CLOSING NIGHT: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series, Book 2 (Standalone)

by Brianna Stark

  “I almost died that night.” The memory still nearly gives me hives.

  “Yeah, I remember.” Patrick lets out a hoarse chuckle. He is right. That night he was right there beside me, calming me, feeding me my favorite drinks, and brushing off all of the audience, Board members, and press that were hounding me with questions, as though I was the one who had forgotten to take my sweats off before going on stage. It was one of the biggest scandals in the entire uptown performing arts community that year.

  His hand reaches for mine, and his fingers brush over my knuckles as I look down at the rough yet loving hands that are so very capable, in so many ways.

  “We’ve sure been through a lot together.” I let out a deep breath. I could pretend otherwise, but only for so long. And admitting we’ve been through a lot does not mean we will be going through more. His eyes turn a darker shade of brown, taking me in, and I adjust my posture on the stool at once self-conscious.

  “I am thinking of using the black costumes as a palate and covering them in graffiti. Skate-park inspired, but all black and white minimalist.”

  “I love it.” Patrick holds up one of the drawings between two fingers. “I can totally see it. You can do a lot with this.”

  “Hopefully.” I blink. It always amazes me how quickly artistic inspiration can take you for a spin. A few hours ago I would never have considered it, but, “Damn. Am I brilliant, or what?” I tease. Well, partly tease, and Patrick chuckles.

  We gaze into each other’s eyes for a while before I realize what we are doing and look away.

  “I can’t stop thinking about you in that lingerie.” He watches me as he says it, and I can’t believe he just said that. Then again, he is Patrick, and he’s never been shy.

  Even as colleagues in a professional setting, it seems that our conversations always take a turn in the same forbidden direction. Likely noticing my discomfort, he changes the topic back to the one we started with earlier.

  “What I said about how much you’ve done for me…” His lashes lower. “I really mean it, and I don’t know if I have said it enough for you to fully understand how grateful I am for everything you’ve done for me.” He blinks up into my eyes with a serious expression. “I mean it, Londyn, thank you. I made the biggest mistake ever when I…”

  The tension starts raising my shoulders at his choice of words. I cross my legs and lick my lips, adjusting my butt on the stool.

  “No worries.” My voice is crisp when I interrupt him.

  He sighs. “I didn’t think you would believe me, but I guess I don’t blame you. That’s why my next album is being dedicated to you, so that every time it is played from now into the future, everyone who listens to it, you and I, will know that if it weren’t for you, there would be no album. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be who I am today.”

  “That’s not necessary.” I swallow down the thickness in my throat, and he strokes the back of my neck with his long fingers, his head leaning closer to mine. It’s hard not to notice how close he’s become. Close enough to…

  “I’m sorry, Londyn. There isn’t a day that I don’t feel regret.”

  His hot breath crawls down my neck as I look up, and our gazes join. Inside of him, there is as much pain as I feel in my chest. I can see it.

  “I miss you, Patrick,” I say, and his focus lowers. He pulls my stool in closer to his with one hard yank, so our knees hook together. We’re both looking down at his strong hands, which are now on my thighs. Then he takes a deep breath, and I cradle his cheeks in my palms. They slide to the back of his neck. I close my eyes, and his lips land on mine.

  He nudges them apart, and with one wet and warm stroke after the other, we get lost. Before I know it he’s pulling me onto his lap as our kiss builds, and his reaching hands travel my body.

  Everything inside of me wants to be with him. Right here. Right now. His fingers slide up my thighs. They hook under my tee and pull it over my head.

  A tight moan escapes the back of his throat as his gaze drops to the bra he bought me.

  “Very nice.” His voice is groggy as his fingers reach around to my back to unclasp it. It falls to the floor and my breasts are freed. “But I like what’s underneath better.” His eyelids are heavy, and his lashes make long shadows over his smooth cheekbones.

