See.
Pause.
Move move.
Pause.
My mind slows.
The dance builds tempo, and I let myself go. At the same time, I am aware of every sensation, how the room is so big and the lights so bright. And I try to fill the space, one step after the other. I remember what comes next, and my mind contracts. I push myself through.
Here it comes… f, f, f… the most impossible balance ever invented. The balance I’ve dreaded since I joined this company. My leg twitches beneath me and it hits me that it’s inevitable I will fall; it’s just a matter of time. Gravity pulls me, but the music ends just in time. No matter how often I practice that balance and how determined I am to master it—I have trained all my life—I am still falling.
Boom. The sprung floor echoes, feathers pad the ground. And though it’s a moment too soon, falling is all part of the choreography.
The music ends first and it makes it all okay, hopefully. My leotard is a sticky membrane between the white floor and my dead-weight limbs. My chest pumps in out, in out, and color fills me in like I’m a coloring book for five-year-olds.
“Tight solo.” Cory approaches, after I have collected myself and am stretching against the wall. He always has this smart-ass grin on his face. Like he wants you to be lured in by his hang-loose persona but not undermine his political authority.
My new nickname for him is Cocky Buddha. I did just perform my first solo in front of the entire company, and I’m on such a high that I could give James Bond a run for his money, even if there was that little blip at the end that I hope no one noticed. “How many hours have you spent in front of the mirror perfecting that smug smile?”
He plays it up at my comment. Yep, a double dose of Cocky Buddha. I shake my head, and he chuckles. The ligaments in his forearm pop as he crosses his arms over his chest.
“So what’s your story, Branwen?”
I stretch my leg against the wall and adjust my uniform, which I am so not getting used to. I hate the past. When you are new, you have to tell everyone the same thing so many times. Like, why you are not dancing with Chances anymore, and why you are on the opposite side of the country from your family that has no interest in you. But it should be an easy answer. Should I remind him what city we are in?
I let out a sigh. I drop my leg to the floor, lean against the wall, and cross my arms over my chest, because bra straps are just not an option with this thing. I am still not comfortable with the way it suctions to you despite a lack of seams.
“I’m not really a dancer.” I hold back my smile.
“You’re a CIA operative.” His lips curve.
“They got to you too?”
He chuckles, hangs his head low. Cocky Buddha, did I say cocky? A tattoo on his sinewy forearm flutters.
“You all have them. Am I going to get fired for not having a tattoo?” I say. Can they do that? Hell, yes. It is still caveman times in the dance world.
“You will get fired if you miss that last balance again.”
Really. He twists the lid off of his water bottle, takes a hard sip, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Everyone has cleared out of the studio except Kent, who is doing his pacing thing—heel toe, heel toe, heel toe—and as always there’s the constant low hum of electronica music, which emanates from the speakers all around us.
Cory swallows. His Adam’s apple slides up and down. He knocks his knuckles on the wall as though to signal it’s time for him to leave. Oh, to have that swagger.
I habitually head to the lounge. Every day—religiously—the schedule is posted on a bulletin board there. My name is squished with black marker inside the lines of a white box. The chicken scratch underneath appears to read, “Costume fitting.” There’s just enough time to shower and put on a fresh suit first.
A half hour later, I knock on the tall steel door.
“Hey, babe. You’re just in time.”
A stunning woman squints over hipster black-rimmed glasses and smiles darkly, as if concealing a secret. She’s in black pants, a sleek black turtleneck—the pedestrian version of our one-piece suits—and black striped Bally sneakers.
“I’m Londyn, by the way.” She props a tape measure between her lips and holds open the door with one scrawny arm. Everything about her is whimsical; meanwhile, a dark shadow caresses her. It could be her aura. There is a chic air about her, a coolness that is almost intoxicating. She shuffles around the room in her oh-so-trendy sneakers, gathering pins and various constructed pieces. Occasionally, pointed gray eyes peer over black-rimmed glasses in various expressions of dismay.
“Surviving all that is Driven?” Her squinty eyes wash over me as though I am a Pandora’s box to be broken open. “So, Chances…”
She rummages through cut pieces of material, tugs on the tape measure around her neck, and looks at me over her glasses. Not this topic again. I wonder what Londyn knows and doesn’t know about me yet.
“Raina Freehurst has quite the reputation.”
Londyn presses a piece of material against my torso, lips pursed. I’m on the defense. Yes, Raina has a reputation for being ruthless, heartless, cold, frigid, and neurotic. I probably left out a few things, and I am the first to admit it, but every time someone insults her it’s as though they are insulting me. And it jabs me that I never did stand up to her after the final unforgivable stunt she pulled.
“She does good work.” I leave it at that.
Londyn looks up from the pieced-together garment held against me. Before I have the chance to answer, she eyes me. “You are going to look stunning in this piece. What do you think about a bareback design? You have a beautiful back. The legs will need to be long. Maybe a pinch at the waist.”
