He lifts his arms. “It looks like something out of a fashion magazine, but you don’t expect me to dance in this, do you?”
I shrug. “That is the idea.”
“Then you haven’t seen me dance.” He rolls back his shoulders.
“Well, maybe it could use some adjustments.” I look away, feeling flustered, before handing him the hanger. “You can take it off now.” I nod at the change room, but he doesn’t use it. Instead, he strips it off in front of me and reaches for his black jeans.
“Do you want to go for a drink?” He shakes his hair out when he is done dressing.
“No, thanks.” My lips press together. “I have a rule about getting merry with good-looking male dancers who are collecting notches on their belts.” I reach for my bag.
“Smart woman.” He half-grins, but it seems as though I’ve caught him off-guard.
“I’m going for a smoke. Have a good rehearsal.” I wave, leaving him to slide his arms into his leather jacket.
“Londyn.” He looks at me with a pointed gaze. “My ex and I still dance as a duet. I spend half of the day with my hands on her body, and my director Milla Rose insists that we make public appearances together to ‘pretend’ that we are still an item, so she doesn’t lose the brand she has marketed so well. That’s why I am here, splitting my time between the two companies. If you keep screwing around with this guy—no matter how much of a prick he is, and how wrong he is—you will never get over him.”
“Unfortunately, he’s not a prick. The problem isn’t him. It’s me. I’m not willing to have my heart broken again, because that’s what happens when you mix love and ambition.”
“Gotcha.” Lake gives me a look like he doesn’t believe me as he zips up his biker jacket and walks past me. “Let me know if you change your mind about that drink. And you don’t have to worry about me: I know how to behave in public.” There’s the cool scent of leather as he brushes past me through the door. I reach into my bag and press a much-needed cigarette to my lips.
Even though it’s chilly, I sit on the steps for a long time. The day is almost over, and the dancers are exiting the building one by one. I don’t really care about who Cory hired, why he let go of the people he did, and where the hell the creative direction’s going. I just don’t have anywhere else to be. I look at my phone. Two voicemails, three missed calls, and an email from Sylene, thanking me for sending over the contract.
I press my phone to my ear and call my voicemail.
“Hey, it’s me… Shit…” Patrick sighs. “Am I supposed to be calling? I don’t know. Last night was…” He lets out another sigh, this one more pained then the last. “Are there words?” His raw laugh makes me feel queasy. “How are you?” His voice chokes, and I feel my eyes welling with pressure. “Call me. If you want.” He hangs up.
The second voicemail is from Mom. Her voice sounds like a vacuum has sucked out its soul. My guts twist. It kills me how weak she became after dad divorced her and deceived her by hiding his fortune. I could do without drudging up the old painful shit every time we talk. I really miss Mom, but it is so emotionally draining to be around her. The man has been dead for two years, and they’ve been divorced for ten years. It’s time to get on with life.
I flick off the phone, toss it in my bag, light another smoke, and stand up to stretch out my legs.
Tonight is the perfect night to work late, since I have so much to do and desperately need something to keep me from calling Patrick. If I call Patrick, all bets are off.
I cross the street, order an Americano at Fuel, and stew for a few minutes at the round window table. I flip through the newspaper, which isn’t too interesting, and then an entertainment magazine. Of course, on one of the first pages is an interview with Patrick Moss about his soon-to-be-released album One Night and the recent signing with Lumy Records, one of the biggest names in the industry. Even though Patrick’s music isn’t exactly mainstream, he is making waves. Soon enough, he’ll be back trotting the globe and fighting off women, and I will be solo in Manhattan, doing the job I do best.
I close the magazine and look back up at the steps of Driven. It has been a stairway for us all. And sometimes I have to pinch myself to believe how far we have come.
Sliding my arms into my jacket and flicking my hair over my shoulder, I peer out the coffee house window and down the street. Someone in a long black coat is stepping out of a yellow cab and onto the steps of Driven while looking over her shoulder.
A suede Sara Dean handbag is clutched in her hand.
