Ripped

by Lisa Edward

  “Mine too.” He leaned in, resting his forehead against mine. “I feel like we’ve been given a second chance. In a city the size of New York, what are the chances of two people bumping into each other?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. Maybe it is fate.”

  We walked the nine blocks to my little duplex in silence, both of us huddled close against the cold, lost in thought, yet totally comfortable in each other’s company. The porch was in darkness as we ascended the five steps from the street, and I welcomed the fact that Baxter couldn’t see that once again my cheeks had turned crimson as he drew me into his arms.

  His hands ran up my sides slowly, taking in the curves of my body, until they made their way into my hair. Slowly, he leaned in until our lips were a hair’s breadth apart and then he stopped. “Do you think we can pick up where we left off, Jaz?”

  My breath caught in my throat.

  “Can we pretend the last six years never happened and you’ve come to meet me in New York like you promised?”

  “Yes,” I replied breathlessly.

  As soft, full lips came down onto mine, I ran my hands up Baxter’s back to his shoulders, feeling the muscle definition beneath his shirt. He was built. No longer the lean dancer of eight years ago, he had bulked up, his shoulders huge, his arms bulging and pulling the fabric of his long-sleeved tee tight. But they were the same lips that I remembered, that I’d dreamed about as sleep consumed me, and as his tongue slowly danced with mine, one thing was certain, I had my Baxter back.

  Even with my eyes closed, I knew the porch light had been flicked on.

  “Is that you, Jasmine, dear?” a voice that had been weakened by age called out.

  Quickly stepping back from Bax, I took a few seconds before responding. “Yes, Mrs. Bailey, it’s me.” My eyes shot up to take in Baxter biting his lip to control his laughter. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  “Or two,” Bax whispered, before pulling me back in for another kiss.

  I’D GONE to sleep with the strawberry taste and warm tingling feel of Jaz on my lips, certainly not what I’d anticipated when I’d started my day. I’d been running to meet Lucia for coffee so we could discuss her parents’ surprise wedding anniversary party, when Jaz had completely blindsided me.

  I was still on cloud nine the following morning as I sprung out of bed. I hadn’t arranged to accompany Jaz to call-backs, so I wanted to get to her duplex early in the hope that she hadn’t left already. Digging out my best sweater, the one that hugged my body to show the definition I’d worked so hard to hone, I ran my fingers through my hair then pulled it back off my face and was out the door.

  I felt like Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain. I was happy again after so long of merely existing in this concrete jungle, and had to refrain from dancing in the streets. Jaz had never really left my heart, but she was finally back in my arms, and this time I wasn’t going to be so foolish as to think we could be physically apart but still be together. No, if she was lucky enough to tour with this show then I’d be going with her. They say ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’, but in my experience, the saying ‘out of sight, out of mind’ is truer.

  Skipping up the front steps to her door, I raised my hand and was just about to knock when the door flew open and Jaz came barging out, straight into me.

  “We have to stop meeting like this,” I joked as she rebounded off my chest and clutched at the doorjamb to stop from falling on her ass.

  A wide grin replaced the look of surprise on her face before she propelled herself into my arms. “What are you doing here?” she mumbled through the scarf that was wrapped over her mouth as her face nuzzled my neck.

  My arms wrapped all the way around her slender frame, and I squeezed her into my body. “Thought you might like an escort on the train again today.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she pulled the fabric from her face. “Aren’t you supposed to be busy with Lucia?”

  I shrugged. “It’s not important. I just offered to help plan a party for her parents’ anniversary, but that was when I had time on my hands.”

  “And now?” Her brow was cocked.

  “And now I have you on my hands.”

  “Or in your hands.” She giggled, stepping away.