  But because this is Driven Dance Theater, and this happens to be the wardrobe, aka gossip central, it’s at this precise moment that Lexi comes barging through the door.

  I practically leap off of Patrick’s lap, and he blocks me with his body, while I wrestle to get my arms into my shirt and pull it overhead.

  “Uh, sorry…” Lexi’s small pink mouth pops open. “Is this a bad time?”

  Hello.

  I grab the expensive bra from the floor and tuck it under one of my sketches while straightening my T-shirt and stroking my fingers through my hair before clearing my throat.

  “Nope.” I blink, as Patrick silently stands by.

  “Good.” Lexi rushes over and presses something, which looks like a magazine tear-out, to my table. I place my glasses on my nose and bend over the table to read it.

  “Humph.” I scratch the back of my head. “That’s weird.” The tear-out is a classified ad titled Driven Dance Theater casting call, followed by a long list of specifications.

  Lexi crosses her arms over her chest, purses her lips, and nods. “And, just moments ago, Cory announced that every single dancer in this company has to re-audition! Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

  “Not sure,” I chirp, leaning on the table.

  Patrick rests his hands on my shoulders and leans in to press his lips against my ear. “Be right back. Getting you an Americano.”

  I catch his focus. My expression probably says, You don’t have to, and what did we just do?

  “Want anything from Fuel?” He eyes Lexi.

  “No, thanks.” She smiles and then looks from me to him, and back to me suspiciously. “Are you guys like, together?”

  “Wishing—” Patrick winks at me.

  “No.” I roll my eyes and comment just as quickly.

  “All right, then.” Lexi shakes her head and lets it go. “There must be something you can do about this audition?”

  She vents for a while as I nod and quietly listen. Around the time she is starting to wind down and is nearly calm—not from any other reason than pure exhaustion, or else the fact that she knows she is going to have to work harder than ever to ensure her place in the company—Patrick shows up holding a steaming hot Americano and a small white paper bag.

  Lexi blinks dreamily at Patrick as he walks toward the table and whispers to me. “I am so effing jealous.” She tilts her head up at him with a smirk before swaying her butt out the door.

  Patrick hands me the Americano and pulls out two Mediterranean veggie sandwiches on the most amazing homemade sourdough bread they make at Fuel. It makes my stomach growl.

  “I thought you might be hungry.” His full lips curve up as I wrap my fingers around one of the sandwiches and sink my teeth in. Once we are finished eating our sandwiches in silence, I crumple the paper bag into a ball and chuck it into the paper recycling bin.

  Patrick looks at me with that same dark brown swirl in his eyes.

  “Can we talk about what just happened?”

  The memory I was trying to forget, of his plump lips on my lips and my legs wrapped around him as his hands groped me, comes flooding back. I bite my lip, blinking back up at him.

  “I’m sorry about that.” He rubs his jaw. “I know that you don’t want… I mean, I don’t mean to push you… it’s just that…” He lets out a hard sigh. “Is it my imagination, or do you still have the same feelings for me as I have for you?”

  “Patrick.” I look down. “You know that’s not the issue.”

  “But if I want to be with you and you want to be with me, maybe it’s not such a crazy idea that we get back together.”

  It’s true that when we’re together, and whe
n his gaze is on me, when he’s stroking me in all the right places, there isn’t anything in the world I want more than to be in the moment with him. And the attention he gives me—these constant reminders, the showing up every day in my workplace, the gifts, and the thoughtful and often flirtatious words—are definitely not helping the problem.

  “What went down, or didn’t go down, between us… it felt pretty shitty, and I am not that girl anymore.” My voice catches in my throat as his eyes turn dark.

  “What girl is that?” Patrick swallows.

  “The kind that lets herself get hurt.”

  “I am sorry if my career hurt you, but all I know is I still love you, and I can’t stop thinking about you. We keep being pushed together. Maybe you should consider giving us a second chance.” His forehead wrinkles.

