by Toby Neal
“That’s great, Mother. When will you know?”
“Not until next week.”
We sit with that a moment. “So. I didn’t send my assistant, and you have your top twenty. I just got done watching—great show. And I saw Jade Michaels made it through.” Her voice is carefully neutral.
“So she did.”
“And you didn’t have anything to do with that?”
“Of course not, Mother.” I stride back and forth in front of the darkened viewing window, pushing a hand through my hair. “I don’t get in the way of the judges.”
“Well. There’s already a lot of interest in Jade. The camera loves her.” I hear a rustling. “Found a piece speculating on her chances in this morning’s Arts and Culture section of the New York Times.”
“People will speculate.” I peer out the window. Someone’s moving around in the big open space below.
“I think she has potential now that I’ve watched her on the show. I want you to sign her with The Melissa Agency.”
“No,” I say automatically. Forcefully.
“What?”
“No. She’s too short.” It’s all I can think of. I don’t want Melissa getting her hooks into Jade—no idea why. It certainly was a good thing for Pearl. I squint. No lights are on in the room below, but I can see someone’s down there. Dancing, from the graceful, rhythmic movements, just a blot of dark against slightly less dark.
“We’re branching out. Commercials. Catalogs. Print. I’m even thinking about acting. She’ll be good for something. Like I said, the camera loves her.”
“You can handle that yourself, then, Mother. Let me know when you hear the results.” I hang up the phone, both irritated and concerned. The office’s window is covered with one-way reflective tinting, but still I lower the blind and flick off the light. The kids aren’t supposed to use the studio after hours, and dancing in the dark is downright dangerous.
Jade
I can’t contain the ecstatic joy of making it to the next level. All I wanted to do, after all the crazy screaming, crying, jumping, and hysteria at the end of the show, was to get to the big empty space of the studio and express all the feelings surging through my body.
I’m at the studio, hand on the door, when I realize that I got all the way through the show, the gut-wrenching anxiety, and even all the touching—without using my hand sanitizer once.
It must mean something. Maybe I’m getting better. “In vivo exposure” is one of the treatment methods for OCD—they overwhelm you with stuff and then don’t let you wash. Perhaps that’s what’s happening to me.
The door of the studio is open. That must mean something too. It’s usually locked after hours. There’s a light on in the office upstairs, but I can’t see in even with it dark below. Someone probably forgot and left a light on up there.
The vast open space calls to me and I leap into it, a grin of joy stretching my face wide with unfiltered happiness.
I did it. I made it to the top twenty!
I leap across the vast space, finding some depth of leftover energy, and as I soar through the darkness, the most exquisite bliss overtakes me. I did a hard thing on my own, and beat the odds.
I pause for a moment, panting, and pull the bobby pins out of my heavy bun, sliding them onto the scooped neck of my leotard. I scrub my fingers across my aching scalp—ah, the relief—and then I spin.
I once did twenty-eight continuous spins, pumping a leg in and out to keep going. Today I make it to twenty-six, arms extended, hair flying—and it feels so good that I laugh at the end as I sink down into splits, spread my arms, and lay my cheek on the floor.
Screw the germs.
I just lie there, head to the side, eyes closed… and the last of the tension ebbs away, flowing out of my hip sockets, down my legs, and out of my toes.
“You’re not supposed to be here after hours.” Brandon Forbes’s voice is right above me. His voice is just as frosty as the last time he spoke fifteen whole words to me. I squeak in alarm, roll to the side, and stand up.
“How did you sneak up on me like that?” I sound snappy and defensive, even to my own ears.
“I came to tell whoever was down here that the studio is closed. Which you know, I’m sure.”
“I’m sorry. I just needed—to dance a little bit.” I hurry toward the exit. Misery cramps my belly. One call from Pearl was all it took to make him hate me.
“Did you call your sister?” He must be reading my mind. He’s walking after me, and must be wearing moccasins or something because I can’t hear those ugly shoes on the floor.
