“Maybe you should. Then you might understand.” He sounds upset.
“It’s not that I don’t want to listen to it, Patrick. You know I love your music.”
“But Driven has kept you very busy.” He finishes my sentence, his voice flat.
“It has been crazy around here.” That makes me think of my interview with Terry the other day, and how I couldn’t wait to tell Patrick, but now that we’re on the phone, my enthusiasm has gone south. The truth of the matter is that Driven insanity has nothing to do with the reason I have not listened to Patrick’s album.
“So do you want me to sign Sylene’s documents?” I bite down on my lip, clutching the phone.
“Listen to the music, and you decide what is right. I trust your opinion, Londyn. More than I trust my own.”
“Okay,” I chirp.
How can I say no to that? I click off the phone and hold it in my hand for a while, staring at the unpackaged disk labeled ‘One Night.’ A jolt of energy electrocutes me. How did I not notice the title before? I am not at all happy about having to listen to it. It’s not going to be easy, with all of the strong feelings eating at me, and man, just listening to the music he made for Cory’s new piece makes me buckle over into an instant orgasm. Is there such a thing as an immaculate orgasm? Is that what it would be called—an orgasm without penetration or friction, just instantly combustive?
I roll my eyes and bite down on my lip. Is he really calling it ‘One Night,’ or is that name marked on the disk for my eyes only? Patrick’s music has a way of getting under my skin, but the truth is, he already is under my skin. I don’t need any more help. But the heavy feeling I have in my chest has nothing to do with the music and everything to do with the fact that he didn’t mention our little date, which is coming due in the next two days. Could he have forgotten?
8
Wearing a black leather skirt by Mauro Gasperi—a designer I came across in Milan—with a blouse and black tie-up platform shoes, my portfolio pressed under my arm, I step out of a yellow cab to meet with the fashion director of NY Style magazine.
An assistant wearing TOME leaves the stark white waiting area in five-inch heels to get me a cup of fennel and mint herbal tea. I flip through a few issues of NY Style lying on the square table next to me, feeling fidgety. The issues go back as far as 1953. Wow.
I am not nervous about this meeting, since it’s regarding a topic I am very used to: Kent Morgan and Push the Limit. I am feeling weak because of the music I stayed up very late last night listening to, the music that could be the soundtrack to the most painful moments of my life and is currently lining my arteries with its potent residue as I nervously roll my platform-footed ankle.
Patrick’s album is a breakup album. I should have known.
My fingers twitch across my brow.
That, he made very clear. From the looped-in vocals woven with longing, using select and poignant words—words that we shared in our most private moments—to the violent screams of the electric guitar a few tracks in, to—ugh—the songs that crawl under my skin and make my heart sick with longing in their drawn-out, achy melodies. And the clincher: the final song, titled ‘One Night,’ about the woman that left him for dead in the heat of the moment, starting with sizzling tango-like drop beats that abruptly switch gears to the angst-filled progressive rhythms that follow.
“Londyn Verona?”
The woman in heels calls my name, and I look up from a 1976 NY Style magazine, September issue.
“Ms. Cassidy is ready to see you now.” She leads me to the office straight ahead as I straighten my skirt and follow.
A well-kept woman in her fifties, dressed in beige suit, curves her lips upward when she sees me. “Well, hello.” She holds out her hand. “Welcome to NY Style. Please have a seat.”
Her comforting smile as she listens intently and the direction of the conversation brings my mind back to work and the reason I am here, which is exactly what I need. Thank god for my work. If I didn’t have it, I don’t know what I would do.
Of course, it isn’t too long before we get onto the topic that fascinates most people: the man behind the creative vision, Kent Morgan. Between his exceptional good looks, the way he commands the room, and the insane hype that surrounded his past two works, he’s an exception. It’s about time this art form received the attention it deserved, even if it is very tiring explaining every personal nuance of Kent’s. Especially the one no one seems to understand.
“Did he really give it all up?” “Why?”
Those questions are hard to answer.