Before I step out of Fuel and onto the semi-busy street to light up, the figure disappears into the building and the stairs are once again empty.
I peer into a few studios and the women’s change room to see if Rebecca may have stopped by to collect her things, but maybe it wasn’t the Sara Dean handbag I saw after all, and no one seems to be around, so I head straight to wardrobe and get back to work without a second thought.
The weeks leading up to the NY Style magazine shoot are a trance of work and more work.
At five to two, my table is cleared of all projects, and I stare at the empty white surface. I’ve almost forgotten what it looks like.
The clock ticks forward by two minutes, and I butt out my cigarette, slide on a cardigan sweater over my Fanclub T-shirt, tie up a worn pair of limited-edition Vans, and clutch my notepad under my arm.
All the dancers are nervously practicing in the studio, and the creative staff have taken their seats in the front row. There are just the two empties remaining on the end. I press my black-rimmed glasses higher on my nose and cross one distressed denim–covered leg over the other as I prepare to concentrate on the work.
Cory looks around the room, taking tally and rubbing his chin with two fingers as the stark white studio pulses with energy. I’m looking over my notes when someone takes the chair next to mine.
Patrick and I lock eyes. Shit.
“Hey.” He breathes in through his nose.
“Hi,” I chirp, and look back down at the page in front of me, adjusting my glasses.
Cory clears his throat, and the dancers take their places.
Simone lifts her foot inches off the ground.
The room pauses.
Lexi and Rick crowd around her with the two newly hired dancers, both previous principals with A-list companies. Simone shakes her head. I rub my neck. Patrick sits forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees. Rick presses a palm to her chest. Lexi jumps from two feet. I think of a skateboard. Cory nods. The melodies are tango with seductive drop beats.
Black suits huddle. Breath pulses. Eyes move in every direction.
Pause.
Move, move, move.
Pause.
Rick kicks his leg. Lexi catches it. They fall to the floor. Thud. Simone swerves her hips. Rick catches her head as it drops. She rolls out of it onto her back into landing. Her skin makes a screeching sound.
Pause.
Move, move, move.
Pause.
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
Their breaths get louder. Their chests pump harder.
Patrick’s knee bumps mine, and I flinch. He sucks in a tense breath past his tense jaw. His voice makes a pained sound, a quieter version of the electric guitar in the music.
Lexi places both of her hands on Simone’s waist.
Rick coughs. Patrick moves back into his chair. I run my fingers through my hair, feeling the electricity between our knees, and adjust myself in the seat. So awkward.
There’s the sound of breathing, and the clearing of throats at the front of the room.
Lexi’s hands slide down Simone’s legs. I imagine the slippery feel of the material and squeeze my pencil between my fingers to jot down a note.
Patrick’s knee is inches from mine, and every small movement seems big. My eyes are locked straight forward. His eyes are on me. There is heat radiating from his gaze and lifting off his body.
I can smell the fresh scent of his clothes. The music st
ops, and his muscular body retreats as though affected.
The whole room lets out one large, bounded breath.
There’s a breakout into chatter, laughter, and gasps on the floor. There’s the odd flipping and turning of heads coming from the bodies sitting in the chairs.
Cory stands up. Patrick presses his wide hands to his knees, and my neck stiffens. I let my eyes zone in on the bodies in the room.
I press my pencil to my notepad to jot down a thought.
From the corner of my eye, Patrick walks over to Cory. Cory’s eyes shift side to side in concentration as he and Patrick talk. I collect my bag off the floor and reach for my pack of smokes, anticipating my exit from the white room.
But Cory signals Michael in the corner, who is in charge of pressing the play button and timing the music. Lake’s ex and the music director pop into my head. I slide out a cigarette and loop my bag over my shoulder. Cory steps in front of the dancers to face us. He presses his hands together in prayer position, demanding our attention.
“We have one more section to show you, and thanks again to everyone for being here today,” he announces.
