| 43
Taz didn’t return the call that night or the next day. He didn’t return the call at all. Melanie wanted to call again, but she couldn’t muster the courage. If he wanted to talk, he’d call. She had to accept that he wasn’t interested. Plain and simple.
The message he was sending was clear enough: back off.
So she did. Every time he worked his way into her thoughts, she focused harder on the audition. This was what was important, she reminded herself. This was what mattered.
She danced until she was exhausted, and then she danced more. She danced till every limb felt like pudding.
When she was finally too tired to dance, she went through her wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear, how to wear her makeup, or style her hair. She settled on something one day, second-guessed it the next, and started again at least a dozen times.
The morning of the audition, she had narrowed the search to either a teal tiered skirt, plum harem pants, and a matching choli, or a pair of black flared-leg pants with lettuce edges and an imported cherry silk choli.
She was trying on the flared-leg pants one more time when she heard a rip and saw bare skin where the rear seam should be.
“Great,” she mumbled. She slipped them off and tossed them over a chair. “Better here than in front of a roomful of judges, I guess.”
Ten minutes later she was dressed in the teal and plum outfit, with her music, dance shoes, and other essentials packed in her duffel bag. On her way out, Abby thrust a travel mug of fresh coffee in her hand.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come along for moral support?” Abby asked for probably the tenth time in two days.
“No, you’ll only make me more nervous.” She sipped the coffee—oh, it was heaven—and made her way to the door.
She wasn’t going to mention that it was the prospect of seeing Taz again that had her stomach in knots. She’d gone over in her mind exactly what she wanted to say and how she would say it. She knew he was going to be angry, but she also knew it didn’t matter. She had to do this. He had to know she never meant to hurt him.
In her car, she was still so focused on rehearsing her speech that she stepped on the gas instead of the brake when she put the car into gear. The vehicle lurched violently, and the engine died.
She stared at the hot, brown liquid pooling in her lap. The coffee mug was no longer standing securely in the cup holder in the center console, but had jumped out of that pocket and was lying on its side, dribbling its contents onto her skirt and turning the beautiful teal into a dingy and wet brown mess.
She wanted to crumple into a ball of tears, but there wasn’t time. She had given herself twenty minutes to get to the theater, which should have been plenty of time to park and find where she was supposed to check in before the eleven o’clock call time.
She returned the now-empty cup to the cup holder, jumped out of the car, pulled a spare towel from the back, and pushed it into the worst of the spill. Then she made her way back to the apartment.
When she rushed in, Abby was on the couch with the newspaper. “Did you forget some—oh, no.”
“Yeah, coffee catastrophe. I don’t have time for this.” By the time she finished her sentence, she was already in the bathroom and shimmying out of the wet skirt. She soaked up the excess liquid with a towel and then ran it under the running faucet until the stain diminished.
“Let me do that one,” Abby said, edging her away from the sink. “You take care of the harem pants in the kitchen.”
Melanie looked down. The harem pants were in bad shape too. She did as Abby said, yanked off the harem pants, and made her way in her panties to the kitchen. She was already running water over them when she realized the balcony blinds were open and the older couple who lived across the path were sitting on their patio. The man had obviously seen something, because he was being less than subtle about craning his head to get a better view of her now that there was a breakfast counter between him and her underwear.
Melanie pulled a dish towel from the counter and did her best to cover up her lacy, black underthings as she made her way back to the window to draw the blinds. The man was still craning, but his wife must have figured out what was up, because she was swatting his shoulder. He had the gall to act indignant. “Whatever, you pervert,” Melanie said under her breath and hurried back to the faucet.
“I think I got it all out of the skirt,” Abby hollered. “How are you doing?”
“It’s coming out, but they’re soaked.” She bit back the curse she wanted to hurl at them, at anyone who would listen.
“You must have something else to wear.”
Melanie tensed her face, squishing her eyelids, her lips, her nose. “I did until I split a seam in the pants. I’d rather not be ‘that girl with the torn pants,’ but it looks like that’s what it’s going to be. Do you have any safety pins I could borrow?”
“Hold on, I have an idea.”
A moment later, Melanie heard the whine of a hair dryer. “The fabric is so thin, I think this’ll work. Bring yours.”
By the time Melanie brought in the wad of wet harem pants that she’d wrapped tightly in a towel, Abby had nearly a yard of the ten-yard skirt dry. “Here, use your dryer.” She handed Melanie her travel-size model.
Melanie grabbed an extra hanger, fastened the waistband to its clips, and hung the harem pants from the towel rack as Abby had done. She got to work.
Before long, both garments were mostly dry.
“That’s good enough,” Melanie said. She pulled them back on, grabbed and hugged Abby, and hurried out the door, slowing just long enough to catch the time on the microwave on her way out. Eleven twenty.
She groaned, but she didn’t stop.
She jumped back in her car and didn’t stop, didn’t let herself think, until she was standing in front of the silent theater, staring at the sign taped to the door.
“Belly Dance Divas Inside” was scrawled in black marker. This was it. All the talk, all the preparation, everything came down to this. Whatever happened on the other side of this glass was going to change everything.