Ms. Cassidy’s pleasantly upturned lips crumple, along with her brow, into an expression of sheer bewilderment as she clasps her hands together over her desk.
“All I know is that he’s never been the same person since he met Branwen O’Hara. I could not imagine giving up my work for anything,” I inhale.
Or anyone.
The last thought makes my skin prickle.
“Gosh.” Ms. Cassidy shakes her sleek, pulled-back head of hair. “It’s hard to imagine what it would take for a person to give up everything they’ve worked their whole life for, especially when they are at the top of their career and have accomplished so much.”
“You’re telling me.” I cross my legs and look out the window beside her desk at the Manhattan skyline.
What would I be willing to leave my work for?
In truth, the only thing I would sacrifice almost anything for would be a chance to erase the past. The past that was written inside Patrick’s music and was about to be released into the world.
“I guess we should talk about the shoot, then.” Ms. Cassidy looks reluctant to move on to a more logical topic. There are very few women who ever get enough of talking about Kent Morgan, at least in my experience, which makes me more than willing to move on.
“I can’t believe this is the first time this magazine has had a dance-inspired issue, and I must say I am very excited about it.”
Her lips drop into a more serious expression as we hunker down to talk details, from the mood, to the look, the lighting, the stage-inspired makeup, and of course costuming, all to reflect the likeness of Kent’s past production, with a touch of avant-garde fashion house style.
Ms. Cassidy looks up between jotting down notes. “I like where this is going.” She taps her pen to her bottom lip. “And Kent Morgan will be able to stop by to give his input on the day of the shoot, I assume?”
“Uh…” I look up, flipping my ankle. Kent has not returned one of my recent phone calls, which I cannot believe, and am feeling pretty jilted about it. “No,” I exhale, “but you will be happy to know that Cory Kidd, Driven Dance Theater’s newest artistic director, has agreed to coach the choreography for the shoot, and he knows the piece intimately. Not only did he perform in Push The Limit, but he was also the rehearsal master and Kent’s one and only protégé.” I force the corner of my lips upward.
“Oh.” Ms. Cassidy’s shoulders slump. The skin of her cheeks, which have a plastic surgery look, droop slightly from their hyper-tight state. “It’s just that when we offered the shoot to Driven, one of the conditions was that Kent would be present and would be interviewed, as well as appearing in some of the shots. You know this is a big deal; it’s a five-page spread.” Her gaze narrows into mine, as she taps her finger on the white desk.
“Right.”
I’m at a loss for words. How was I not let in on this important information? Kent told me closing night that he had gotten me a feature in NY Style magazine, but… My innards knot when I put two and two together. I didn’t stick around that night to discuss the issue further, because I went home with Patrick. My cheeks burn with heat. I haven’t spoken to Kent since, and only received the call from NY Style to set up the appointment to discuss a shoot of Push costumes thereafter. Nothing else was said.
I bite down on my bottom lip and look out of the window at the gray skyline. This shoot is a big deal, and I deserve it. There isn’t a
nything I haven’t done to preserve the company’s reputation, and the company owes me this.
Ms. Cassidy has that look on her face. I know the look. It’s saying, Give us Kent, or we call off the shoot.
“Kent will be there.” I stand up and straighten my skirt.
Ms. Cassidy’s lips turn back up into that tight but friendly smile, which I now know is not quite as friendly as it appears.
“Brilliant.” She folds her hands over her desk. “See you and those sparkling designs in a few weeks.”
I thank her for her time, and the high-heeled receptionist appears like magic to open the door, probably seeing the look on my face, which is squished into one big shit, shit, shit.
Not only did I make a promise I can’t keep, but it also strikes me that the costumes are far from being ready, never mind sparkling. There is so much to do and so little time.
I slap on a tight smile and wave bye-bye to Miss Receptionist.
“Have a nice day.” I smile, feeling her curious eyes on me as I leave the stone-cold building.
A few minutes later, I’m stepping out of the yellow cab and onto my familiar territory. I head straight to wardrobe. Since there are no immediate fires to put out, I make a call to the one person I haven’t called in a very long time. I still know his number off by heart.
