“Thanks.” I smile at the waiter when Patrick and I brush glances again, and it’s clear to me we are still sharing the same thought.
He places two chopsticks between his fingers and uses them to push the marinated squid, fruit salsa, seared miso cod, and crispy wantons onto my plate. He clears his throat and leans back in his chair.
“Relax, babe. That brain of yours is going off again.”
He knows me too well.
“So how was your day?” I change the topic to him.
“Well, you know…” He sighs and leans back in his seat. “I was working on a few things, but…” He shrugs.
“Anything you want to share?” I take a sip of my drink.
“There’s really nothing to share yet, babe.”
“Oh?” I look at him funny, and he looks away pensively.
He crosses his arms over his chest casually. “My release party is this weekend, and I would love it if you would be my date.”
Strange. He’s changing the topic from his music, something he never does. I swallow, and Patrick scrubs the back of his neck.
“What do you say, babe? Are you going to be my date?” Patrick swigs from his beer.
“Yeah, I’ll be your date.” I smile and take another bite of food.
When we’re finished eating, he stands up and reaches for my hand, while another couple scoops our table. We walk back to the car, and Patrick opens the door.
“My place?” he says, arching a brow, and the stirring in my pelvic floor replaces the uncomfortable feelings and thoughts I had moments before. But there’s another nagging emotion mixed in there as well, even though he looks more gorgeous than ever in his sexy jacket and hipster clothes.
“I…” I start, unsure of what I am trying to say.
“I have a surprise for you.”
“Oh.” I blink up, frozen in my mental state.
“Please come.” He squeezes my hand. “I’ll drive you back right after if you want, but I really would like to show you something at our place.”
It isn’t the first time he calls it that. My heart lurches. “Okay, sure.” I look out the window as we drive back to Patrick’s place in SoHo in silence. There’s just the hum of the motor, and his body maneuvering the car as though it was made for him.
At his place, the sound of rumbling air conditioning from last time is replaced by the hissing of radiators. And that scent. Patrick. It’s so strong it almost makes me dizzy. We take a seat on his Victorian couch, which was previously loved—by Mick Jagger. The living room is small, and it’s different than it was when I used to live here. The entire wall is stacked with vinyl, and the coffee table is littered with music magazines and scribbled on pieces of paper. There are a few framed posters on the wall of musicians he admires and awards he received from Push The Limit, among others. The gold record isn’t where it was. My shoulders relax.
I cross my legs, waiting for him on the velvet couch, expecting him to play me a piece of music. In the past, whenever he mentioned the word “surprise” or said “there’s something I want to show you,” he was referring to something he had created.
But Patrick walks out of his bedroom, his arms filled with shiny packages. He places them on top of the magazines on the table, pulls one out of the pile, and hands it to me. “This one first.” His lips curve into a sexy smile.
“What the…?” I hesitate, uncomfortable with the generous display.
“Open it.” Patrick smiles as I take the small, beautifully packaged box in my hand.
“Got that one in Paris.” He grins, proudly, even if the name of the city of love gives me a little twinge in the center of my back. But my new mission is to lovingly release the past.
“It’s too nice to open.” My lashes flutter.
“Come on, go for it. I know you have it in you.” He nods at the package, and I tear at the gorgeous paper.
At first look, I can tell the item in the box is jewelry, but I am not sure what kind.
“It goes like this.” He takes the white gold–studded piece between his fingers and places it on my ear, like a safety pin that crosses over the entire front of my ear in a unique, punk-rock way. He covers my hand with his and leads me to the bathroom, where we both look in the mirror as I tilt my ear forward, placing the outer edge on display.
“Hot.” He smiles. So big, warm, and genuine. All I can do is give him this moment, even if it’s hard for me to accept the too-generous gesture and put everything else behind me. It is actually a pretty impressive piece. I admire it in the mirror.
“You know my taste.” I turn around to face him.
“Wait till you see the rest.” He squeezes my hand. He looks the happiest I’ve seen him in two years.
“There’s more?” I frown.
“I had a lot of time to myself when I was on tour, and it seemed like everywhere I went there was something that reminded me of you.”
We sit down on the couch, which is softer than mine but not overly cushy, and I bite down on my lip as he reaches for a larger box.
“This is a classic.” He hands me the box, and I place it on my lap.
After opening it, I look up at him in disbelief. Inside of the rectangular garment box is a Lewis Leathers jacket. I unfold the buttery leather and hold it up.
“I know you already have a biker jacket, but when in London…” He looks up at me. Glowing.
“Thank you.” I crumple my brow. “Why? I mean… we weren’t together when you went on tour, and you can’t be getting much in royalties yet.”
“I received a decent advance from the label, and each gig paid well, but that’s not the point. The point is that wherever I am, all I think about is you.”
“Patrick…” I look away, feeling pressure behind my eyes. He must understand how I feel, because he presses his hand to my thigh in reassurance.
“A thank you would do,” he grumbles into my ear, making me smile.
“Thank you.” And before I can say “you shouldn’t have,” his full lips find mine.