“No, I did not.” I don’t tell him that I called Mom and Ruby instead, and we had a good talk. I have no desire whatsoever to talk to Pearl, and besides, my family is none of his damn business.
I push open the door just as Brandon puts a hand on my arm. The hallway light, a low-wattage bulb that’s always on, falls over us and feels as bright as a strobe after the soothing dark. Whatever he was going to say seems to die on his lips as he looks at me. His eyes are hidden from the harsh light in caves of darkness, and I can’t see what’s in them.
“Your hair is down. I wondered what you’d look like with your hair down.” One of his hands is still on my arm. The other skims the length of my hair, touches my waist light as a moth. “I like it.”
I should be upset that he’s touching me. That he thought about my hair—down or up, it’s none of his business. But my heart is hammering too hard to think about anything but how close he is, how much I want to see what the expression is in his shadowed eyes. I take a step closer and let go of the door, which swings shut silently and surrounds us in darkness again. Our bodies brush. The heat between us vibrates like electricity, raising the fine hairs of my arms, prickling my nipples into tightness. My face turns up to his, seemingly of its own volition.
“Jade,” he breathes into my mouth, and his arms encircle me, light and gentle. His mouth descends to mine.
Oh, this. This. Oh, this.
All is darkness, and whirling, and the dimmest pulse of red light. Beating heart, shivering, and sensation drawing me deeper. Someone gasps—I’m not sure who—but in the muffled sound is surprise, recognition, and surging need.
Hunger.
I bring my arms up to clutch his shoulders, drawing him closer. He tightens his arms, lifting me that six or seven inches in height difference and crushing me close so he can fully taste my mouth.
I give back as good as I’m getting, wrapping my legs around his waist, inching higher so I can kiss him deeper, my arms wrapped around his head, neck, and shoulders. He staggers a few steps to the wall and braces me against it, and I feel like I’m bursting into flames.
“Jade…Jade,” he says, and I love the way my name sounds on his lips, how the only thing better than this moment would be to never have to leave it.
I release his mouth so I can tip my head back and feel him kiss my neck, delightful shivery ripples of sensation zinging up and down my spine as he nuzzles deep into the hollow behind my ear with his rough stubble.
“Mmm, you taste so good,” he murmurs, lips finding the pulse at the apex of my collarbones. His hands wrap around my bottom, a sensual tension in his grip as he holds me against the wall, and I have to kiss him again.
This time our tongues dance together in an instinctive rhythm—but I’m clumsy, and too eager, and our teeth click together painfully.
He laughs, a deep chuckle. “Slow down,” he whispers. “We have all night.”
The words wash over me like a draft of cold water.
We don’t have all night.
I’ve never been with a guy before, and it’s an ugly embarrassing secret that I don’t want him to know—and he had to have slept with Pearl.
How could my clumsy virginity ever compare with going to bed with my beautiful, sexy sister? I’m a freak. I’ve never met anyone I’ve liked enough to get past the germs to touch, let alone kiss. Forget having sex. I don’t even know how to kiss. My i
nexperienced groping is all wrong—look how I’m falling all over him!
Shame and embarrassment swamp me, and suddenly my mouth feels alive with germs—terrifying germs. I have to get away. I have to get clean.
I slide my legs down to touch the floor and wrench out of his arms. “I’m sorry. This was a mistake.” I use my shoulder to push him away as I dart for the door.
“Jade—let’s talk about this!” He reaches for me—but I’m fleeing. I crash through the door and run down the hall, a hand over my mouth as tears fill my eyes.
I’m such a freak. And he’s been with my sister. It could never work.
Brandon
Jade is running away from me down the hall, hair streaming behind her like a cape.
I’m such a jerk—I moved way too fast. But she’d seemed so into it…My body is still amped and tingling from touching her. The message that I’ve been dumped is having a hard time getting to my dick.
I seem to remember Pearl running away from me in Italy, too, the last time I tried to get something going with her.
How the hell did Jade and I end up kissing, anyway?
