Somewhere in California

by Toby Neal

  Brandon rubs deep into tension stored in the arches of my feet that I didn’t even know was there. I sigh with ecstasy and feel myself melting. Delicious feeling sends shivers of pleasure up my legs. Oh, this feels so good…I’m drifting away, actually falling asleep.

  I suddenly remember how sweaty my feet must be.

  I never had a shower. They must smell.

  They’re loaded with germs.

  My eyes fly open. I’ve slid halfway down the chair. My feet are deep in his lap, almost touching his crotch as his big hands massage them. Brandon’s green-gold eyes are intense on my face.

  I yank my feet out of his hands, blood heating my cheeks. “I’m so sorry! I never had a shower. My feet must be so gross.”

  Brandon’s gaze tells me he wasn’t thinking about foot odor and germs. “Doesn’t bother me.” He picks up the big dinner napkin and drops it in his lap. “Now, where were we? Give me that foot.”

  “Oh, no! You’ve done too much already. Thanks for the dinner. And the basket, too.” I jump up and grab the empty basket, hugging it to my chest, as I wriggle my feet into my slippers. “I really need to get back to my room and get cleaned up.”

  Brandon stands up too, still holding the napkin in front of his lap. “Thanks for joining me. It was much nicer having company than eating alone.” He follows me to the door. “See you tomorrow, Jade.”

  “Thanks again, Brandon.” I hope he likes the way his name sounds when I say it as much as I like how he says mine. “I hope I’ll still be around tomorrow.”

  “I have faith in you. Sleep well.” He shuts the door behind me gently and firmly.

  Chapter 7

  Brandon

  Melissa calls on the cordless as I’m standing at the window the next day, watching the kaleidoscope of dancers below as the contest moves through the second day of competition. “Hello, Mother.”

  “I wish you would just call me Melissa.” She sounds distracted, like it’s a knee-jerk response and her heart isn’t really in it. “How’s the show going?”

  “We’re well underway. Looks like the judges will be getting rid of another fifty or so today, so we’re on schedule.”

  “Any interesting talent?”

  “There’s always interesting talent. I like to wait longer to see who’s shaping up.”

  “I know you do. But do you see any modeling talent in this group?”

  “No six foot standouts, no, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  Melissa sighs. “You know what I’m looking for. That one perfect Pearl in the sea.”

  “Ha. Ha.” I pronounce each word distinctly. “This is a dance show, Mother.”

  “I know. And just because they get cut from the competition doesn’t mean there might not be some print possibilities there.”

  “You want to come out and roll an eye over the herd? Tell you the truth, I haven’t had time to be your talent scout with this show.” I pick up a folder of applications and headshots. “You could always send your assistant down.”

  “I think I might do that.” She sighs.

  “What’s the matter, Mother?”

  “I had some tests.” Her voice is small. “I have a lump in my breast.”

  I set down the folder, frowning. “What? What do they think it is?”

  “Not sure yet. They found this lump during my annual mammogram; and now I’m having extra tests.”

  “What kind of tests?” My heart rate spikes. Dad died when I was ten. Things may not be all that great between Mom and me, but she’s my only family.

  “A needle biopsy. Next week.”

  I ask some more questions: what doctor, when, when will she know the results, etcetera—the questions you’re supposed to ask at a time like this. I feel numb, like my mouth is moving and words are coming out, but the conversation is happening to someone else.

  “Don’t worry.” Her voice is soft now. “I’m sure it’s going to be fine. You’re the best thing in my life, you know.” She hangs up with a soft click.

  I stare at the phone in my hand.

  The best thing in her life? I thought that was her business: the careers and faces she’s put on billboards.

  Melissa must really be rattled by this.

  I walk over to the window and gaze down at the crowd, searching through it without knowing what I’m looking for—until I find it.

  Jade’s wearing black ballet gear today: a long sleeve, scoop neck leotard paired with black tights and a filmy black wrap skirt. Her hair is in a tightly coiled bun. She’s doing some sort of slide and shimmy jazz routine with a group of about twenty girls.