  I shake my head. “Unfortunately I can’t. Won’t.” The tension rises from my gut to my throat.

  “I should have never gone to Los Angeles.” Patrick takes my hands in his. “And I should have never accepted help from Elle. You were right about her.” The muscles around his eyes tighten, and I squirm at the mention of the woman who financed Patrick’s first album and had it out for me.

  “I don’t want to talk about it. I have work to do.” My bottom lip quivers, and I shut my eyes. He runs the backs of his thumbs across my cheeks, and I let myself turn to him. I press my face into his muscled chest as he strokes my back with his long fingers. And as though another operator than my mind runs my body, my hands cup his jaw to pull his lips to mine. This kiss is more achy than the last, as his lips part mine.

  “Sorry.” It’s my turn to apologize. I pull my lips from his abruptly as something hits me. Maybe before that gold record on his wall gave me the willies the night of the cast party, I had the right idea. Maybe one night together would satisfy our cravings and help rid ourselves from our systems for good.

  “What is it?” His voice is hoarse.

  “Maybe there’s a solution.” I pull in a long, determined breath. “What if we give ourselves one last night together as a form of closure? Do you think then we can finally let go?”

  His eyes shadow with a dark knowing as it strikes me how irrational the idea really is.

  “Tonight?” He clears his throat, looking at me seriously.

  “Uh… maybe not tonight.” I bite my lip, “How about… in a week?” I shrug back up at him, and he pulls away from me. “But we’re not going to your place this time, and if we do, please take down that horrid monument on your wall.” I straighten my posture.

  “The gold record?” He scratches his brow in confusion.

  “Yeah, that thing.” I smile hard.

  “Yeah, okay, babe, if that’s what you want.” He studies me with concentration. “If that’s what you need.” There’s a subtle flash in his eyes when he turns away to slip his arms into his utility jacket and makes his way out the door.

  It’s not what I want. That I can never have. But it might be exactly what I need to move on, because nothing else seems to be working.

  7

  I am on my third Americano of the day and smoking on the steps when I get an email from… Sylene?

  There’s an attachment, which I open right away. It’s the proofs from Patrick’s album cover photo shoot. The first photos are slightly conservative: Patrick standing there with his hair messily falling in its perfect way over his shoulders as he shoves his hands into his pants, with an untucked white tee underneath a Comme des Garçons black blazer pushed back from the tanned skin of his wrists. In every single one of the photos, his eyes are practically assaulting the camera. His look is undress-me sexy. But, it seems he grew more relaxed as the shoot went on.

  Before I make my way to the end of the feed, I close the attachment to read the email that goes with it, which I am also curious about. I just couldn’t wait to see the pics.

  I can’t believe what I am reading, so I blink my eyes and read it again.

  The note explains how Patrick insisted I have final say on the photo chosen for the cover, and though it really isn’t his decision, Sylene mentions that life is easier if she humors him. The last part makes my heart melt in a big aww. She says she would love my input, since she owes me for saving the day and thinks I have good insight. Well, gee whiz, little me saved the day at a Terry Brunette shoot. Imagine that. I kind of feel for her, because I know how difficult and stubborn Patrick can be when he wants to be.

  I scroll through the rest of the photos. I am shocked to see the liberties Mr. Brunette took. There’s at least two pages of photos taken of Patrick and I together when we were unaware, in most of which we are holding hands. I am standing on my toes to whisper something reassuring in his ear, or he is wrapping his arms around me while we both laugh. I cover my face. There’s a photo of me pulling him by the hand to the makeup stand, and another one where we both have extremely serious and hurt expressions on our faces. There is so much potent emotion it stabs me in the heart. There is no denying the black and white photos are stunning, even if raw.

  I close the attachment and take a deep breath.

