Last Dance

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “Maybe he’s seen you on stage or something,” Julie said, raising her eyebrows significantly, doggedly pursuing the subject. “An admirer. You do make an impression, all that red-haired gorgeousness.”

  Eww. “And now we’re back to stalker. Take down that ad, Marcia.”

  “No.” She thrust out her lip mulishly. “It’s my experiment now. I want to see what happens.”

  “Nothing I bet, because nobody else looks at those things.” I wanted it to be true. Didn’t I?

  “Nobody but me, Ice, and Marcia, out of the five of us,” Amy pointed out with cheerful logic. “That’s 60% right there.”

  “You would have to drag math into this,” I muttered.

  “Don’t worry.” Ice took my glass. “We’re a skewed sample.”

  I hoped so. But I also didn’t stop thinking about it.

  ~ 3 ~

  Truth be told, I’d had admirers/stalkers before. That slash between the two can be a very thin line.

  It goes with the performance life. That whole “actress is just another word for prostitute” thing. Also, with my age and body type, I tend to play sexy characters—thus the flashy hair. Dyed, thank you very much. Not that you can tell. I get it done at a pricey salon, even though it’s often a budget stretch, because good color is worth paying for. Especially if you don’t want to look like rebellious teen or last season’s Halloween costume gone desperately wrong.

  Plus it’s tax-deductible. Great job, or what?

  Still, I had not at all gotten the vibe from Mr. Mystery that he’d seen me before, and usually my creepdar for that sort of thing is pretty good. Of course, I also hadn’t noticed him watching me. Scary or flattering? Hmm.

  A good workout burned out the last of the hangover dregs and a blistering hot shower cleared my system enough that I went into the audition feeling pretty damn powerful. A good place to be for standing out from the mobs of girls trying out for the same part. My secret weapon? I always audition with songs written for tenors, if the director offers the choice. They show off my voice and help demonstrate my range.

  This time I went with “Pure Imagination” from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Along with a short skirt to show off my dancer’s legs and a tight top for the other assets. They have it right in A Chorus Line—you can be a singing/dancing/acting ten, but if your looks are a three, no one is going to hire you.

  A sad reality, but there it is. You have to sparkle in every way. Even Meryl Streep can sing and dance. And don’t try to tell me she’s not a total knockout.

  I rocked the singing audition, a good thing since a text from Marcia gut-punched me like finding out I’d won a role I really wanted and suspected I couldn’t pull off.

  He replied! :-)

  No fucking way! How do you know it’s HIM???

  She didn’t text back right away and I shook the phone in frustration. It’s not the Magic 8 Ball app. Get a grip.

  “Hey Charley—you sounded great.” Jack, a guy I’d been in a revival of Guys and Dolls with, gave me a smile and a wink. He’d hit as high as 4.3 at one point, and I’d slept with him a couple of times. Decent abs. Fabulous dancer. And het! But meh technique. A sorry point of contradictory data for my whole “they fuck like they dance” theory.

  “Thanks, slick! They call for the dance sets yet?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  My phone sang with Marcia’s text. She’d sent me the link.

  “Hi CB. You were wearing killer red heels, a backless dress, and earrings shaped like stars. Meet you at the Bean, five o’clock.”

  “Oh right,” I muttered at the phone. “Because I have nothing better to do. Maybe I have a life, asshole.”

  Tell me you’re going. You HAVE to go.

  I didn’t answer Marcia. Less than three hours from now, post sweaty dance audition. Why did he get to choose when and where? Though I did happen to be only a few blocks from Millennium Park. Suspicious, right there. My phone chimed.

  Charley!

  Maybe.

  For good measure I added a series of tongue-sticking-out emojis. Then turned my phone off again to warm up for the dance sets. It would just depend, wouldn’t it?

  There. I felt better already.

  * * *

  I very nearly replied with an alternate meeting place and time. Just out of principle. It wasn’t spelled out in our Rules, but we all agreed—let’s call it a corollary that had never made it to actual amendment status—that letting the guy unilaterally set the dating schedule often red-flagged controlling behavior. And wasn’t this exactly that? Pulling me onto the dance floor, being all mysterious, disappearing and then coming off with the orders in the Missed Connections reply.