  I somehow felt lighter as we walked briskly, our fingers linked, toward the train. So this was how life in a big city felt when you had someone to share it with. Not so lonely anymore—not so insignificant because someone actually cared. I knew I had Mama and Papa who showered more love and attention on me than my own parents. And Lucia, who showed a little more interest in me than I was comfortable with. But there had been no one who actually understood me. Who had truly touched my heart the way Jaz had before or after her. From the first, she had been the girl who’d made me melt. Who had me wanting to try harder, to do better, just to put a smile on her gorgeous heart-shaped face when I’d succeeded. Even if what I’d achieved had seemed trivial, Jaz had been my personal cheerleader. She had pepped me up when I was down and ready to give up, and she had shared in my joy of triumph, being happier for my achievements than for her own.

  She was everything to me, and with fate smiling down on me after I’d been sure all hope had been lost, I felt invincible.

  My seat in the theater beckoned as I settled in for another ass-numbing day of auditions.

  “You don’t have to stay, Bax. I know you have other things to do.”

  I chuckled. “Are you kidding? I’ve missed watching you dance. Besides, it gives me a sense of satisfaction to see you wipe the floor with these clowns.”

  “They’re not clowns,” she said on a laugh.

  “Oh, no?” I nodded toward two guys who were warming up, one in a red all-in-one bodysuit that made him look like a skinny Santa, the other in white tights and a fluro green fitted singlet.

  Jaz’s mouth twisted as she attempted to hide her smirk. “Okay, so maybe they are a tad clownish, but they just want to be noticed.”

  “They should be noticed for their dancing, like you are, not for their ridiculous costumes.”

  The dancers took to the stage for a day of dance, which by the end would have their parts in the show determined.

  Once again, Pierre partnered with Jaz, and my gut churned at the amount of attention he lavished on my girl. As he lifted her over his head while she was in arabesque, his hand was higher than required to support her—high enough to nearly cop a feel. I knew those moves; I invented them. I’d touched Jaz every chance I’d got when we’d danced together, my hand just high enough to make her blush, but that had been different. She’d been my girlfriend and I’d had her permission. This guy was taking advantage. It was like a boss feeling up his secretary. Complain at your own peril and risk losing your job. Or, in Jaz’s case, miss out on the part.

  At every break, Jaz would glance over at me and pull a face. Sometimes a delighted grin that she’d nailed it, sometimes a grimace if she didn’t. Both made me chuckle. What didn’t make me chuckle was the uncomfortable flush of her cheeks and darting eyes when the creepazoid brushed a loose lock of hair from her cheek.

  The dancers broke for lunch which meant a Diet Pepsi and a few bites of an apple. Jaz skipped down the aisle to me and planted herself in my lap, her arms wrapped tightly around my shoulders. Glancing over at Pierre—oh yes, he was watching—I gave him a smug grin before nuzzling Jaz’s neck and making her giggle.

  “You don’t have to stay, Bax. You must have something else more important to do. Like a job?” Her brow cocked.

  “I want to be here. Keep an eye on things.” I glared at Pierre who was now deep in conversation with the assistant choreographer.

  Jaz followed my gaze. “He’s a bit too touchy-feely.”

  I nodded.

  “Reminds me of when we used to dance together.” She leaned in so her hot breath heated my neck. “Only I didn’t mind your hands on me.” Her fingertips ran down my chest until she pulled playfully at the button on my jeans.

  Geez, dow
n boy. This isn’t the time or place.

  We hadn’t talked about my job and I still wasn’t sure what or how much to tell Jaz. I wanted to tell her everything, be completely upfront and honest, but I knew she’d be disappointed and may not understand my choices.

  “So where do you work?”

  Okay, here we go. “I have two jobs, actually. I wash dishes sometimes in the restaurant when they’re short-staffed and need a hand, and I work in a bar in the seedy part of town.”

  “Oh, so you’re a barman, too? That’s cool.” She nudged me in the shoulder. “You must get loads of tips from pretty girls.”

  I laughed nervously. “Yep, loads of tips.” Tell her. “Loads of tips behind the bar.”

  “Do I need to come down there to keep an eye on you?” She winked playfully.

  “No, no need for that, Jaz. Hardly any girls come in.”