Cory takes his seat in the center of the line, and Patrick and I accidentally lock gazes when Patrick walks back to his seat. I look straight on at the dancers in front of me as they step into their places, tensely waiting for the music to begin.
Patrick clears his throat, and I rub the back of my neck, adjusting my legs. I bump his shin with the tip of my sneaker by mistake.
“Sorry,” I mutter quickly. You have no idea how sorry.
He focus slits my way before it vanishes.
I don’t look at him, I keep zoned in on Cory’s choreography, though I have to force myself. Then, when the new music starts, something in the room shifts and the attention is drawn to Simone and Rick. It’s a force field.
Simone falls straight to floor. We all gasp when Rick catches her the second before she drops. She curls into him, and he cradles the back of her head with his palm. Their breaths quiet as his fingertips stretch the length of her leg, and she circles it over her head. They roll across each other’s backs and land face to face.
My fingers move the pencil over the page.
Rick and Simone, in love?
Heartbreak is the black splatters on the white walls.
Swish.
The ball of a foot brushes the floor. Rick’s hands land on either side of her shoulders, and he lifts her straight in the air. She could be made of dust.
He coughs. She groans.
No one really cares. Cory tilts his head.
They are in love.
Love?
The music sounds like the music from Patrick’s breakup album. My guts churn. I glance at his lap. He catches me. Our eyes accidentally catch. I blink away. His eyes stay on me. Everyone’s eyes are on Simone and Rick. They are in love. You can smell it. You can hear it.
They close their eyes. I close my eyes.
Swish.
The music ends, and everyone claps loudly.
Cory talks for some time, and Patrick walks over to Michael, likely to discuss a technical note. I stare at the open space and then my notes. Patrick walks back to the chair beside mine, and I look away. The crowd lifts into chatter. I slowly stand up and slide my arms into my sweater as Patrick reaches for his khaki jacket and straightens the collar. He glances over at me when I reach for my bag on the ground. Without paying any attention to him, I look at the dancers one last time, trying to mentally solidify the performance that just occurred. It’s my job. Plus, I can’t bear to look at him.
Our eyes blink together accidentally. At once, they quickly pull apart, and I plant mine on the door, propping my clipboard under arm. Patrick looks past me to Cory who—from out of the corner of my eye—waves him over.
I near the steel door and replace my eyeglasses with a pair of vintage-inspired sunglasses.
“Londyn!”
Just when I’m about to escape, Cory waves me over from across the room. Patrick is standing beside him. Brilliant. I pull out the cigarette propped between my lips and reluctantly make my way toward them, looking down through purple-tinted lenses and trying to block Patrick out of my line of vision.
“Well, what did you think?” Cory looks eager.
“The duet was good.” I nod.
Cory’s brow wrinkles. He looks to Patrick, but I keep my eyes on Cory. I can feel Patrick’s intense gaze, and I’m hyper-aware of his every move in my peripheral vision.
Cory finally catches on to my discomfort. “We’ll talk later.”
“Sure thing.” My voice is tight. Patrick adjusts his feet, rubbing his fingers over his jaw, and I turn away, masking the fact that I am seconds from breaking down.
On the Driven steps, I nurse a cigarette and think about Dad.
I’m five years old. It’s my first day of kindergarten. I don’t want to go. I’m so nervous. I can’t eat. I stare at my cereal bowl with my elbows propped on the table. I want to cry. Mom is making coffee for Dad, and I’m holding my head up with my hand, curls everywhere. Dad sits down next to me in his suit. He’s home that day. Usually he’s away on a business trip. He starts drinking the milk and cereal straight out of the bowl, making a slurping sound. Mom gets annoyed because he’s splashing milk on his suit, and I giggle. I pour more milk into my bowl and make the same loud slurping sound while looking up at Dad. The milk splashes on my shirt, and Mom shakes her head. Then Dad makes bubbles in the milk, and I do too. We have a race: who can eat the whole bowl fastest. I win.
I change my shirt in my room and put on my boots at the door. Mom hands me my packed lunch in the sequin-covered cooler handbag she let me pick out at the store. I am wearing a black tutu with a black leather jacket and patterned tights to match.