The phone rings four to five times while I bite on my nail. No answer. My stomach rises. I release the breath bound in my chest and rub my neck when voicemail kicks in. Clearing my throat, I get straight to the point.
“Hey, it’s Londyn. I hate to do this, but I was wondering if we could talk.” I wince as I hang up and scrape at my hair when my phone rings.
“Hello.” I answer it immediately.
“Too busy to talk to your boring old mom?” The voice on the other end has slightly more spark than the last time, but it is far from joyful.
“Oh. Hi, Mom! No, I just thought you were someone else for a second. How are you?” I bite my lip.
“Please don’t let me bore you. Tell me about your exciting life, darling.”
“Mom, you aren’t boring in the least.”
The line goes quiet before I fill her in on the usual insanity at Driven, leaving out the bits about Patrick, and she lets out a wistful sigh.
“Oh, honey, just promise me you will enjoy it while it lasts. Whatever you do, don’t settle down or take a backseat to someone else’s goals, Londyn. Live your dreams.”
“That’s what I do best.” I start to doodle on my notepad.
“Good. I’m so happy you called off that engagement two years ago. It would have been a huge mistake.”
My breath is halted by the tightness in my throat. This is the part where she tells me about the budding acting career she gave up, bit by bit, when Dad’s company started expanding and they moved from small town to small town until the final clincher when he royally screwed us all.
“You know, he had me warn one of the landowners that a drug ring was taking over across the street, so that they would sell for less. I actually believed he had their best interest in mind. Then there was the time he had me convinced that the water was poisoned. The second I mentioned it to the franchise owners, they sold out for half the price they bought in for. He was so… enterprising.”
“Well, there is no denying the man was a prick.” I stare straight through the to-do list on my table. The tension is building in my eyes and jaw when Mom lets out a long sigh.
“I’m so sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to upset you. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just…”
Can’t get over it.
“No worries, Mom. I should get back to work. Love you.”
“Love you too, honey.”
I hang up, wishing I had another Americano. But there’s no time to get one. I am way behind schedule and need to get to work. First up is the Push The Limit costume inventory. There are twenty-two dancers involved in the shoot and forty-four costumes to repair and sort through. No small feat.
At first glance, there are more tears than I had hoped, and the runs are a total nightmare. The mesh material that I had chosen was perfect in effect, but it definitely took a beating. That isn’t such a problem considering the distance of the stage, but under a photographer’s lens it will be another story.
I run my fingers through my hair for like the zillionth time, looking down at the list that’s forming under the tip of my pencil on my clipboard. This task will require more than one body, but I have never trusted my costumes to another hand. Maybe Kent wasn’t the only control freak around here.
I am about halfway down the rack, taking stock, and I could really use a caffeine or nicotine fix but decide against it. On top of all the repairs, something really has to be done with the bulging in the knees. To solve that issue, I have a bit of a doodle going on in the top corner of the piece of paper my list is on. If I add two horizontal seams to each leg, I could replace the material, and it would be in line with the reconstructed look of the suits. But the dancers will be pissed if I do anything to take away from the length of their legs. I plop myself onto a stool, and I’m biting down on the top of my pencil in thought when there is a knock at the door.
Patrick slips in wearing a vintage waistcoat, low-slung jeans, toe-cut label boots, and a very stylish Nick Fouquet hat that suits him perfectly over his messy, dirty blonde hair. Who is dressing him? is the first thought that comes to my mind.
His lips curve into a crooked smile.
“Busy?” He rubs his fingers over the golden bristles spread over his jaw.
“Not at all.” I practically jump off the stool, and then try to stop myself from appearing overeager.
His eyes drop to my legs and the short skirt and platform heels that are not my typical workday attire.
“Hey,” he says, once we are standing face to face.
“Hey,” I swallow.
The way he looks so comfortable in his body, even more than a dancer would, makes me feel like a schoolgirl. There is something more natural and casual about his masculine presence than that of a formally trained body.