  I got her to eat last night.

  And burp.

  And moan.

  I liked the little noises she made over her steak so much that I got her to do more of them by rubbing her feet. I loved watching her in the chair, making those sexy sounds. She relaxed so much that she almost fell asleep.

  Jade would understand how scary it is to have this happening to my only parent. Her dad died when she was just a little older than I’d been when mine passed. Watching her dance makes me feel better about my mom somehow.

  The phone rings again. I watch Jade for a few seconds more and then go answer it.

  “Forbes.”

  “Brandon?” The woman’s voice on the line is very familiar, and lifts the hairs on my arms with its husky tone. I should have forgotten how her voice sounds by now.

  “Who is this?” I pretend I don’t know, maintaining the impatient business tone I answered with.

  “This is Pearl. Pearl Michaels.”

  Pearl Michaels. The woman I rescued, discovered, made famous, and fell in love with. International supermodel.

  Jade’s sister.

  “Oh, hey, Pearl.” I switch to casual. “I never wished you congratulations on your wedding.”

  She laughs deprecatingly. “We eloped. It was very quiet. But thanks.”

  “So what can I do for you today?” I switch back to business impatient. This woman crushed me so badly I’m still not sure I’m over it—the kind of maiming that leaves you missing a limb and suffering ghost pain long after.

  “Is—my sister there?”

  I’m blank for a moment. Of course. She’s calling for Jade. “How’d you get this number?”

  “I have a few connections.” Pearl switches to businesslike as well. “I’m calling to see if my sister Jade is competing on your dance show.”

  “As a matter of fact, she is. Doing rather well, too.” I walk over to the window and look down. Her partner has her overhead in a lift, but something goes wrong. I gasp as they wipe out, knocking over several other dancers as they hit the ground in a spectacular wipeout.

  “What’s wrong?” Pearl’s voice goes high with alarm.

  “Just a little slip-up on the dance floor. I’m monitoring from the office.” I watch to see if Jade gets up from the tangle of arms and legs she landed in. Injuries are terrifying in this competition. They’ve sidelined many a legitimate contender. Jade scrambles to her feet, shaking out one leg. Her partner stands more slowly, and he’s favoring an ankle. She hugs him and kneels to look at it. “Carnage on the battlefield. Yes, she’s a contestant.”

  “I called because she ran off for the auditions. She left a note and a phone message, but Mom is worried sick.”

  “Well, Jade’s fine.” At least she seems to be, at the moment, though her partner, a sturdy young black man, is not. With Jade on one side and one of the judges on the other, he’s being assisted off the competition floor.

  She’s going to feel responsible. I should check up on them.

  “You won’t…hurt her chances because of me?” Pearl’s sexy voice is low and hesitant.

  “What?” For the first time I really focus on the conversation. I walk back to my desk and sit down. “You think I would bias the judges against Jade because of you? Wow. That shows how little you ever knew me.”

  A long moment passes. Pearl sighs out a breath. “I’m sorry. Again. F
or even thinking that. I just worry about Jade, and she’ll never let me do anything to help. She’s had it rough. She has issues. Please, just cut her some slack.”

  “She doesn’t need any slack from me or anyone. Jade is an extraordinary dancer. I don’t think you know how talented she is.” I feel a bubble of pride tighten my chest—pride in the strength, resilience and talent of the youngest Michaels girl.

  “That’s good to hear. Because of course she never wanted me to come to any of her performances.” Pearl’s voice is tight with hurt. “But I’m glad I called. Now I know that she’s safe.”

  These sisters are in need of some sort of reckoning, but I’m no family therapist. That reminds me—I want to know about those ‘issues’ Jade has that keep getting hinted at. “What’s wrong with Jade? What issues does she have?”

  “If you can’t tell what they are, then they aren’t a problem,” Pearl says smoothly.

  I smile. Pearl might be hurt by her sister, but she called out of concern, embarrassed herself with me, and now she’s refusing to throw her little sister under the bus. I like that—she’s loyal.