“Here for the audition?”
Melanie wheeled around to find a stout woman with fluffy, burgundy hair shuffling toward her. She held a clipboard with a pen dangling from a string that bobbed nearly to her Birkenstocks.
Melanie hiked her dance bag higher on her shoulder and tried to ignore the still-damp feeling of the fabric against her thighs. “Yeah. Am I in the right place?”
“You’re late.”
“I know, I’m sorry, it was—”
The woman waved her hand in a gesture that said, “I don’t care.”
“Are you registered?”
“Yeah, I submitted the application online a few days ago.”
The woman nodded. “Name?”
Melanie told her.
The woman flipped pages on her clipboard, stopped at one, and scanned it with her fingertip. She paused. One eyebrow lifted. She glanced up. “You’re a friend of Taz Roman?”
What kind of question was that? “Sort of,” she answered.
“Interesting.”
Before Melanie could ask why, the woman pulled open the door and pointed to a wall of doors across the lobby.
“Follow the duct-tape arrows on the floor to the check-in room. Let them know you’re here, and they’ll give you a number and show you where to wait.”
Melanie crossed the floor and wondered what was on that sheet to indicate she knew Taz. Had he left a note? Was she already doomed?
She didn’t have time to worry about that, though, because when she opened the door to the check-in room, she got her first look at the competition. She’d expected dozens, but there had to be more than a hundred women in there. Tribal dancers, cabaret dancers, fusion dancers—even goth dancers.
A young man with platinum, spiked hair and a lanyard around his neck sat behind a folding table. In front of him was a line at least twenty dancers deep. She steppe
d behind the last one.
A half hour later, when she reached the front, she gave him her name and he found her on his check-in sheet.
She watched his expression. There it was. A slight downturn of his lips. Was it surprise or disapproval? She couldn’t tell.
“Why do people keep doing that?”
He looked up. “Doing what?”
“Why do you all look so surprised when you see my name on the sheet? What’s it say there?”
He leaned forward and rested his arms on the sheet, covering what little she could see. “I don’t know what you mean, but if you’ll just pin this to your shirt.” He slid over a laminated card with the number 124.
She glanced back. There was no one behind her and no one within earshot. As she leaned forward to pick it up, she asked, “Is Taz Roman around?”
The guy’s expression contorted. “I doubt it. You know he’s not going to be with the tour this year, right?”
It was like the ground gave out beneath her.
“Why not?”
The guy shrugged. “I couldn’t say,” he said, though he looked like he knew more. “If you’ll have a seat, we’ll call your number when it’s your turn. I suggest you get comfortable. It’s going to be awhile.”
She grabbed her dance bag and turned toward the mass of folding chairs and bodies in various stages of warm-up, chill-out, and deep concentration. Finally, she was here. She was in. No more drama or obstacles.
She should have felt excited or at least relieved. So why did she feel so miserable?
| 44
Melanie rushed to the bathroom, overcome by nausea. It all made sense now. Everything Gina had said, the reason Taz hadn’t called her back. The bloggers were right. This was all her fault. Melanie had done this, with that one stupid and spiteful remark.
How could she have believed he would quit? Of course he wouldn’t. He loved the show. He lived for it. And she’d gotten him fired.
The sick feeling subsided. She wrapped her arms around her middle and tried to make sense of what she’d heard. She was stunned by what it all meant.
She swiped at a runaway tear, and her arm brushed the number pinned to her chest. She pressed it to her skin. The reminder why she was here. The reminder it was all she had left.
She had to pull herself together. No matter what it took, she had to make it through the next couple hours.
It took every ounce of determination she possessed not to run out of the building, but finally she was standing in the wings, watching number 123 perform on the stage. The dancer was pure Egyptian cabaret with a strong ballet flair. Pointe shoes, pirouettes, the whole shebang. It looked great.
Melanie found herself enjoying the show before she remembered this was a competition. The woman wasn’t that great, Melanie told herself. And what had Taz told her? Garrett preferred more belly than ballet in his dancers. It gave her hope.
The dancer’s music was beginning to wind down when a shout came from the audience seats.
“Thank you,” the voice hollered abruptly. “We’ll be in touch.”
All the stage makeup, all that glitter and poise, none of it hid the woman’s disappointment. She moved quickly offstage, and Melanie could feel the heartbreak as the woman breezed by.
Her heart went out to her, but it gave her courage, too. There was still a chance for her. She repeated it over and over in her mind.
A thin woman in skinny jeans and a clipboard took the stage. Into her headset microphone, she said, “Next up is Melanie Drake.”
She pointed to a man in the orchestra pit operating a panel of controls. He turned a knob, pressed a lever, and Melanie’s music began.
Fear and excitement traveled through her with the rhythm. This was it.
After two deep breaths, she smiled and stepped out of the wings, slinking, swaying, and letting the music lead her. Trying to forget that the rest of her life depended on the next three minutes.
She concentrated on the music, forcing herself to follow it instead of anticipating it, but then the music was its own reminder. Every drum beat a reminder of him.