His eyes fall back down to my legs again, and I clear my throat.
“Do you want to have a seat?” I tilt my head and lift my shoulders, wondering how I can feel so shy around someone who knows everything about me.
“So what’s up?” He crosses his arms over his chest while pulling back his shoulders. I blink up at him, unsure of what he means and wondering, why so cool?
“You called me.” He looks at me funny.
This is a change from the super-heated run-ins we’ve been having since the season started.
“Right.” I shake my head, remembering the favor I need to ask him, but there’s something else on my mind. I bite down on my bottom lip and take a deep breath.
“I listened to the album,” I blurt.
His eyes flash to a much darker shade than when he first walked in here.
“And?” His eyebrow peaks in interest.
“And, it’s a breakup album.”
The way I say it makes it sound like it’s a bad thing, and he jerks in reaction.
“We did break up some time ago, did we not?”
Ouch.
“Yeah.” I cross my arms over my chest defensively.
“That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” His eyes slice into mine.
“Um, I guess so.” I grip the pencil in front of me for a distraction, totally uncomfortable with this topic.
“So what’s the problem?” He narrows his focus.
The problem is that I love you and always will, and at one time I sacrificed everything for your career like my mom did for my dad, but am not willing to go there again. Now I am stronger for it. Tougher. But I still love you, or at least desperately want to go to bed with you. Not just for one night, but for every single night in eternity. Yet I can only have one ‘last’ night before I have to force myself to move on for good, forever to be known as the woman who inspired Patrick Moss’s famous breakup album and the
music that wrenches my heart.
“Nothing.” I grit my teeth together and roll my ankle in fast circles.
“Are you upset?” He tilts his head, his eyes slivering a cooler shade of green.
“Why would I be upset?” I retreat on the stool.
“Maybe because now that you’ve listened to the album, you can’t deny that I love you and always will.” He steps off his stool to move closer to mine.
“Look, I have a lot of work to do, and I am not in the best mood for...” I wave my hand and look away, feeling teary.
He sucks in a deep breath and a look of compassion takes over his face. “Shit, babe, were you just talking to your mom?”
“Why would you say that?” My eyes jerk to his.
“Because you have that look like you are trying to be strong but could break down any second. It’s written across your face, babe.”
I suck in a hard breath and compose myself.
“Nothing I can’t handle.” I clear my throat.
“You may want to explore those unresolved feelings, Londyn. I know you think you weren’t close to the man, but he was your father.”
“I said I’ve got this, Patrick.” I give him a pointed look when the back of my eyes and nose tingles. After all, Patrick only cancelled our wedding right after my father passed and then took off for Los Angeles with a woman who was out to get me. It’s not like I will be unveiling my emotions to him. “You’re good-looking, Patrick. I’ll give you that, but you aren’t someone to be counted on. You’re a rock star.” I stand up and walk past him to open the wardrobe door for him.
“Fuck,” he hisses and tosses his trendy hat to the side to rake his fingers through his hair. “You know you really make me fucking hate myself, Londyn.”
I think of what he said to me the night we had the fight, how he told me I was holding him back, when all I had done was support him. Words. Just words—except those ones. We were engaged and to be married that spring. He called it off and went to Los Angles to cut his breakout album, the one that got him signed with Lumy, right after I had given up everything for him and was grieving my absentee father. He said he was sorry, that he’d made a mistake, and I convinced him I was okay. I wasn’t close to my father anyway. Maybe he shouldn’t be punished for being ambitious, but why did he have to do it with the one person who had it out for me? The truth is, I do need him. Badly. Maybe he deserves a second chance, but I just don’t have it in me to give him one. I can’t be crushed again, and I can’t be that woman, the naïve one who is sitting at home while his career skyrockets and he is eternally on the road. Success changes people, like it did Dad and like it did Patrick right before we broke up. Plus, I have a job in Manhattan and a life I am not going to give up to follow him around. We can’t have it both ways. It’s not fair to me, and it’s not fair to him.
CLOSING NIGHT: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series, Book 2 (Standalone) Page 9