Patrick hands me the last package, and I slowly unloop the ribbon tied around a box containing a Rosamosario Italian retro lingerie set.
“That one I bought here, today, since I know your size. Not that I am presuming anything.”
“Just because I let you spoon me last night doesn’t mean I’m easy.” I roll my eyes, lifting the white satin and lace high-waisted vintage bottoms and bra. They’ve got exquisite detailing, buttons, and couture stitches. “Very classy.” My lashes lower as Patrick strokes my hair back with two fingers.
“Like you,” he whispers, his voice husky.
His generosity leaves me tickled in so many vulnerable places. I can’t believe he thought about me that much while he was on tour, and the thoughtful gifts mean so much more than the materialism. Style, fashion… sure, those are things we share, but the souvenirs, I suppose, were his small way of keeping us together.
“You didn’t have to do this.” I inhale through my nose. “I mean, you shouldn’t have.”
He reaches for my waist and in one swoop pulls me onto his lap and lowers his lips to mine. “Whatever you are thinking, stop.” It’s a simple, implied gesture, but it is perhaps what I need to hear. So I let myself admire his features and skin, inhale his fragrance, and lightly trace my fingers through his hair instead of dwelling on things that don’t feel so good.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t have bought the lingerie. It was a bit selfish.” He kisses my temple. “And completely unnecessary.”
He rolls my hips closer to the center of his body so I know how completely unnecessary it is. I let myself open to those tender raw places and find that the more I let go, the less painful and sensitive it becomes. It becomes more exquisite, more pure once again.
14
The studio is silent. Dead silent. The kind that isn’t silent at all. All twenty-four members of the company are spread out over the floor in their tight black suits.
Cory is rubbing his
hands over his face repeatedly and blinking his eyes as though forcing himself awake. I slip off my heels and tiptoe to a black chair with my name written on it at the front of the room. The neon lights make the florescent white walls pulse.
“Places.”
Cory looks up, and I suck in a breath.
The dancers roll over onto their backs and press their hands into the ground lazily, landing on their feet.
Daniela’s gaze is on Cory. Watching him.
He ignores her coaxing—good for him. I almost chuckle, but I am too afraid that the outbound flare of my voice will shoot through space like an arrow and someone else might fall.
Rick swings his hands by the wrist in fast circles, and Simone jogs on the spot. Daniela is still watching. Cory shifts in his seat.
“For a lark…” He pauses.
And I feel like yelling out loud, Dance for your life, because it could be the last time. Instead, I sink my fingers into my skull and tug at my hair.
Simone stretches the outside of her hip by leaning into it. Rick touches his toes. They look at each other, smiling. It’s all over their shoulders and written in their faces. Dancing together has made them fall in love.
It would be nice to protect them, to have them remain in their own little bubble forever. Simone turns her back to him, her eyes flashing over her shoulder and lips curving upward. Rick leans in. The way he breathes her in, we can all smell her. She smells like roses and sweet honey. His fingers sit an inch off her shoulders. His nose is an inch from her ear.
The music starts with a bang, his hands land on her shoulders violently, and he flips her around as she spins.
How quickly everything can change.
She jets out of his grip and he pulls her back, but she slides through his legs, making the sticky floor seem slippery.
They fall into place with a breath, his hands settle on her waist, and she slides down his chest. We can all breathe. Everything is okay.
Until it isn’t.
His nose nudges her arm, and she lifts it around his neck, and he ducks under her so their armpits are kissing. They glide across the white room in a lift, making a spiral. He holds her up off the ground, and they shift positions so that she takes the weight of his whole body over hers, and a grunt reverberates off her lips. She hooks him under each arm, bearing the burden of his weight as her biceps pucker and her stick-thin legs slump underneath her.
How long can she hold him until she has to let go?
We sit on the edges of our seats. I twiddle the pen between my finger and thumb, holding my breath.
The music starts, breaking and popping.
He slides out from under her and walks away.
Swish.
She runs after him. He turns to face her, forcing her to dash in the other direction.
He follows her, and they are sucked back together.
He lifts her under the seat, and she wraps her arms and legs around his body as though trying to absorb him, but he is too big to absorb, just too much. She gives up, and they both fall to their knees in a distorted embrace.
They look over their shoulders and out of the corners of their eyes. Rick tilts his chin, and Simone lifts her nose to the air.
We can smell what she smells.
We can see what she sees. It’s there, like a big black plume of smoke over their heads.
I swallow and sift my fingers through my hair, checking out each strand. Cory presses his hands to his knees, his eyes and chin jutting as he bounces along to the rhythm.
Daniela stands up from crouching by the barre. She looks at Cory with hatred, and he nods in her direction. Her skinny plucked eyebrows, skinny nose, and skinny long arms and legs cut through the space. There’s the sound of her feet sticking and then sliding against the floor.
Screeeeeech—the sound of an old wound ripping open. She crouches and rolls on her butt, ignoring it. The dance has to go on. She’ll bandage it later.
She slithers through the space, making love to it.
One hand lands on Simone and the other on Rick, her skinny body slicing through the tight space between them before she pushes them apart.
