by Nikki Sloane
His smile was dazzling. I didn’t think I could be any happier until I looked at him. His eyes glittered as if he were fighting back emotions. He was thrilled for me, and . . . proud. I had to tear my gaze away for a moment to hold it together.
I probably looked like a diva as we silently made our way to the doors at the back of the theatre. He was carrying both of our bags and his large cello case, when all I had was a single slip of paper.
But it was blue.
And it was proof I’d made the right decision on not giving up on my dream.
We made it twenty feet out the door and down the empty hallway before he set down his case, dropped our bags, and swept me up in his arms. I gasped and laughed, but then his mouth was on mine, and the world stopped.
The kiss was over too soon. His forehead pressed to mine, his eyes closed. “You did it.”
“I was so fucking nervous.” The advantage to going early meant I didn’t have all day to psych myself out about the audition. Of course, the clock had been reset. As long as I didn’t fail the interview, who knew how long I’d have to wait to perform my solo?
“Why?” He opened his eyes and grinned. “I told you that you were going to be amazing.”
I used my thumb to smear away the red stain of my lipstick from his lips. He relaxed his hold, and I slid down his body until my feet were back on the carpet.
“What happens next?”
I looked at the paper. “I have to report to interview taping.”
“When? Now?”
I nodded.
He grabbed our things without hesitation. “Lead the way.”
Grant was sitting on the lobby floor, his back against a wall and his focus on the screen of his phone, when I came out of Ganz Hall. It was a much smaller theater that was part of the Auditorium, and the Dance Dreams production team had inhabited every space of the sprawling, historic building. There were rolling carts and spare lighting rigs tucked in hallways, equipment stacked out of the way, making the show’s presence undeniable.
Grant looked up as I came through the door, and as soon as he saw me, he was on his feet.
I flashed a smile, but it was strained, trying to convey the interview had gone well, but I wasn’t out of the woods.
The staff member manning the exit door was a guy not much younger than I was, and he wore a bored expression. Like he’d been seated behind the laptop computer at his folding table for a century.
“Number?” he asked, not even looking at me.
“One twenty-two.”
“Music?”
Grant dug out the CD I’d burned and passed it to the guy.
The man opened the jewel case, popped the CD into the computer’s DVD drive, and grabbed a set of headphones. “Track one?”
“The piano part of it, yeah,” I said.
He paused, the headphones on, but he obviously hadn’t started the song yet. His eyes finally connected with mine. “What?”
Grant and I exchanged a look. Moment of truth. My tone was nonchalant. “I’m going to perform with live cello music too.”
The guy’s face contorted as he removed his headphones. “What?” he repeated. “Someone’s going to be playing the cello at your audition?”
“Yes. Me,” Grant said.
When the man evaluated Grant, his confusion cranked up to level ten. Then he frowned. “No, the music needs to be pre-approved.”
My pulse stumbled, but Grant put his hand on my shoulder, and the simple connection helped keep me calm.
“All right,” Grant’s tone was straightforward. “I’ll play it for you.” He strode to his cello case, laid it down, and unsnapped the clasps with practiced efficiency.
Unease flooded the man’s face as he stood from the table, and I caught his name on his badge. Andrew wasn’t sure what to do when faced with something new. “No,” he said, “it needs to be a recording.”
“That’s not in the rules.” My throat was tight, pinching the words. “Tap auditions don’t use music at all.” When he scowled, I softened my voice. I needed to be charming, not confrontational. “I know it’s a little unusual. Is there someone else we can get additional approval from?”
To him, I was a problem, and I’d just given him an out so someone else could handle me. Andrew took the bait. He got on his phone and called a production head over to his station, all while Grant continued to set up his cello.
When the woman arrived, her expression was already irritated. Tina, her name badge read. “What’s going on?” she demanded.
“This contestant,” Andrew gestured to me, “wants to audition with live music.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What kind of music?”
Had she missed the enormous man with the enormous cello, standing only ten feet away? I plastered on a friendly smile, wanting to win Tina over with kindness. “Cello.”
“No,” she said instantly. “It’s an unfair advantage over the other contestants.”
I pulled my shoulders back. “How do you figure that?”
She didn’t have an answer for me. Instead she folded her arms across her chest and looked pressed for time.
“What about the contestants,” I continued, “who hire a professional choreographer for their solos? I’d argue that’s an unfair advantage over the people who can’t afford one, but it’s not against the rules. Just like performing with live music isn’t.”
She considered my argument critically. I saw my opening.
“Any contestant can use live music,” I added. “They’ve just made the choice not to.”
“All right.” Her sigh sounded very much like a ‘fuck it.’ “But off stage, so it’s not a distraction.”
Alarm tore through me like fire. “No, please. He needs to be on stage with me.”
“Absolutely not.” Tina’s expression was plain. “Sorry, honey. Only contestants are allowed in front of the judging panel.” Decision made, Tina turned to leave, eager to get to the next fire she had to put out.
My heart hammered, but I’d prepared for this. “That’s not true. Ballroom dancers get to audition with their partners, even if they don’t make the next round.”