  I didn’t like it. Like my tempo had gone all wrong and I wasn’t sure of my steps.

  However. Call me an idiot, but I also really wanted to see this guy again. If that chemistry hadn’t been a one-time deal and he wasn’t a creeper, then maybe I’d get something more than meh technique. He had my attention all right. All through the dance audition, memories of that smoking kiss ran through my head and sang through my body. I wanted his hands on me for real. Enough that I even showered in the nasty public stalls, praying that the antibacterial green goo they called “body wash” in the dispensers wouldn’t give me a rash. A narrow toss-up between smelling like a stinky dancer and looking like a leper, but odds were slimmer that he’d see me naked than that he’d smell me from a couple feet away.

  He should be so lucky to get me naked today. That last dance really couldn’t count as round one, even if I had paid the penalty, and the missed connections conversation didn’t meet the criteria for round two, either. Amy might try to cheat, but I usually adhered to the Rules for my own damn good, if nothing else. I wouldn’t cancel on principle, but I’d certainly hold out for that reason. See how he liked the hard-to-get routine. I played that role much better, regardless.

  I backed off the audition makeup enough not to look like a total ho walking down Miracle Mile. Fortunately my audition look is much lighter than full stage makeup because it doesn’t have to be seen from the back row. Still, it’s a little much for broad daylight. And my hair would just have to stay in the dance-appropriate ponytail because I had zero time to wash, dry and make it look remotely cute.

  Actually, I had less than zero time because I got to the Bean ten minutes after five. Schoolteachers will tell you that a negative number is imaginary—which makes no sense to me, but whatever. Us chronically late types know that the concept is very real. Fortunately, along with math not being my thing, I lacked the gene that made me feel guilty for keeping people waiting. Particularly guys, because it keeps them appreciative, if you know what I mean. Besides, since I have a limited store of punctuality energy, I save it for work, not boys.

  Tourists and locals alike tend to throng around the Bean, particularly on a warm evening with the light just right to make funky reflections of the people and skyline in the curved reflective surface of the sculpture. Not exactly an intimate choice, but maybe my boy picked it so I’d feel nice and safe out in the public eye. Thoughtful of him, if so. The crowds of people screwing around, chasing kids and taking photos made it more difficult to pick him out, however. Especially as I’d seen him just the once, in the late-night flashing lights of the club, well known to skew many a person’s perceptions of physical appearance.

  Beer-goggles, martini-spectacles, hell—the whole ambience messes with your head.

  He was tall. Taller than I was in my four-inchers, so probably 6’2”. Kind of browny blond, I thought. Jesus—what the hell had he looked like? I’d know his mouth in a heartbeat. As much as it amused me to imagine trawling the men in the crowd asking for sample kisses—not unlike asking them to try on some glass slipper I’d found on the steps, ironically enough—it would be impractical. Not to mention unhygienic.

  Dammit, he should recognize me. I wandered around the Bean like a lovesick schoolgirl hoping to spot her current crush—something I’d given up at t
hirteen after I found out said crush had told all his friends I followed him around, which made me a loser. Nothing like having all the boys in seventh grade laughing at you to teach a lasting lesson.

  A tinge of that humiliation seeped back. Ugh. I’d rather be pissed off.

  If he didn’t show, I would totally take this out on Marcia. Her and her stupid missed connections concept. I wouldn’t put it past her to have faked that reply just to punk me in retaliation for giving her shit about the virginity thing. We were totally having words.

  Pissed off—and, okay, sour with disappointment—I headed back toward Michigan and the nearest El stop.

  “I always seem to catch you right as you’re leaving.”

  Ah, that voice. It caught and stopped me with a hook through my gut, the words as warm and vibrant as the mouth they came from. Excited delight overrode all of my various annoyed emotions and I had to work to bury it. Don’t make this too easy for him. Don’t be that loser. I paused deliberately before turning, composing my face into my best Joan Crawford arched-brow disdainful stare and glancing at my phone before looking at him. I’m a hell of an actress, too, did I mention?