“Cut.” The muscle in Cory’s jaw tics.
Everyone in the room is looking down except for Daniela. They are too afraid to see what happens next.
“Don’t you want me to continue my solo?” Daniela glares. Rick and Simone have their backs turned together and are both staring at the wall, avoiding eye contact, while their chests pump in and out.
“Later.” Cory inhales.
Daniela rolls her eyes as she backs off. She walks to the barre and lifts a water bottle to her lips.
“Let’s mark through Lake’s section. He’ll be back later this week,” Cory says to the room.
After rehearsal, I’m lighting up in the wardrobe window when there’s a knock at the door.
Simone pokes her head in.
“Can I bum a smoke?”
She walks over in her slinky black suit and leans against the other side of the window. I hand her the last smoke from an old pack in my drawer, and she lights up.
“Cory makes our duet shorter every day.” She props the cigarette between her two fingers, staring out the window. “I think eventually he is just going to cut it, and Rick and I won’t be in the show at all.”
“Are you and Rick serious?” I ask out of curiosity.
She rolls her eyes. “We did it… once. I don’t know what I was thinking. He has a girlfriend in the Czech Republic.” She blows a stream of blue-gray smoke in the air.
“Does she know?” I flinch.
“I don’t know. He said it would break her heart, and they’ve been together for, like, ever. Maybe since high school.”
I feel sick.
“It’s not like we planned it. I used to think he was a goof. And then suddenly I was fantasizing about sleeping with him. He’s not even my type, and I was falling for him. That duet is seriously hot, and the music… what the fuck is with that music? That music is making everyone batty.”
“Yeah.” I smirk. She didn’t have to tell me that.
“We were drunk. It was after the photo shoot. A group of the dancers went out for drinks. We were flirting like crazy, and then he excused himself to the washroom and I followed him. He pulled me into the toilet stall and pinned me against the wall. We kissed, and it was amazing. He tasted like rose petals. And I knew my roommate would be home, and he lives with three other guys, so we did it right there against the metal. It was anticlimactic. He came right away. There was no romance like the dance. Rick is really upset about it, actually. The guilt is killing him, even though he says he will probably end it with his sweetheart, since he hopes to stay in New York. I feel bad. Now, thanks to Daniela, the duet is being squished out of existence.” She tosses her cigarette butt into the trash can.
I watch her. She scrubs her hands over her face. “Am I a bad person? I didn’t plan for it to happen. It just did. I think I might be sick.” Her upper lip curls, and she places a hand on her stomach. “Sometimes I get scared. I’m scared of what we are capable of.” Her face looks shadowy and darkish green. I recognize the same shadowy and dark place in myself.
“Thanks for the smoke.” She sniffles and leaves.
The room is empty. I look at the clock and the nearly finished costumes on the rack. Just seeing the costumes gives me a sense of hope. At least there’s something I can bury myself in if all else fails. I reach for my bowl of pins.
My phone rings a few hours later.
“Are we all set for Friday?” The voice on the other end is all business.
I look at the calendar. Friday. Oh! The Terry Brunette shoot is this Friday, which is why he is calling. I almost forgot. It’s the same day as Patrick’s launch party.
“The models are arranged,” Terry says. “There’ll be a makeup designer and one assistant. We should be good. I don’t want to blow the budget, since we are doing this of our own accord.”
“Of course.” I
eye the unfinished costumes.
“So everything is good?” he asks.
“Everything is fantastic. See you Friday.”
“Friday,” he repeats and hangs up. I press my finger to the glossy blank white calendar square on the wall. Then I mark it with a fine-tip felt. A text comes in on my phone from Patrick, asking what I am doing tonight, and I tell him I’ll be busy working.
The needle stabs the material, looping thread through it, over and over again. My lips are pressed together in concentration as my fingers slide over the slippery black material. I lift the tunic between my fingers and hold it up. Done. I loop a hanger through it and place it on the rack. I step into my heels and slide my arms into my Lewis Leathers.
The building is silent, but not very silent at all. I ride the elevator down to the lobby, and my heels clink on the pavement as I walk down the street, rounding the corner.
From the other direction someone bumps into my shoulder.
“Sorry,” I mutter, thinking nothing of it. These kinds of accidents happen a lot in this city. Then my gaze falls down to the Sara Dean handbag. The handbag. My handbag. The one I gave away.
“Rebecca?”
“Londyn,” Rebecca gasps, looking over her shoulder.
“Babe.” My lips curve upward. “I’ve been trying to call you. Is everything good?”
“Sure.” Her brow crumples as she looks over her shoulder. She’s wearing a long black coat and scarf over her black pants, and her face and hair have that natural glow.
“What’s up? Auditioning much?” I ask, right away thinking that was too forward a question, not to mention insensitive.
“Sort of.” She has a look of worry in her eye.
A black car with tinted windows pulls up beside us.
“I should go. Call you.” She blows me a kiss and scurries toward the car.
CLOSING NIGHT: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series, Book 2 (Standalone) Page 16