Don’t think about that now!
Her fake smile faltered. She’d been so sure she would see him today, so sure what had gone wrong could be made right again.
She stretched her smile. She had to focus.
The truth was, she was nervous about seeing him, but knowing she might never see him again was so much worse.
To know that it was because of her, because of her idiocy, it was almost too much to bear.
She stumbled a step and tried to recover.
“Sorry,” she said aloud, as if that mattered.
Focus!
She couldn’t help but think he should be here. He loved this show. He loved this world and the music.
But so did she, a defiant part of herself insisted. She should be here, too. She deserved to be.
No. A week ago, maybe. Two or three weeks ago, definitely. Not now. She couldn’t do it, if it was only because she had taken it away from him.
She loved him.
She froze. The music continued, but she wasn’t following it anymore. She stared helplessly into the darkness beyond the spotlight’s glare. In the wings, Skinny Jeans was whispering furiously into her headset and staring at her.
The woman waved her hands. When that didn’t work, she marched toward Melanie. “What is the problem?”
“I have to say something.” The words came out meek and thin, and they were nearly lost in the music.
Skinny Jeans turned to the audio guy and made a slashing motion at her throat. The music stopped.
“I have something to say,” Melanie said again, more boldly this time to the faceless people she knew were sitting in the sixth row.
From the look on Skinny Jeans, she may as well have said there were Martians crawling in the curtains.
Skinny Jeans turned blankly to the bright abyss and waited for direction.
Melanie shielded her eyes with her hands and could make out three silhouettes. Garrett Sheffield had to be one of them.
“Hello?” she offered tentatively. “I need to say something about Taz Roman.”
Skinny Jeans reached for her, probably to drag her offstage. Melanie pulled away.
Taz’s name seemed to silence all the chatter in the room, all the ambient noise. Melanie knew every eye in the theater was now riveted on her.
Every instinct told her to stop. She was ruining any chance to ever get into the troupe.
Still, Taz didn’t deserve what she had done to him, and it certainly shouldn’t have cost him his job. Worse, it had cost him his music, and just when he was preparing to launch his own solo album. If only he had said something.
Why hadn’t he asked her to set the record straight? Why had he shut her out?
It didn’t matter. This was the right thing to do. She could learn to live with never being a Belly Dance Diva. She could never live with what she’d done to Taz.
“Mr. Sheffield,” she began, “there are some things being said about Taz that aren’t true.”
She paused and waited in the spotlight’s glare for some kind of permission to continue. There was only silence and the thrumming of blood beating in her ears.
She cleared her throat and continued. “That blog said Taz was trading special treatment in the Divas’ audition for favors.”
She could hardly believe she was saying these things. It was as if all the blood in her body was swimming around in her head, drowning her.
“And…” said a familiar British voice in the darkness.
“None of it’s true.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m the one who said it.”
There were audible gasps from backstage. She spun around and saw dancers gathered in the wings, listening to everything.
It didn’t matter. She had to say it. She had to tell the truth.
“I’m the source they didn’t name. I was angry and frustrated when I said it, and
I didn’t mean it. He never did anything wrong while we were together.”
“While you were together?”
Crap. Why had she said that? “It’s not what you think. I was just living at his house because he wanted me to pretend to be his girlfriend so his sister would leave him alone.”
Oh, God! She was babbling. She should just shut up.
“So it was a platonic arrangement?”
She envisioned Taz in the bed beside her. And beneath her. Could they see her cheeks burning red?
“Mostly,” she mumbled.
She could hear the tittering behind her, and her face burned hotter.
“Look,” she said, “he needed a fake girlfriend, and I was available. I asked him to coach me. That wasn’t his idea, initially.”
Spilling her guts like this had passed the point of being mortifying. She was almost numb. And now that she’d begun this awkward confession, she couldn’t stop.
“I’ve wanted to be a Belly Dance Diva forever. It’s my dream, and I’ve never wanted anything as badly as I want this. I thought I’d be crazy to pass up the opportunity to have someone like Taz Roman help me. The thing is, even when he agreed, I didn’t really believe I could do it. He changed that. He made me believe in myself. But he never, ever promised something inappropriate. He never promised to get me in the troupe.”
She stopped. Her chest heaved, and her breath was short. Her throat collapsed in some phantom death grip. She wanted to run, but there was still more to say.
“The day I said what I did, I was angry. I was hurt. The fact was, I was jealous. I was an idiot and thought Taz’s help meant something more than it did. It’s so embarrassing to admit now, but I thought he was interested in me. He never was. He was always very clear about where we stood with each other. I was the one who made the mistake, not him. When I realized my mistake, I lashed out. I just wanted to vent. I never meant for it to hurt anyone, especially him. What people are saying about him now, it just isn’t true. He’s a good guy, he’s a great drummer, and he doesn’t deserve what happened. He deserves to be in the show, not me.”
She paused and waited for someone to say something. The audio guy dropped a CD case, and the clatter shot through the hall. Even the woman with the headset stood silent.
Romance: Dance with Me (California Belly Dance Romance Book 2) Page 15