  “All right. I hope Jade makes it through to the top twenty. If she does, I’ll send tickets for all of you to come watch the competition at the studio.”

  “Oh, would you?” The excitement in Pearl’s voice reminds me of holding her in my arms. She was like an ivory candle, throwing off heat and light. Unforgettable. “That would mean so much to us. Please, do keep me posted—and ask Jade to call me.” Pearl rattles off her personal number. I make a note of it automatically.

  I don’t want to have Pearl’s personal number. I fold the paper in half so as not to look at it. “Goodbye, Pearl.”

  I hang up, feeling gutted.

  It was all good until that last bit, when I remembered what it felt like to run with Pearl through the streets of Venice, to see her go from the dark and damaged girl I rescued on the bank of the Charles River to the international beauty she was meant to be.

  Until I remembered what it was like to hold Pearl in my arms and kiss her. We never did more than that, but with Pearl, that was enough.

  I’m not over Pearl, after all. Damn it.

  I walk back to the window and look down into the mass of dancers. Jade’s gone.

  Screw both of the Michaels sisters. I’ve got work to do.

  Jade

  “That’s a wrap!” The energetic director, Alan Bowes, bellows into a megaphone. I’m so exhausted that I slide down into splits, and lie facedown on the floor to really open up my hip sockets.

  “That’s not a position the family jewels appreciate.” Alex’s got an arm hooked around the neck of his hunky friend Ernesto, a slender, ripped dancer whose main ethnicity might be Native American, guessing by his straight black hair, tawny skin, and bladelike cheekbones. He and Alex seem headed in a romantic direction.

  “We made it through another day,” I say.

  “Yeah. Thank God. Rough one today.” Alex shakes his head.

  “Did you see my partner Henry go down? I felt so bad. Sprained his ankle lifting my fat butt, and he’s out of the competition.” I slide my legs over into scissors splits.

  “You know your butt isn’t fat, and it could be any one of us next. Gonna come up to the room?” Alex asks.

  “I’ll stay down here and do some stretches. When Henry wiped out, I banged my knee and hip pretty good.” I roll up my ankle-length tights to show them the knee, already purpling up. Icing it helped. I was lucky though—there wasn’t any deeper tissue damage.

  Not like poor Henry. If I was lighter, if I didn’t jump so hard into the lift...

  The guys move off with a salute and a wave. I bend my head forward to touch my damaged knee, breathing into the stretch, willing my ligaments to relax even as I feel a twinge from my bruised hip. I crave solitude to unwind, and the cavernous floor of the studio is emptying out rapidly. I’m just not used to sharing my life with so many people.

  Finally, it’s only me in the great open space, and I sigh with relief.

  I roll onto my back and flip my legs up over my head to stretch my back. I close my eyes. Breathe. Nothing going on but the rush of blood in my ears and the sound of my heartbeat.

  And then the sound of shoes on the echoing floor. Not a dancer, with that definite stride, staccato and hard. I hope he’s not approaching me—but no such luck.

  “Jade.”

  It’s Brandon. My eyes pop open and I flip over onto my knees, then wince. “Ow.” I stand up gracelessly, trying not to favor my knee.

  He’s backlit and his face looks closed and remote, with none of the warmth of last night. He’s holding something out to me—a slip of paper. I take it automatically. “Your sister called. Here’s her number. She wants you to call back.” His voice is icy.

  “How’s Ruby?” I should have thought of calling my big sister before, but I wanted to make it to the Top Twenty before I talked to anyone from the family.

  “It was Pearl who called.” Brandon turns with a fluidity that tells me he could have been a dancer too. He walks away, those hard business shoes echoing on the floor.

  Pearl called for me? The thought won’t compute. I open my hand and look at the slip of paper, one edge ragged where he tore it off of something larger. PEARL is written in bold, slanting block letters, and a string of numbers.