  “Twenty minutes late,” I noted coolly. “You’re lucky I’m still here at all.”

  He smiled, not at all abashed, and tucked his hands into his pants pockets, sweeping back the suit jacket as he did so. A good suit with sleek, expensive lines. It fit, too, which is a thing far too many men screw up. Solid point for taste, dammit, even if it oozed corporate drone. Normally I’d burn at the first glimpse of the white collar. Suits are boring. But I already knew better about this one, so I’d give him a temporary pass. Five points counted for something. I had kind of hoped he’d be less appealing in the bright light of day—or the rosy dimness of gloaming, in this case—so I could regain a bit of the upper hand. But no.

  Solidly handsome.

  And damn, that chemistry.

  “Am I lucky?” He cocked his head, looking me over with an appreciative glint that petted my ego just fine. “You don’t look happy to see me.”

  I made sure he saw me glance at his crotch. “Likewise, slick.”

  That smug smile of his split into a grin. “From the mere sight of you? Possible. Though leg warmers aren’t really my fetish. Didn’t that look go out in the 80s?”

  I narrowed my eyes at the attitude. “I’m a dancer, and I was at work when I received your summons.”

  He moved a little closer, eyes fixed on my mouth. “You’re a good one. I liked watching you dance almost as much as dancing with you.”

  “I might not like that, you know. Lurking. Watching me.” I did, though. It gave me a decided shiver to think of that intent, appreciative gaze on me while I danced. You don’t survive in theater without a healthy ego and being a slight attention whore. I’m at peace with that.

  He gave me a look like he knew it. “You’re the one who listed the missed connections ad. Who does that?”

  “This from the guy who clearly peruses them.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Not really brown after all, but lighter, with goldy flecks. And a chocolate rim. Mmm—gorgeous. “Maybe I had a reason to look on this particular occasion.”

  “Because of me? Or do you have a bevy of women you’ve seduced and abandoned on the city dance floors out there looking for you?”

  His amusement darkened into something else, something intent and sensual. “Did I seduce you?”

  Totally off the charts chemistry. He’d get all the points for that alone, if that wasn’t strictly against the Rules. That’s why we have the Rules in the first fucking place, so one enticing aspect of a guy can’t blind you to the rest.

  I was feeling pretty damn blinded. His lips curved, making me realize all at once that I, a) hadn’t answered yet, b) hadn’t noticed that he’d moved even closer while I floundered and, c) wanted to kiss him again with an unholy desire.

  “Is your lack of reply an affirmative or have I lost your attention?”

  In fact, I’d become oblivious to the existence of anything else. Impossible for him to have lost my attention. He had all of his on me, in that singular way he had. No looking at anyone else. Another point. How many was that? More than five, probably. Fuck it—I didn’t care.

  “Why don’t you kiss me again and see what you think?” My voice had gone all husky, which was fine. Far better than losing my words entirely.

  He stood near enough that we nearly touched, though his hands remained in his pockets. “Is that what you want?”

  “Yes. Every experiment requires confirmation.”

  “You don’t talk like a typical dancer.”

  “I’m not a typical anything.” Really, I just spent way too much time with Ice and her med student buds.

  “I knew that the first time I saw you.” He leaned in, inclining his head and I tipped mine back. Picking up cadence, my heart tap danced into a faster beat, setting my nerves into an anticipatory jangle. A lovely rhythm, set by him. Those so-sexy lips brushed mine, warm in the cool evening air. No peppermint this time, nor whiskey, but still that smoky spiced flavor like the dark notes of cedar—a taste that must be all him. He kept the kiss light, tantalizingly so, still not touching me with anything but his lips. He didn’t need to—he scored a five-plus with only his clever mouth. I opened mine, encouraging him in, and his tongue touched mine, a bare caress before he withdrew, leaving me yearning and hard-pressed not to show it.

  “You’re shorter this time.” The words on his breath brushed against my lips, he stayed so close.

  “No heels.”

  “I liked the heels. But I find I like this, too.” He stepped back a pace, giving me that long, assessing look. “Leg warmers are rapidly climbing my fetish charts.”