Londyn removes some of the materials and changes the placement of a few pins. Occasionally she looks up at me quizzically. She weaves in a few more pins and holds up the piece again.
“Ready?”
Her eyes sparkle. To think of all the secrets these walls have heard. There is a slyness to her smile as she asks me all the right questions. It’s easy to imagine the young insecure dancers falling into her lap. Londyn purring and gently stroking, her claws retracting.
Carefully aiming my legs through the designated slots in the tights, I pull the bodysuit over my hips and try not to stab myself with pins. My image in the mirror startles me. Londyn seems to know all the right places to tuck and extend the material to accentuate my body. There is a vast distance between what’s on the inside and how things look from afar.
I take a deep breath and look down.
“Don’t move.”
Londyn’s fingers yank my hips into place as I stare into the mirror. I’ve always loved angular lines. There’s never enough when it comes to ripped muscle and bone visible through flesh, in my very warped opinion.
Kent walks into the room, and his mere presence startles me. I wrap my arms over my chest, and Londyn growls.
“Not an inch.”
Her tiny and cold fingers yank me in place. I freeze on command. There’s the sound of Kent’s even, methodical steps as his boots meet the cold pavement floor: heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe, much like the loud echo in my chest. I try not to move. After a few rounds of his relentless pacing he takes an empty seat and leans back into the chair, crossing his ankle over his muscular thigh and pushing a strand of hair away from his face. His gaze eats through me. Still, Branwen, I tell myself. Stay frigging still.
Londyn inspects every inch of me. Her glasses hang off her nose as her fingers pinch the material at the back.
“What do you think?” She looks back at Kent.
I forget for a millisecond that I am supposed to stay still and look to see his reaction. Our eyes unexpectedly lock, and it sends a spark of electricity through my sparsely clothed body.
“It’s coming along.”
I can’t read his expression. Londyn drops a pin, which breaks the silence. She bends over to pick it up. One of th
ose ‘living’ tattoos peeks up at me from the strip of skin between her waistband and her shirt, but it quickly hides under her clothes before I can make out the design.
She continues to weave the pins along my contours, my legs and arms and waist. My body is tense, anticipating a misplacement of the sharp pin, but it never happens. She works around my ankles for a while, trying to get the length of the tights right. I hear Kent leave. Every muscle in my body screams to be stretched. I let out a long exhale, touch my toes, and swing my arms from side to side after rolling my tight shoulders.
“‘Kay, babe—done.” Londyn reaches for her biker jacket.
Marnie calls me after rehearsal. “You aren’t looking for a roommate, are you? Because one of my clients…” She sighs in frustration. “Let’s just say that the last match didn’t work out so well, and she needs someone to share rent with. She’s had a batch of bad luck in the roommate department, too, so if you promise to be an awesome roommate, you’ll be doing me a favor.”
The apartment is in Chinatown, and as one would expect: tiny and expensive. But I have a job now, and with my current paycheck, it’s just within the realm of possibility.
“I need the damage deposit and the first month up front. I’ve had artists for roommates before, and I’m not going to be stuck with the rent again.”
Despite her comment, Liz seems okay, especially since I’ve been sleeping on a couch in gangster land. But I don’t have the cash. My first paycheck won’t be enough for the damage deposit plus rent, and it won’t be arriving for another week.
I thank Liz for her time.
“Let me know soon, because I have others interested.” She tucks a strand of short hair behind her pointy ear. I leave with Marnie, a dark lump in my chest and a cold wind sifting through my khaki jacket.
Marnie turns to me on the metro. I’m embarrassed about being broke and still sleeping on a community couch that belongs to someone else. It’s silly, but Marnie always admired the fact that I had realized my dreams and conquered the hard cold world, and I can’t burst her bubble—or mine. It’s not only myself I’m protecting. I’m protecting the art form, maybe even the art world, from being a total cliché.
“It sounds like she has other people.”
“She didn’t yesterday, but that’s Manhattan for you,” Marnie says with an air kiss.
My plan is to practice on my own in the evenings to secure my position in the company and get a raise. Londyn’s smoking on the steps in her biker jacket when I arrive at Driven. The two lonely trees on the sidewalk look like stick men reaching above the commuters racing by.
“You look like you need a drink.” She exhales a slender ring of smoke into the air. “My treat.” She seals the deal.
After a short ride in a yellow cab, a server places two tequila shooters in front of each of us at a bar in Tribeca.
“Bottoms up.” Londyn holds a shot glass to mine. I swallow it back and pucker. Wow. Every time I drink tequila I forget how strong it is. Londyn doesn’t bat an eye. She reaches for the next shot glass. There’s something intriguing about her. She doesn’t look a day older than me but for some reason seems more worldly—or jaded. She pulls a cigarette out of her designer handbag and lights up in the plasticized outdoor seating area.