Her back was to us as she pulled to a stop. “Yeah, but they can’t perform without them.”
I swallowed a huge breath. “He’s part of the routine.”
She gave me side-eye, skeptical. “Are you saying you can’t perform without him?”
My mouth went dry. If I said yes and she allowed this, what if my solo was scheduled during his rugby match? He told me he’d never missed a game in his entire life. I’d asked so much of him the last month—
“Yes,” Grant said automatically. “If you put me off stage, her choreography won’t make sense.”
Tina’s sigh was bigger and more dramatic. Her eyes drifted from us, and I could hear the faint sound of chatter in her earpiece. What I was asking for wasn’t difficult. It probably seemed like nothing in the face of the bigger problem she was listening to.
“I don’t have time for this. Fine.” She gave her approval to Andrew, then focused in on me. “Word of advice. I don’t know how the judges are going to react, so have a backup plan. Be prepared for them to ask him to leave the stage.”
“Yes,” I nodded, “thank you.”
She waved the comment away as she abandoned us, moving down the hall at a fast clip.
Andrew didn’t make Grant play for him. He listened to the piano part, finished filling in the form on his laptop about the music, and handed me an orange card. My throat closed as I read it.
I was to be standing by to perform my solo at three-forty p.m.
“Uh . . .” I started.
As Grant read the card over my shoulder, Andrew’s gaze burned into me. He looked up at us like he wondered what the fuck I was still doing here.
“Thank you.” Grant grabbed my wrist and gently pulled me away, guiding me toward our pile of stuff. His voice was hushed. “It’s all r
ight, Tara.”
“But your game.”
His warm smile made his blue eyes more vibrant. “I already called my coach and told him I couldn’t make it.”
“What? When?”
“As soon as you went for your interview.”
Oh my God, this man made me go boneless. He’d just put my desires above his own, and I struggled to remember a time in my life when anyone else had ever done that for me. Before him, I’d felt invisible. Maybe that wasn’t the right word. Indistinguishable was a better one.
Yet Grant saw me.
Tonight, I’d tell him everything. I’d lay it all on the line, and if he wanted me to leave the blindfold club and never see Silas and Regan again, I’d easily put his desires above my own. And it had nothing to do with me being a submissive.
It was because I was falling for him, and falling hard.
“I’m running out of ways to say thank you,” I said, blinking back tears. It’d been an emotional day, and we weren’t even halfway through it. “But, thank you.”
“Of course.” He smiled. “Besides, Milwaukee is terrible. The guys can win without me.”
A short laugh burst from me, and it felt good. I needed the stress relief.
“The interview went well?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Of all the steps today, this was the one I hadn’t been nervous about. I talked to strangers all the time—and usually I was naked when I did it. “It was easy.”
He glanced at the screen of his phone. “We’ve got a few hours. Should we get lunch?”
I was too nervous to eat, but it would keep me occupied. “Yeah, and I’m buying.”
The Auditorium Building was attached to Roosevelt University, and at the student commons, there was a pizza place. We sat in the cafeteria area, and Grant ate voraciously while I nibbled. I didn’t want the pizza to make a return trip. I’d never thrown up before a performance, but then again, I’d never had one quite like this.
As he inhaled his food and I watched, I told him about the interview. The theatre had been dark, but huge lights were erected on the stage, shining out onto the seats where I’d been instructed to sit. There were cameras and a man in a Dance Dreams shirt sitting on the end of the stage, who’d asked about my background, why I was auditioning, and what it would mean if I won.
Grant wiped his face with a napkin, balled it up, and tossed it in the nearby trash can. His focus landed on the single slice of pizza in front of me. “You don’t like it?”
“I’m not hungry.”
His brow furrowed, and Jesus, his concern was sexy. “You need to eat. You’ll want the energy later.”
I twisted my hands together, not sure what else to do. My stomach churned, and I worried I was going to rattle apart. “I don’t think I can.”
He blinked slowly, considering something. Then, as he sat back in his chair, he crossed his arms, putting his thick biceps and gorgeous forearms on display. “What if I told you to do it?”
My breath hitched. “Like, an order?”
He nodded cautiously. He hadn’t attempted to dominate me outside of the bedroom, at least not this outright.
“Well, then,” I dropped my voice to a hush, “I’d do it.”
His eyes flared with power, intense and sexual. “Eat.”
So, I did. I didn’t taste the food as I chewed and swallowed, and it didn’t satisfy the hunger growling inside me. He watched me attentively and pleased, not speaking until even the crust was gone.
The food seemed to settle my stomach, or perhaps it was the distraction of him, but when we were done and headed back to the main lobby, the nerves stole back into my system.
“I’m going to get changed,” I announced. “You want to find a quiet place for us to practice?” He’d need to find a space where his music wouldn’t disrupt anyone else.
“Are you sure?” There was a clock in the lobby, and he checked the time. “We’ve still got two hours before standby.”
Like a gazelle fleeing a lion, I wanted to bolt from the threat of anxiety. Escaping to a restroom was better than nothing. And once I was dressed in my soloist costume, I could focus on practicing. “I . . . the waiting is killing me.”
