paired up and the choreographer, Pierre, called up his partner so they could demonstrate a short routine that they would then teach the dancers. Jaz watched intently, her eyes glued to the couple as Pierre lifted his tiny dancing partner and tossed her around.
Out of pure bad luck, Jaz had been partnered with the guy in the crop top and white tights. He seemed physically strong enough to lift her with ease, but she needed someone who danced with power to match her own, and this guy just didn’t cut it.
Jaz picked up the steps easily, having memorized part of the routine after watching it through only once, but her partner struggled. When he was supposed to support her as she pirouetted and leaned back, he was completely in the wrong position, and Jaz went crashing to the floor in a heavy thud.
Pierre clapped his hands loudly. The music stopped in an instant.
“You!” he bellowed at Jaz’s partner. “Off. Go. Now!” With a flourish of his hand the dancer was told in no uncertain terms which way he was expected to go, which was down the stairs and out the door.
Jaz was still clambering up, rubbing that sweet little ass that was now obviously slightly bruised. She also had just lost her partner. The combination, along with the fact that we’d already been there for several hours and she was exhausted, had tears springing to her eyes.
Pierre walked over to her, placed his hand on her shoulder, then wiped a stray tear from her flushed cheek with his thumb. I sat farther forward on my seat and tried to relax my clenched jaw.
With a nod of Pierre’s head, the music started up and in a move that was uncharacteristic at these auditions, the choreographer partnered Jaz through the piece. She moved so gracefully, and because she was confident that he knew what he was doing, she allowed herself to blindly fall backwards when required and take a flying leap into his arms.
At the end of the piece, Pierre held her a little too long for my liking as he gazed down into her upturned face, the rise and fall of her chest accentuating her round, firm breasts. He was too familiar with my Jaz, the look in his eyes making me crack my knuckles as my blood boiled.
The group was then broken up into five, and I waited for Jaz to come back to her seat, but instead she waited in the wings with everyone else for her turn.
Leaning back, I let out a gigantic yawn. Fuck, these auditions were boring as hell, but I now had the chance to pull out my phone and do a little surfing. Seeing the way that wanker choreographer had looked at her gave me the urge to look Jaz up to see if he was the type of guy she’d been dating all these years. It was funny—I’d forced myself not to follow her on social media. I didn’t want to know what she was doing or who she was seeing. If she didn’t want me then why should I care about her? Now, I frantically searched page after page that mentioned her name, clicking links to social events and photos to see who she was with.
Found one. In a simple yet stunning fitted pink gown, she smiled sweetly at the camera. But it wasn’t Jaz I was most interested in. Who was the dude she was with, and why was his arm around her with his hand resting on h
er hip? Too fucking close, asshole.
On my phone it was hard to read the tiny caption. Hmm, let’s see. Jasmine Wilkinson with curator Robert Thompson at the gala opening of some hoity-toity gallery.
Okay, now I was on a mission. With a few clicks I’d found the entire album of pictures from that night. The guy was in several photos, all with various people, so maybe not a date. I breathed a little easier. After searching until my battery ran down to five percent, I confirmed that this was the only time Jaz had been captured on film with any guy.
The first day of auditions was finally a wrap, and the remaining twenty dancers left the stage and made their way to the seats to gather up their belongings.
I stood to stretch out the kinks and shuffled past the end seat to the aisle. Jaz’s face was flushed from exertion but her smile was so bright, it lit up her entire face. When she was ten feet away, she squealed and took a less than graceful flying leap at me. Stumbling back a step, I just managed to catch her as long, lean legs wrapped around my hips, her face nuzzling my neck.
Oh, Jesus. I squeezed tight, my hands holding her up by the ass, and inhaled the sweet, intoxicating scent of Jaz. She’d been dancing for ten hours so she was hot and sweaty, but she smelt like fucking sunshine to me.
“Can you believe I’ve made it through to casting?” She glowed. Her eyes sparked, her cheeks were still flushed, and her smile lit up the emptying theater.
“Yeah, I can believe it. You’re fucking awesome, Jaz.”
“What do you think my chances are for the lead? Oh my God, I have a one in ten chance of being the female lead in my first, slightly off-Broadway production.”
I didn’t want to let her go, but she unfurled her legs and stretched them down until her feet touched the floor. “I think you have a great chance. You danced circles around the other girls and half the guys.” We turned to walk toward the seat I’d been occupying for the entire day, and Jaz’s bag. “And I think the choreographer took a shine to you.”
She giggled, and my jaw tightened. Was she happy that Pierre had a hard-on for her?