  “What else is on these charts of yours?”

  He nodded slightly, as if awarding me points of his own, giving me a wicked smile. “Mystery.”

  “Is that what this is about?”

  “Not entirely. But it adds a spice. Is it one you like?”

  Had I thought myself blinded? Totally befuddled, more like. I blinked at him, not flirtatiously, but in an attempt to clear my mind. Did I like the mystery—that he’d run out on me like that? That we still hadn’t had a real conversation? That I didn’t even know his freaking name? No.

  Of course not.

  Did I?

  I settled on my first answer. “No.”

  “Ah.” He seemed genuinely sorrowful about that, shaking his head a little as he gazed at the toes of his shoes. “Oh well. It was enchanting to see you again, Cherry. Maybe we’ll run into each other sometime.”

  “Wait. You’re leaving?”

  “You just said you didn’t like this. That seems to be my cue.”

  “Is this all a game to you?”

  He lifted his gaze, stared into me with such intensity I nearly stepped back. I didn’t. I held my ground even when he closed the space between us and took my mouth in a hot, hungry kiss. No polite waiting for my invitation this time. No gentle caress of the tongue, but ferocious feeding, almost savage, that threw me into a startling crescendo of need. I made a ragged sound—of what, I didn’t know—and reached to embrace him. He tore away.

  “Not a game,” he said in a rough breathless voice. “This is much too important.”

  He turned and started walking away.

  “Wait!” Dammit. “Is that it?”

  Glancing over his shoulder, hands still in his pockets, he gave me a long, smoldering smile. “That would be up to you. You know how to find me.”

  ~ 4 ~

  “No fucking way am I placing another ad.”

  Marcia pushed aside my Barbra Streisand teddy bear and situated herself at the end of my bed, tablet in hand. “You have to do this. It’s been three days! How can you stand not to?”

  “Because I refuse to be jerked around like that.” I straightened my legs under the covers and poked her leg with pointed toes. “Go away.”

  “You’re just
sulking.”

  “What am I, five?”

  She raised her eyebrows and took in the paused screenshot of Pride and Prejudice on my own tablet, the rehearsal clothes I’d yet to change out of and the damming pile of crumpled mini-peanut butter cup wrappers on the bedside table. Defying her to comment, I sucked on the straw of my iced herbal tea. I’d rather have wine, but I couldn’t afford alcohol calories along with the candy ones. Chocolate had been the clear winner for my possibly sulky mood.

  Wrinkling her nose, she said, “If so, you’re pretty stinky. I can smell you from here.”

  “You could smell Baltimore from here, and no one invited you. Remember the ‘go away’ part of our conversation?”

  “I’ll just put it in for you again,” she threatened and swiped open the site.

  I shrugged Godfather style. “Suit yourself. But if he replies, I won’t go.”

  “Charley!”

  “Marcia Marcia Marcia!”

  “How the hell am I supposed to study for my practicum with you two screeching?” Ice lounged in the doorway, sloe-eyed and looking more like a goddess of love in her elaborately embroidered robe than a frazzled med student. “Ooh! You’re watching Matthew and Keira? Me too!” She wriggled onto the bed next to me and made herself comfortable.

  “The BBC version is much better,” Marcia sniffed, scanning her screen. I could have told her Mr. Mystery wouldn’t have left anything. He wanted me to come crawling to him and that was so not going to happen.

  “Colin has his merits, true.” Ice pressed play for me and sighed as Elizabeth ran across the bridge in the rain. “But this version has intensity.”

  “And rain,” I added. “Nothing suits a declaration of love like a pouring rainstorm. I thought you had to study.”

  “Shh.” Ice drew out the sound, not quieting us so much as shushing us like you would a fretful baby. Unable to resist, Marcia leaned over to watch the scene, too. Darcy’s impassioned proposal, Elizabeth’s furious refusal. We all sighed a little when it ended.

  “Such good acting—that moment when they’re both so pissed off and they’re in each other’s faces and they almost, almost kiss. Kills me every time.” It reminded me of that snap and sizzle between me and Mr. Mystery, all three kisses. And the fraught moments before and after.