Ripped

by Lisa Edward

  I saw her walk past the coffee shop window, and my heart beat double-time. She looked so frail as the cold wind whipped her hair around her face. Being a ballet dancer, she was petite, standing at five feet and a couple of inches if she was lucky—certainly small enough for me to hold her above my head with one outstretched arm—but she had always carried herself with confidence. As she pushed open the door, the little bell announcing her arrival, her eyes darted around but her head remained low. She looked broken, nervous, and ready to run, and I hated that I had done that to her.

  Our eyes met, and she hesitated before taking her first step toward me. Keep coming, I willed as she faltered before sliding into the booth on the opposite side. Something in her had changed. Her eyes no longer smiled, ever threatening to share some secret joke with her lips until her entire face would light up in laughter. Everything about her, from her posture, to her dull green eyes, screamed sadness. It broke my heart.

  “So how have you been?” That was a stupid question. I could see how she had been, but I needed to break the ice and start somewhere.

  She nodded. “Good. I’ve been good.” He eyes scanned my face. “You?”

  Sighing, I decided on complete honesty, something I should have committed to from the beginning. “Lost, Jaz. I’m lost.”

  Her eyes misted over as her bottom lip trembled. “Me too.” Her voice was barely a whisper and I could have been forgiven for mishearing her words, but the expression on her downturned face told me everything.

  Reaching across the table, I took her hands in mine. “It’s all my fault, and I’m so sorry. I should have been upfront with you from the start, I just …”

  “You didn’t think I’d understand? You were right.”

  “And deep down, I think I was embarrassed by what my entire dance career had amounted to.” It was humiliating. If I’d been proud of myself then I wouldn’t have kept it a secret when people asked what I did for a living. To be more willing to tell people I washed dishes had to say something about my mindset. I was ashamed.

  “Then why, Bax?” Her eyes pleaded for answers, something that she could grasp hold of to explain how I had come to follow this path.

  Shrugging, I sat back into the worn red vinyl of the booth, but didn’t let go of her hands. “It was my way of still being in the spotlight and experiencing the love of the audience. You know how it feels to have danced your heart out and to look over the adoring faces —there’s nothing like it.”

  “I get it.” She nodded. “I know that feeling. It makes you feel … important. Makes you feel special. Like all the hours and hours of rehearsals and watching what you eat and giving up your life is totally worth it.”

  “Yeah, well. I guess I wasn’t ready to give up on that feeling completely, so I had to find it somewhere else.”

  A crooked smile graced her lips for a split second. “If that’s the only reason then I do understand.”

  I puffed out a sigh of relief and smiled. “That was the only reason, I swear.”

  “But I can’t forget what I saw. All those girls screaming for you and touching you—it makes me feel sick just thinking about it.”

  My smile faded. “I quit, Jaz.” I looked up at her from under my lashes. “I knew it was a choice I had to make and I choose you. Every time, any day of the week, I choose you.” Leaning forward, I squeezed her hands tighter. “Am I too late?”

  Tears misted her eyes again. “Really? You’ve quit stripping?”

  I nodded.

  “I need to know …”

  “Anything.”

  She took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. This couldn’t be good. “Tiff said the guys at your club took home a different girl every week. Did you—”

  “No,” I interrupted, a little too loudly. “Never, not even before we bumped into each other. I never used the club as a means to get laid. It was my salvation, a place for me to dance, to feel the heat of the spotlight and the music pulsing through my veins, but I never abused it.”

  Jaz cupped my hands in hers and lifted them to her lips, the heat scorching my skin. “Do you regret quitting?” She looked at me in earnest. This was an important question, and one we both knew could make or break us.

  “Not for one second.” I looked deep into her eyes and hoped she could see my honesty. “I regret not telling you from the beginning and trying to keep it a secret, but you have to know that was more about my shame in what I was doing than trying to be sneaky. You were living your dream, dancing in a New York production, and I was dancing in a seedy strip club. Even from the start, the reality of how far I’d fallen weighed heavily on me. But I’ll never regret quitting if it means you’ll give me another chance.”

  The furrow of her brow as she studied our hands that were linked together on the table worried me. The gnawing of her lip made me want to lean over and kiss all her concerns away.

  “I’ve missed you,” she finally said with eyes still downcast. “No, not just missed—I’ve never been so miserable in my life. Every part of me ached for you, and it took all my strength not to call you or come see you at the restaurant.” When she raised her eyes, they were welling with tears. “You have no idea how hard it was to be upstairs in the apartment, knowing you were downstairs in the store working. So many times I got halfway down the stairs before catching myself and remembering that we weren’t together anymore.”

  “But we could be,” I added hopefully.

  Her face lit up. “I think … we should be.”

  I couldn’t have stopped the relieved laugh that erupted from my mouth, even if I’d tried. Leaning forward, I pulled her hands toward me and kissed every knuckle. “I love you, Jazzy. You mean everything to me—not dancing, just you.”

  “And I love you, too.”