He understood. “All right. If I’m not back before you’re ready, just hang out here.”
The ladies room had a sitting area in the front, and after I’d wiggled into my costume in a handicap stall, I checked myself out in the full-length mirror. The costume was white and two pieces, and the halter top was accented with rhinestones and beads crawling along the left strap.
I’d had them added after changing my music. How could I dance to a song called “Chandelier” and not have some sparkle? Otherwise, the costume was rather simple and flattering. The top flattened me down for support, but also had padding so I kept a nice shape.
Once again, I went with a bold, deep red lip color and muted makeup elsewhere.
Grant was waiting for me when I was finished, and his appreciative gaze swept down. “You look beautiful.”
I smiled nervously. The pangs were back in my stomach.
He’d changed too, although all it required was putting on a black button-down dress shirt. He’d kept it untucked from his jeans and rolled the sleeves back, leaving the top two buttons undone. He looked casual and cool. He’d offered to dress up, but I nixed it. He was an extension of me in the performance, so I didn’t want either of us to look stuffy.
“Did you find us a spot?” I asked. He must have. He didn’t have his case with him.
“Yes. I even stole a folding chair.” The corner of his mouth tweaked up into a smile.
We took the tiny, ancient service elevator up to the top balcony floor, and I’d swear we walked a mile to the end of the hall. The thick carpet swallowed up our footsteps, and the softly lit hallway was empty. Well, except for the large, rolling equipment case with the production company’s logo on its front.
“It’s not much space,” Grant said, disappearing behind the huge box, “but it’s quiet.” He reappeared, his cello, bow, and something metal in his hand. “I can use my mute, which works pretty well at keeping it quiet. At least, my neighbors haven’t complained about my late-night practices yet.”
Why the hell would they complain? I could listen to him play for a hundred years and never get tired of it.
“This is great,” I said. The hallway was narrow, but it was long and the ceiling high. I saw the folding chair he’d borrowed and set it in the center for him.
“The mute fucks with my strings, so I’ll need to retune before we go on stage.”
“Oh,” I said.
His comment reminded me of what was going to happen and sent me into a spiral. I would be fine once we reported in for the solo, because then it would feel too late to back out. I could only focus forward at that point. But currently the panicked side of my brain was coming up with ways to abort the whole thing.
Even though I wanted it so badly, I was terrified.
Abruptly I was right back in the Chicago Ballet Company’s rehearsal studio from three years ago, and all I could see was the director and his disapproving face as I stumbled out of a series of Fouetté turns. That stumble had been the moment I knew it was over.
“Tara.” Grant’s voice was sharp.
I blinked, disoriented. His cello was lying on the ground and his arms were around me. “What?”
“Look at me,” he commanded. I did, and his eyes teemed with worry. He held me tighter as I struggled to step back. “No. Breathe.”
Because I was so out of breath, I was verging on hyperventilating.
-27-
Tara
When I couldn’t escape, I went the opposite direction and clung to Grant for dear life. He was solid and firm, keeping me steady, and as I sipped air into my body, I regained control.
“You’re all right,” he reassured. “I’m here. You’re fine. Everything’s fine.”
“This is so stupid,” I
whispered to him. “I want this. Fuck, I want it so much, and once I get on that stage, I know I’ll be okay. So, I don’t know why I’m acting like this.”
He stroked a hand down the back of my neck, tickling the tendrils of hair that wouldn’t be tamed into my bun. “It’s all right. If you can recognize it’s just anxiety, it can help you work through it.” His voice was soothing. “I looked up some stress relief ideas earlier—”
“Have I been this bad all day?” I drew back just enough so I could look at him.
He looked sheepish. “No. I, uh, looked them up for me.”
Grant was nervous too? It made me feel so much better. “Oh my God,” unexpected laughter burst from me, “I love you.”
We both froze. I’d meant to say, “I love that,” but the anxiety had fried my brain. My eyes went so wide, I wondered if they’d fall out.
“Um,” I blurted, “that came out wrong. Pretend I didn’t say it. I have no idea what I’m doing right now.”
What was that flicker in his eyes? Had he . . . liked hearing that I loved him? Because surely he thought it was too soon, and it’d make him want to put distance between us.
Great. This fuck-up gave me something else to worry about. “Okay,” I added, “what are some other ways to fight our anxiety?”
A shift went through him. I didn’t believe he was nervous, because the man in front of me looked like he had plenty of confidence. His tone was heavy, right on the edge of seduction. “I can think of one.”
Oh.
There was so much adrenaline in my body, the need instantly became overwhelming. Crushing. I didn’t resist as he took me by the hand and pulled us behind the equipment cart. He put his foot on the side of his open cello case and pushed it out of the way. As it slid across the carpet, the lid slammed shut with a thud.
Grant didn’t pay any attention to it. His gaze was locked onto me.
The cart wasn’t very tall—it came up to my natural waist—but it was long, and we were easily hidden behind it when he lifted me off my feet and laid me down on my back. The carpet was rough against my skin, but I ignored it, wrapping my legs around his hips as he hovered over me.