Dad walks out after changing his suit jacket.
“Ready, kiddo? I’m driving you to school today.” He opens the front door.
I’m so excited that he is driving me, because he is usually never home. Anytime I go anywhere, it’s usually Mom taking me. I feel strong. Proud. I’m not scared anymore. We walk down the sidewalk in front of our bungalow, and he opens the door to a black convertible Corvette.
I look at him with wide eyes. I can’t believe it.
“Where’s the Volvo?” I squint from the sun.
“It’s your first day of school, kid. We’re doing this in style. Now jump in.”
I crawl into the car with a huge smile on my face. It smells like new. He hands me a pair of star-shaped sunglasses and says, “You’re gonna be a star, Londyn. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Confidence and power are the keys to life.”
I look out of the window of my cool car and shades to go with, feeling untouchable. When we arrive at the school, we turn heads. Dad tells me to go on my own. That I can do anything I set my mind to, as long as I remember what he told me.
I become the coolest kid in the class. The one everyone wants to hang out with.
11
The Push The Limit costumes are lined up and organized on the rack, and I have arranged a delivery crew to transport them to the photo studio. Though the sun is shining through the high-rises, you can feel the chill in the air. I walk up the steps to Driven in a new pair of street-smart sneakers, lifting a pair of Matsuda sunglasses off my nose.
The sound of piano is thundering through the halls. Class must be halfway through. Once the costumes are safely into the delivery truck, the dancers involved in the shoot will be given a ride over to the studio just in time to have their makeup done while I go over a few things with the NY Style photography director.
I’m taking a last sip of Americano when there’s a knock on the door. Two deliverymen dressed in khakis walk in. One looks up from the yellow slip in his hand.
“Londyn Verona?” He clears his throat.
“Right this way.” I lead them over to the rack of costumes I’ve sealed in plastic, bite down on my bottom lip as they wheel the rack out the door, and pray that everythi
ng goes according to plan.
An hour later, I yellow cab it downtown to the Lower East Side and walk into an exposed-brick, post-and-beam studio with high ceilings. It could be the same building where Patrick had his cover photo taken. The studio is busy with technicians, stylists, and makeup artists. Two people are groping racks of costumes while taking inventory.
A large black screen covers one wall. Red curtains are on either side to resemble the stage, and the lights are set up all around on black tripod stands, making the space look like a set from Push The Limit. Over the speakers, you can hear the low vibration of Patrick’s electronica composition, taking me back to the intense process last year. Music has a way of pulling you into the past and making you sick with nostalgia. Did they really need to be playing the music that possessed us all like some kind of a trance throughout Kent’s entire creative process?
Oh, but yes, and now I know why.
“Londyn!”
A female squeals, followed by a commanding male voice. I turn around.
Branwen and Kent are walking in the door, and Branwen runs up to me holding her arms open wide. Her long chestnut hair his hanging in wavy strands over her shoulders, and her skin has a gorgeous sun-kissed glow. She is wearing a faux-fur vest with a V-neck white tank, skinny jeans, and high black heels, and Kent is dressed in a Balenciaga open black blazer and slacks. He shares her beach glow. They look like they’ve walked right out of the movies.
Branwen wraps her arms around me, and her butt wiggles as she shakes me. Kent’s lips curve into a smile that lights his eyes.
“Miss Verona.” He nods and pulls me tight into his side with one strong arm.
My lips curve up at him. “I can’t believe you two are actually here.” My hearts lifts.
“We wouldn’t have made it if it weren’t for Patrick,” Branwen says, and Kent makes his way to the other side of the studio, already looking like something is on his mind.
“Londyn.” Patrick skulks up to us.
“Hey.” I bite my lip, not expecting him to be here.
“Branwen and Kent asked me to join. Hope that’s okay.” He lifts his shoulders, and my brow pulls tight when our eyes meet.
CLOSING NIGHT: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series, Book 2 (Standalone) Page 12