  It’s time to get back to work. I have been procrastinating and on edge all day after the conversation with Patrick. I wonder if what I suggested is the most terrible idea of my life or the most brilliant. Because I can’t stop thinking about being with Patrick fully, having permission to just let go with him once. I mean to really be with him body, heart, and soul, like how it used to be. Maybe we can get whatever is stirred up between us out of our systems once and for all. Then I hear my voice of reason. It says, Londyn—stupid, stupid, stupid Londyn—why on earth do you think one night will change anything?

  Maybe it won’t. Maybe it won’t change anything it all, maybe it’s a guilty pleasure I want to give myself. Once. Even if I know we can’t be together beyond that.

  An hour later, Sylene writes me back:

  What do you think?

  I type back. They’re great.

  What else am I supposed to say? I especially like the ones where my ex and I are reliving our heartbreak in our eyes as we tragically grope each other?

  Sylene writes back. Good, because I need you to sign off on them.

  Me: Why?

  Sylene: Vin and I agree with Terry. It should be one of the photos of you and Patrick on the cover. I’ll send the documentation over. On another note, Terry would like to see some of your designs. You can contact him directly.

  Say what?

  Holy crap. Did Patrick have something to do with this? And is it a bad thing or a good thing? Because some of those photos are so personal, and so nostalgic, I don’t know if I want them out there, haunting me for the rest of my life.

  Terry Brunette and I agree to meet at Fuel the next day to discuss his opportunity. He shows up at the coffee house wearing a black blazer, black jeans. A black-and-white patterned pashmina is wrapped around his neck.

  “Americano, no milk, right?” He raises a brow while heading toward the Barista stand.

  “Yeah.” I look at him funny. “How did you know?”

  “Patrick told me at the shoot. Every time he wasn’t holding your hand, he was talking my ear off about you, so let’s just say I know a thing or two about your preferences.”

  “Oh, okay.” I let out an awkward laugh. “Sorry about that.”

  “No need to be sorry. You two are clearly in love.”

  “Actually, he’s my ex.” I frown.

  “That I would not have guessed.” Terry excuses himself to get our drinks as I twiddle my thumbs, clutching my portfolio. I can feel the blush in my cheeks over our conversation already, and I wonder if there will be a day I won’t have to explain my strange relationship with Patrick.

  As we sip on our hot drinks, we pore over the photos from Push The Limit.

  “Wow.” He shakes his head. “That piece was unbelievable, and I love the shots. I just wish I could have got in on them.”

  I clear my throat. “Thanks. When Push The Limit first premiered, none
of us knew how incredible the reaction would be. Back when some of these shots were taken we were working off a shoestring budget and just hoping we would ensure our annual funding and maybe get a few more sponsors on board. But Kent had a way of getting everyone excited about the work.” I laugh, and Terry smiles, looking over the images.

  “I have to ask. Have you ever thought of branching out into the fashion industry, maybe having your own label?”

  “Um.” I bite down on my lip. “I love working with the dancers. I really do. More than I imagined, and I think they’ve come to need me.”

  “But…” Terry tilts his head.

  “But…” I shrug. “Who wouldn’t want to have their own label, right?” My words surprise me. I wrinkle my brow. “I had one opportunity through a very well-connected woman Patrick and I knew.” I look down and steady my thumb over the handle of my mug. “But she wasn’t a very nice person.”

  “Some people give this industry a bad name. But you have talent, obviously you know that. I didn’t mean to undermine the work you do at Driven. It’s remarkable.”

  “I appreciate that.” Even though I more than welcome any kind of praise when it comes to my work, something in me sinks.

  “What are these?” Terry lifts the drawings I have tucked in the back for Cory’s new piece. I start to tell him what I told Patrick just yesterday: the drama at the studio, my life-changing trip to Italy after our breakup, how I’d been given free rein with no limitations to abide by the movement because my director was terrified of following in the footsteps of a great.

  “But he’s on track now.” I cover up. “And I probably shouldn’t have told you that.” It would not be good for the company or Cory if that information got out.