  She wriggled in my lap to turn her body to face me, and I prayed she couldn’t feel the semi hard-on I’d been sporting since she sat down.

  “Seeing as you’re staying …” She gave me her cheesy I’m-about-to-con-you smile, which wasn’t necessary, I would do anything for Jaz willingly. “Could you pleeease help me nail that damn fouette when I come down from the lift? I can’t find my center, and I’m wobbling like a drunken sailor.”

  Quickly looking around, I tried to find a place that was big enough to dance, but out of the way of groups of people sitting around chatting. There was nowhere inside the main theater. I indicated to Jaz to follow me out to the foyer where there were only a few groups of dancers huddled together, and room to spare.

  Standing in the position I knew Jaz needed me in, I instructed, “Dance the eight bars leading up to it.”

  Jaz danced the steps, and I readied myself for her to leap toward me before balancing on demi-point, her leg in arabesque. She twirled gracefully, but stopped at the part where her partner was supposed to catch her mid-leap, and lift.

  “You need to catch when I do the grand jeté into the—”

  “Yeah, I know,” I replied cockily.

  Her arms crossed over her chest. “How do you know?”

  “I’ve been watching for three hours. I know the routine backwards.”

  With her hands on hips, she cocked one brow. “Oh really, Mr. So You Think You Can Dance?”

  I bopped her nose with the tip of my finger. “Yes, really.”

  “Well, I can’t do it if you’re not dancing too.”

  I crossed my arms and frowned at her. I knew she was trying to get me to dance. Really dance—like we used to.

  “You can’t just stand there, Bax.”

  “Yes, I can. All I have to do is catch and support you.”

  She sighed an exaggerated, exacerbated sigh. “Well, I guess if you no longer have it. If you’ve”—she did a funny little knee-wobbling dance—“lost your groove, I’ll have to ask Pierre to help me.”

  My eyes narrowed, and she took a step back. “Just let me stretch.” With legs straight and without any effort, I bent forward so my palms rested flat on the floor and my hamstrings stretched. No longer have it, my ass. I’d danced every day of my life from the age of four. I still had ‘it’ and then some.

  I toed the heels of my Chucks off and tossed my shoes to one side.

  “Just need to get this crick out of my neck.” I stretched my neck from side to side, then prepped and went into a pirouette sequence that old Pierre would have had trouble completing.

  “Okay show-off,” Jaz mumbled with a smirk. “Let’s take it … from the top.”

  “You want the whole piece?”

  “Yep,” she replied chirpily. “I want you to dance the whole piece.”

  The dancers who had been huddled together talking were now watching our exchange with interest.

  I stripped off my sweater and tossed it by my shoes, leaving just a black singlet on with my torn jeans.

  “Oh my. When did you get all those tattoos?” Jaz asked, running her hand over my shoulder and down the red and black sleeve on my right arm.

  “Over the years.” I pointed to one on the inside of my left forearm, three lines of script writing too small to read unless you were really close.

  “What does it say?” she asked, squinting.

  “Lovingly in my mind, tenderly in my hands, forever in my heart.” I lifted my gaze to her face. “It was for you.” I looked into her gray eyes. “It is for you.”

  Her face flushed, and her hands caressed my arm once more as she blinked away a tear. “And when did you get all these muscles?”

  “Got those over the years too,” I said with a grin.

  She bit her lip as her eyes took in every detail of my arm. “I like them,” she said definitively.

  I flexed a little harder. “The tattoos or the muscles?”

  She smiled. “Both.” Her finger traced lightly over the text on my forearm. “Especially this one.”

  With a hand tucked behind her head, I bent down to kiss the tip of her button nose. “Let’s dance, Jazzy.”

  We took our positions and I counted out eight beats in the rhythm of the music that I could hear playing in my mind.

  At the beginning, I had to admit I was a little nervous. Sure, I’d been dancing every day, just routines I’d made up or remembered from my past, but nothing as choreographed and technical as this in public. For the past four years, anything contemporary had been in the privacy of my room or in the restaurant after closing when I’d pulled a few tables to one side.