  I slid out of the booth and went around to her side so I could sit next to her. It had been too long since I’d felt her lithe body beside mine and I wanted to savor it, even if we were in a coffee shop surrounded by people. “I’ll be at every rehearsal, every performance, and if you have any more fundraisers, I’ll be at those, too. I’m sorry I was an ass about it. I’m proud of you, Jaz, and I want you to succeed.”

  The slump of her body told me there was something wrong, something she hadn’t told me.

  I turned to face her. “What is it?”

  “There may not be a show for you to come to. Pierre’s up to something.”

  I scoffed. “What’s he up to now? Trying to get into someone else’s pants?” She didn’t laugh, not even a smile. My heartrate sped up, my pulse drumming in my ears. “Or still trying to get into yours?”

  “I was at his condo—”

  “You were what?” My jaw clenched so tight I thought my teeth might crack. “What? Why, Jaz? Why were you there?”

  The squeeze she gave my hand did nothing to reassure me. “I had to go to a ball with him; I had no choice.”

  “Sure,” I mumbled under my breath.

  “Bax, look at me. I had no choice, but while I was at his condo afterwards … and nothing happened …” She squeezed my hand again. “I saw some papers on his desk.”

  “What papers?”

  She pulled her phone from her pocket. “I don’t know exactly, but I took photos. They had something to do with the show, and my name was on one of them.”

  I flicked through the images, zooming in to read the tiny print. From what I could gather, Pierre had been keeping record of donations and funding, and then syphoning money out to a Swiss bank account and onto multiple credit card bills while claiming the money was going on wages to the dancers.

  “What the fuck? That slimy asshole. I knew I didn’t like him from the start. Not only is he the biggest sleaze ever, but he’s stealing funds from the production.”

  “That’s what I thought was going on too,” Jaz said, flicking back through the photos. “I don’t understand what they all mean but I know I’m definitely not being paid what these figures say.”

  I shook my head. “We need to
get this looked at by an accountant just to confirm it’s what we think.” I took her hand, turning my body to face her. “But I don’t like you being around him. He’s bad news in every way.”

  “I know.” She nodded. “Lucky I have you to look after me.” A shy smile graced her strawberry lips. “I’ll need a bodyguard, twenty-four/seven. You’ll have to be with me, day and night.” Her cheeks flushed bright pink.

  “Well to do that, I’d have to move back in to the apartment. Can I?”

  “You’d better come back. I’ve been so lonely without you.” She flung her arms around my neck, pulling me close. I inhaled; the sweet coconut scent of her hair was intoxicating. I closed my eyes and drank it in. “I’m worried, Bax,” she mumbled into my neck. “I’d been thinking the last few days that if the show does go under before opening night, I could go back to Boston, stay with my mom for a while. But I don’t want to—not now. Not when we’ve finally sorted things out.”

  Pulling back, I took hold of her shoulders. “No one’s going anywhere, except maybe Pierre. He might go to jail.”

  AFTER MUCH persuasion, Bax convinced me to show the images of Pierre’s suspicious activity to Carter. For all his laidback, hippy vibe, Carter was a savvy businessman. He had worked on Wall Street for many years in a senior accounting role before throwing it all in on a whim and buying Melody Music. Some people opted for a sea change or tree change. Carter had experienced a total spiritual awakening and decided he couldn’t do the suit-and-tie thing one more day. He’d left his office one evening and just never returned.

  “He’s definitely embezzling funds, that’s for sure.” The photos had been downloaded and printed and were now spread across the counter in the store. Carter went to work with a highlighter pen, cross-referencing figures and dates and making little notes on the side of the pages. Every time he swiped the fluorescent yellow marker across the page, Bax and I stuck our heads in closer, trying to figure out what he’d found that was of interest.

  “See here?” He tapped his finger on a bank transfer to the Swiss account. “This figure matches the sum of what he’s ledgered you dancers have been paid, less twenty percent.”

  All the furrowing of my brow couldn’t help me grasp the point he was making.

  “And these credit card statements—he’s opened accounts under company names and is paying them with donated monies. But if you look at what he’s purchased”—he circled several charges—“I don’t think he’s buying your costumes from Armani or Rolex.”

  “Sneaky bastard,” Bax hissed. “Clever, but sneaky.”

  Carter sat back, grinning at Bax. “Yes he’s clever, but every dishonest person gets caught eventually. They get careless and sloppy, or overconfident, and then make mistakes.”

  “Has he made a mistake?” I asked, hoping there would be some trail that could prove what he was up to.

  Carter laughed. “Sure he’s made a mistake. He left a paper trail and you found it.” He gathered the printouts into a neat pile. “He doesn’t have to make a financial error; you have all the proof you need right here.”

  My chest swelled, before I slumped on the counter, my head in my hands. “Can I go to the police with evidence that I gained by rummaging through his private drawers? Isn’t that illegal or something? At the very least, can they even use it in a court of law?”

  I could go to the police and at least show them the photos. Maybe they would do something about it, or maybe they would arrest me for breaking some law by photographing his possessions without his knowledge or permission. But my hesitation was a selfish one. If Pierre was locked away, then our production would surely be over before it had ever started. With the director/choreographer in jail and the producer missing from nearly every rehearsal, what hope did we have to pull the show together and actually perform on opening night?