I shake my head. Probably better she ran off. What a mess.
I use the master key to lock up the studio and take the fifteen flights of stairs to my room on foot, needing to work off angst from the encounter.
Needing to make sense of it somehow.
Pearl’s phone call threw me into a funk in the last few days, mulling over my loneliness and even my business partnership and relationship with Mom. More and more, I think I need to totally go out on my own. This show is mine, but I want to run the acting and dance arm of The Melissa Agency, not keep feeding Mom the talent I discover. Like Pearl.
And Jade.
Jade made me dizzy watching her spin as she danced in the dark, just the faintest glow from the exits illuminating her body as she snapped crisply around and around and around, hair whipping. I recognized it was her when she laughed and melted to the floor, letting go of the craziness of the day.
I made my voice hard when I approached her, though, because I still don’t know what the hell is going on between us and I’m not sure if my attraction to her is really about Pearl.
Then the light fell over her small figure at the door, lighting that thick dark hair with its red glints... I had to touch it. And the way she turned to me, her face so soft... That was all Jade, herself. Sweet. Inexperienced. Shy.
I never expected the kiss to be such a detonation. Our chemistry just blew up and exploded in both of our faces.
I just want the whole thing to go away somehow.
And yet I don’t. I can’t stop thinking about her, especially now that I’ve had a taste of her. She feels so good in my arms—strong and light. Damn, the girl is fine.
Maybe it’s just as well she ran away. The last thing I need is another involvement with a Michaels girl.
I reach my floor at last, remembering that I told Pearl I would get her and the family studio tickets if Jade made it to the top twenty. Inside my suite, I head for the clipboard and make a note of it for my assistant.
I might have given Jade Pearl’s number, but that didn’t keep it from being seared on my brain when I wrote it down.
I head for the shower, and take a cold one.
Chapter 9
Jade
Last night I grabbed a bite to eat at the cafeteria-style dining area of the restaurant that the studio has set up for us, and, in spite of my angst about kissing Brandon, fell asleep like falling down a well.
It’s a good thing, too, because the real competition begins today.
We girls drew names and dance styles from a hat this morning. My first partner, dancing the foxtrot, is a guy named Hal from Detroit.
Hal is huge, and looks like a weightlifter in a tee with ripped-off sleeves, but he’s surprisingly agile and light on his feet. Turns out he can foxtrot like a champ, which is a good thing since ballroom is my weakest style. Cha-cha and tango I’ve at least done lessons for, and hip-hop, ballet, and contemporary are all strengths. It sucks to be starting the competition with my weakest performance, but hopefully Hal, nicknamed Twinkletoes halfway through the morning, can move me ahead this round.
We only have one day to learn the dance, then the competition begins filming at six p.m. and runs for two hours.
Halfway through, as Hal and I are back-stepping briskly with our coach, a camera crew arrives. The show’s emcee, a style maven named Kate Henley, waves us over. She shoves a mic in our faces. “Hello, beautiful young people. Tell us about yourselves.”
I glance at Hal and he winks, turning on some charm I didn’t know he had. “I’m Hal. From Detroit. I started dancing at a cotillion when I was thirteen and I haven’t looked back since.”
“Any specialties?”
“I like ballroom.” He’s still holding my hand, and spins me under his arm with easy authority, making Kate laugh.
“Well, Hal, you make a nice couple with Jade, here. Jade, we already know fame runs in your family. Tell us what it’s like having an international supermodel for a sister?”
“Oh, it’s so great,” I gush. I anticipated this painful subject would be revisited after Brandon’s early interview. “Pearl is so supportive of my dreams. And she’s got the pro makeup tips!” I bat my eyes. I remembered to put on a pair of false eyelashes this morning, practically in the dark, because Pearl told me that cameras wash out color and detail—“if you only have time to put on two things, they should be eyelashes and lipstick,” she told me once. Not that I listened back then, but today I have on both. I smile big and cock a hip in an exaggerated modeling pose.