  I gaze at his ramrod straight retreating back. An overhead light gilds his short blond hair as he leaves the studio area, disappearing down the hall. Fifteen words, that’s all he spoke to me, not one more than he needed to use to convey a message—and now I know he’s not over her.

  Really not over her. At all.

  I blink and blink, looking down at the slip of paper in my hand. “It doesn’t matter. It’s fine. As long as he doesn’t take it out on me on the show, it’s fine,” I tell myself aloud. “It’s not like I liked him or anything.”

  The stab of pain in my chest tells me different. It’s hard to believe that just yesterday Brandon shared his dinner with me and rubbed my feet.

  I take the elevator to our room. I can tell by the discarded towels and piled dancewear that the boys showered and went down to dinner—and probably more socializing. The thought makes my stomach ache.

  I take a shower and find an Ace bandage in my gear bag. Probably too late for any ice to make a difference.

  I pop a few ibuprofen, braid my hair... and find I’m too tired and heartsick to go downstairs and deal with more people and eat. No, not heartsick. Tired. Numb. Sleep is what I need.

  I finish the cheese and the last pear in the picnic basket, and go to bed.

  Chapter 8

  Brandon

  I take my place next to the director in our spot below the film stage and lean over. “How’s it going?”

  Alan Bowes should be a cliché, but he’s unabashedly himself—gleaming head, leather, chrome jewelry and all. A former dancer, he knows what he’s looking for to continue to keep tension high on the show. The last few days have been a bloodbath of drama.

  “Excellent.” Alan gives me a thumbs up. “Ready to roll the top twenty couples announcement.”

  I sit back in my canvas Producer chair, making busy with the clipboard of to-dos and signature reviews that my assistant hands me.

  It’s been two days since I spoke to Jade and gave her Pearl’s number. The next couple of days, I rolled down the blind in the upstairs office and made a concerted effort to pay attention to my job: making sure every stage of the competition was covered and storyboarded, sponsors were lined up and happy, the sound stage guy who was out sick was covered.

  Our numbers are good, building as we head toward the big Top Twenty show.

  And I’ve made no effort to find out how Jade is doing—nor even to see who’s going to be in the Top Twenty.

  Because it really doesn’t matter. Whoever it is, the show will go on—and it’s the show that’s important.

  Of course, Alan is spinning out the agony with a group performance. Then, di
viding the group for another performance. These poor kids have been practicing their hearts out, getting cut and not knowing it, for the last forty-eight hours.

  A professional troupe of former Dance, Dance, Dance competitors comes on and blows minds with a breakdance, foxtrot, and ballet segment.

  Finally, it’s time for the Top Twenty announcement.

  They pull the dancers out of groups of ten, leaving five from each group on stage after bowing the rest off, and at last the process is over. Jade and her buddy Alex are hugging each other and jumping up and down, crying openly, as a barrel of confetti dumps on the contestants’ heads and strobe lights scythe around the stage.

  I let out a long, slow breath that I didn’t even know I was holding.

  “Got any favorites?” I lean over to ask Alan as the top twenty competitors fold each other in the kind of emotional group hug only people between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two are prone to. I’m only twenty-seven but I feel like a jaded old man already.

  Alan grins. “I might. But I’m not going to jinx their chances by saying any names out loud. It’s up to the public now, and it’s not just how good they dance—it’s how well they engage the audience.”

  And that might be hard for Jade, with those “issues” she has. She’s certainly an awkward little thing when she’s not dancing. I squelch a stab of worry.

  I stand up abruptly. “Got some stuff to take care of. Got to line up the individual spotlights.”

  We do a short feature segment on each of the top twenty. It’s time to exploit that connection between Pearl and Jade for the cameras. Maybe I should call Pearl, after all. Get a sound bite.

  My stomach tightens. I don’t want to speak to Pearl for any reason. But I can have an assistant do it. Do the whole thing, in fact. I head back to the office area above the big open dance floor where the dancers practice, and make a quick call to my mom.

  Melissa has that artificially bright note in her voice that tells me she’s putting a good face on something when I call her. “The biopsy went well. They think they got a good sample.”