  No, I needed to do something with this evidence, but I needed to be just as clever and just as sneaky as Pierre had been.

  Watching Baxter and Carter chatting afforded me the opportunity to observe Bax as I hadn’t done in a few weeks. The way his muscles tensed and pulled on his sweater as his arms made subtle movements. His posture and grace. He was a born dancer. Even if he didn’t think he was good enough anymore, I still did. I believed he needed to be on the stage, and not in that dingy little club, but in a theater where people would pay good money to see him dance with his clothes on.

  I scooped up the documents. “I’m going to go speak to Pierre.”

  Baxter stopped mid-sentence and turned to me, his mouth agape. “You’re not going to tell him you know what he’s up to, are you?”

  “Oh I’m not going to tell him.” I flapped the documents I clutched in my hand. “I’m going to show him that I have hard evidence that he’s a scheming, conniving good-for-nothing.”

  Bax took my hand. “I’m coming with you then.”

  “I think we both need to.”

  I chuckled as Carter made his way around the counter to stand beside me.

  “Thank you both for your concern, but this is one battle I need to face on my own. Besides, you need to be here; it’s nearly opening time.”

  Pierre had intimidated and threatened me in his passive-aggressive way for too long. It was time I gave him a taste of what it was like to be backed into a corner.

  My step was lighter as I navigated the streets of New York on my way to the theater. The clouds overhead threatened rain, and it was a particularly gray and miserable morning, but I couldn’t wipe the smile from my face. Crowds of businessmen and women strode past in their mundane attire, their faces devoid of any expression, and I once again marveled at how lost I had felt when I’d first moved here from Boston. I’d had no one and certainly no prospects. All I had come with was a dream and the desire to make something of myself in this city that never sleeps.

  What I hadn’t counted on was meeting up with Baxter again after all those years, and now, if I played my cards right, having the opportunity to help Bax’s dreams come true, too.

  Pierre sat in the front row dressed in a smart navy suit and vibrant pink tie, poring over documents. The orchestra tuned their instruments and stage hands positioned props. In all the excitement I’d forgotten that we were to have a full-dress rehearsal that would be attended by a group of potential investors. I tapped my dance bag which held the key to not only my future but also Baxter’s. It would have to wait; I needed to get into costume and warm up before the moneybags arrived and the performance started.

  The dressing room was already abuzz with dancers, and I weaved between them to find a position at the makeup mirror.

  “There you are. Did you have a little sleep in, Jaz?” Becca was already stretching, her hair and makeup done.

  “Or maybe making up for lost time with Baxter.” Tiffany gave me a wink. “You were apart for a whole two weeks.”

  I dumped my bag on the floor and kicked it under the counter. “No, I just forgot we had to be here early. My head has been somewhere else the past few days.”

  “Yeah, bobbing up and down in Baxter’s lap.”

  The room erupted with laughter and crude gestures, and my face flamed bright red as memories of what we had been doing came to the front of my mind. We had been making up for the last two weeks, and our relationship was stronger than it had ever been. Baxter had been true to his word and was supporting me without any jealousy. We’d practiced until we both knew every routine in the show and in return, I had spent three evenings in the last week sitting at a table in the corner of the pizzeria, eating calamari salads while Bax waited tables.

  We wanted to be together, and to do that we both needed to compromise and be willing to put the other one first. I knew Bax would be disappointed to have missed this rehearsal, so while I was waiting for Tiffany to finish pinching my makeup I quickly sent him a text, inviting him to come down if he could get away from the record store.

  The costume ladies fussed around us, helping with zips and pinning waistlines that needed taking in, o
r hems that needed taking up. Being in costume made this whole experience feel more real. No longer were we a group of girls and guys who enjoyed dancing—we were a troupe. A team of professional dancers who were actually being paid to perform in a New York production.

  “Ten minutes, ladies,” the stage manager called as he banged on the door, and an excited squeal filled the tiny dressing room.

  As we filed through the door, my stomach tumbled over and over in excitement. Even though I knew there would only be a handful of people in the audience, with the lighting, props, and orchestra, it felt like a proper performance, and I would give my all for the chance to help fund this production. My stomach lurched. What was the point in gaining more investors? While everyone else was getting into position, I thought about the documents stored safely in my bag. More funding for the production meant more money going into Pierre’s secret retirement fund.

  The call went out. “Places please. Places everyone.”

  Shaking out my arms and legs, I took a deep breath and stretched my neck from side to side. No matter what happened with the show in the future, it wasn’t in my nature to give anything less than one hundred percent.

  Before I could overthink my performance, Act I was over and we were racing back to the dressing room to get ready for Act II. In the rare quiet few seconds on stage when I held a pose and had a moment to catch my breath, I had the opportunity to look out into the audience. Bax was in his usual position in the audience, the beaming smile on his face reassuring me that his critical eye was enjoying what he saw. That meant everything to me, more than what Pierre thought, or the investors—Baxter’s opinion was paramount, and his smile spurred me on.

  The first scene of Act II was a dance where all the soldiers returned from war so none of the girls needed to be on stage. From around the side curtain, I peeked out to see who had shown up to see our performance and assess if and how much money they wanted to throw our way.