  This was different. This was in front of people, and it was with Jaz.

  Jaz watched me from the corner of her eye and I poked my tongue out at her, making her giggle and lose her footing.

  “Concentrate,” I instructed under my breath as she turned the wrong way and had to quickly double-back to the correct position.

  Meanwhile, I danced my little heart out, putting on a show for the group who crowded around us. But my focus was always on Jaz. As we did three consecutive barrel jumps across the floor in perfect unison, it felt like old times. She turned and leapt blindly into my arms and I caught her, holding her closer than needed to my body.

  She gasped as my hand skimmed her thigh, but pushed closer to me, her eyes flaring. There was my Jaz, the tiger beneath the sweet and innocent good girl.

  As she set up for the troublesome fouette, I whispered, “Keep your hips square, Jaz.”

  She spun with perfect grace, and I watched with open awe at how beautiful she was.

  “Eek! I did it,” she squealed excitedly as she jumped up and down like a little kid.

  I chuckled as she flung herself at me. There were many sides to Jaz, from the innocent, to the graceful, to the girl who was as sexy as hell when you got her alone. This was one of my favorites. This was the slightly clumsy, definitely dorky Jaz.

  “I knew you could get it. You just need to focus on the supporting leg and keep your hips level.”

  Her eyes lifted as a smirk graced those perfect strawberry lips. “You know for a barman, you dance pretty well.”

  Shaking my head, I stepped away. “Jaz, let’s not do this again.”

  “But it would be so great if we could dance together.” She took my hand so I couldn’t move any farther away. “Just like old times,” she said in a sing-song tone.

  “I’m perfectly happy doing the job I have now.” My hand slid from hers and I scooped up my sweater, then busied myself slipping my shoes back on. Truth was, I’d fooled myself into thinking I was happy until Jaz had barreled back into my life. True happiness was dancing. It was watching Jaz as she pirouetted and leapt lightly—it was her elation when she did something perfectly and being there for her when she didn’t. It was having her complete trust as I caught her and lifted her over my head, then ever-so-gently brought her back down to the ground while holding her tight.

  True happiness was Jaz.

  I WAS physically exhausted, but my mind raced at a million miles an hour. After another full day of dancing and learning a
nother routine where Pierre partnered me, we had been given our roles in the show. Pierre’s attention had bothered me. He was too handsy, and I could have sworn he’d growled in my ear on more than one occasion, but I’d ignored it and kept my cool. Maybe it was a test? He was testing me to see if I could maintain focus even with a sleazy octopus as a partner. And I must have passed because I got the part.

  I got the lead in my first off-Broadway production after being in New York for only three weeks. Sure it was a brand new production that no one had ever heard of but that could all change. No one had heard of Cats or Wicked before their first seasons, and they had both had phenomenal success and been the longest-running musicals in history.

  Of course this show was different. There was no singing, which was just as well, because my singing voice was like a cat being strangled. This story would all be told through dance, and not just one style of dance. The idea was to combine classical ballet with modern contemporary and even some tap. It would be a cohesive blend that showcased all that was beautiful and exciting in this artistic field.

  When the Ship Comes In was the name of the show, and although James and Pierre were still working out the finer details, from what I could gather, it was based in the days after the end of World War II when soldiers returned home to their loved ones. I played Lily Brown, a girl who had waved goodbye to her fiancé and then proceeded to fall in love with his brother. It had all the makings of an angst-filled romance. There was heartbreak, love, and passion, followed by more heartbreak when Lily’s fiancé returned. Then finally, a happy ending. How that would play out I was yet to discover, but I knew audiences would want a returning hero to have a happily-ever-after so somehow, it had to work.

  “How are you feeling, Jaz?” Bax asked as my head rested against his shoulder, the motion of the train making my eyes grow heavy. He brushed the hair back from my forehead. “Are you too tired to eat?”

  I shook my head as it remained on his shoulder. “No, I’m starving actually.” My eyes lifted to meet his. “What did you have in mind?”