“Well, looks and charm certainly run in your family—let’s hope dance talent does too!” Kate chirps, and moves on to the next set of victims.
“Your sister is Pearl? The Pearl?” Hal’s eyes bug out comically. “She’s hot. I mean, you’re cute and all, but…”
“Yeah, yeah. Try not to flatter me too much.” That kind of bumbling comment doesn’t even ruffle me; it’s happened so often. I sock him in the rock-hard shoulder and take his big sweaty hand in mine, resisting the urge to reach for my hand sanitizer. “Let’s get this thing nailed.”
Our instructor fires up the music and we get back to practicing. Eventually Wardrobe sends a minion to fetch us.
“I wish we could get our voting call-in numbers printed across our outfits,” I tell Hal, holding up the skimpy sequined gown the stylist recommends for me to wear this round. “I don’t like this. Reminds me of something from the Ice Capades.”
Hal laughs. “Don’t care what you pick as long as I don’t have to wear tights.”
“I totally understand.” I hold up a pale pink gown. It has sheer sleeves dotted with rhinestones and a full, calf-length tulle skirt. I can tie my trademark waist ribbon in just the right place. “How do you feel about pink?”
“I rock pink,” Hal says with a leer. “Whatever they give me to match you, my manliness can handle it.”
I roll my eyes. “Pink it is, then.”
I try the dress on, and it fits. I’ve set myself up with a “trademark” look so that viewers easily recognize me. My partners will just have to go along with it—guys’ outfits are so much less complicated.
We practice all the way up until the backstage bell rings, and, while I don’t feel super confident, I’m pretty sure Twinkletoes can tuck me under his arm and carry me through the whole thing if necessary.
At the callback, we receive our numbered competition order assignments. Keeping it mixed up is part of the show’s dynamic, so we’re third in line to perform after a hip-hop and a waltz number, an okay spot.
I explain my “look” to hair and makeup, and I’m pleased with how they do my hair up in a French-braided crown around my head that’s studded with rhinestone pins. Several more on flexible, raised wires float above my head, so it seems like there are jewels sparkling above it. Continuing my ballet-influenced ingénue style, makeup goes heavy with false la
shes and smoky plum to make my green eyes stand out. Nothing else goes on my face but a few rhinestones on my cheeks and pale pink lip gloss.
The makeup artist paints on the gloss, and I press my lips together. It tastes like strawberry. I picture kissing Brandon, reaching up to hook an arm around his neck, and the way the sweet flavor would be shared… Where did that thought come from? I shake my head to get rid of it, and send one of my brilliants flying.
“That’s one thing about this hairstyle,” the makeup artist says, fetching the bobby pin with its sparkling decoration. “No sudden head movements. Think Queen Victoria.”
I laugh as she slides the pin back in. “That will be fine with the foxtrot. Supposed to keep the upper body quiet, anyway.”
I hop down off the chair just as Hal comes to the door, resplendent in a black tux sporting a pink bow tie that’s the exact shade of my dress.
He whistles long and low. “I take it back. Pearl’s got nothing on you, babe.”
“Why, thank you.” I curtsy, spreading the light, voluminous skirt, and take his arm. We join the other contestants backstage, milling in a nervous herd. I clutch Hal closer. “I’m so freaked out.”
“You can grab on me all you like,” Hal says, and moves me in front of him so he can cross his big arms over me, both comforting and claiming. The other contestants give us sideways glances.
I like Hal, but not that way. Unfortunately, a certain off-limits show producer has already nailed a stake into my heart. But if it makes us dance better, I’m okay with a little flirting.
I lean back into Hal’s solid bulk and try to calm my thundering heart, as couple number one goes out onto the stage.
Brandon
Watching from a high-up glassed-in production booth, television monitors all around, I’m aware of a nice adrenaline buzz. The studio audience is in and seated, primed for excitement and responsiveness with a warm-up dance routine by last year’s winners and a funny intro by Kate the emcee—and now, the first couples are up.