She eyes me and blows out a ring of smoke. “What’s on your mind?” She presses her lips together. “Is it Daniela?” Her comment is a ghost. I think I might even look over my shoulder. It spooks me that much.
I have no idea how she knows, but I suppose it’s better than asking about my current living situation, which I would rather not get into. Or maybe “better” isn’t the right word.
Londyn draws a cigarette to her lips.
“Has Daniela done something to you?” I turn the tables in an attempt to be assertive, and anything is possible with that dark cloud around her. Whatever it is, it can’t be worse than the mental breakdown—incriminatingly edited—that Daniela posted of me on social media a few years back, causing me to leave New York. Raina was good, but dancing with a company like Driven was my preference at the time. I did love this city underneath it all. I guess that’s why I came crawling back when my body rejected another day with Raina Freehurst as it might reject an organ transplant.
Londyn sucks on her cigarette. “I’ve met my share of her type.”
I don’t know how this conversation got so intense. I secure my fingers around the shooter in front of me as we lock eyes. The past belongs in the past, and it should stay there. I tilt the shot back, this time in one swoop, and my eyelids slam together.
“’Atta girl.” Londyn puckers.
She stares at me for a while, exhales smoke, and says, “The best way to get revenge is to land the leading role. Kent has his eye on you.”
She inhales hard as my ears prick. I lick my lips and lower my lashes. Just talking about my director conjures his presence here in the bar.
She orders another round of shooters before looking at me with heavy eyes. “But no one gets ahead in this industry without being well-connected, so you might want to rethink your ambitions.”
“Rethink working for Driven?” The idea is preposterous.
She shrugs as another stream of smoke spills from her lips. “Kent Morgan is the best choreographer in this city, bar none, and he thinks he is above all the shit.” She smirks.
I know where this is going. I am the furthest thing from a socialite or a schmoozer there is, and my parents are not the Harringtons—Daniela’s parents.
Londyn’s eyes simmer as she butts out her cigarette and pulls in a long inhale.
“So basically I should forget about having a future here.” I reach for my drink. My heart sinks. My chest caves. I want to go home to bed. If only I had one.
Londyn gets a look in her eye as she reaches for another cigarette and lights it. “There is only one person who has more power on the board than the Harringtons. His name is Charles Anderson. He’s funded Driven to the hilt and expects to be involved in all company decisions, even casting. But his reputation isn’t the greatest. He’s… questionable.” Her head tilts.
“Questionable in a bad way?” I’m on the edge of my seat.
Londyn pauses as though she has to think about it before her eyes lock into mine. “Yes.”
The waitress comes by with another round of shots, and Londyn starts talking about some designer like I should know who she is.
The way I am captivated one minute and spilling my guts the next is cringeworthy. Londyn has a way of prying information out of you. I like her, and she’s probably the only person in this company I can talk to, but the black cloud cannot be ignored.
I need to move the feeling off, so I head to the studio.
On the third floor the lights are out other than one neon light that stays on around the clock. After picking up a spare uniform from wardrobe and pushing my earbuds into my ears—pop music is my secret indulgence; it battles the gray—I walk back through the lobby and down the hall to the studio, beats thumping in my ear.
“Miss O’Hara.”
His deep voice startles me. It’s an axe landing. I accidentally drop my iPhone. The earbuds yank from my ears. Bass beats escape and bounce all over the floor. Kent stands tall and wide in black pants, sleek black jacket, and black Chelsea boots. He picks up my phone and hands it to me.
I take it, flick off the music, and shove the device in my pocket.
“What are you doing here?”
There’s a serious non-expression on his face that’s unreadable. And there are so many things on my mind. But I am sober enough to know not to download them.
“I need to move.” It’s cryptic, but I’m not myself. Actually, I may have had a shooter too many, and a washroom will be necessary sooner than later. Kent has that intense-director look on his sculpted face.
“You’re in no shape to dance.” He looks at me as though he can read me. “I’ll get you a ride home.”
I start to get nervous about him finding out about
my living situation. He’s the last person I want to know, because, being a previous principal dancer, I should have it more together, even if Raina paid worth shit.
He ignores me, opens the front door to the studio, and waits for me to take a seat on the steps before he sits down beside me. The cold air is sobering against the dizzy blur of headlights and pedestrian traffic passing the bubble forming around us.
I suck in a breath. “Look, there’s something I should confess. I don’t have a home. I’ve been sleeping on the community couch in Judith Smart’s studio. Someone who works for her told me it was okay. I’ll find a permanent place soon.” The floodgates open for some reason. I brace myself for his answer. Hot air pours out from his plump lips. His eyes flick up. They’re dark.
“I didn’t hire you so Judith Smart couldn’t. I was at a meeting in the East Village next to Judith’s studio when I saw you with that backpack weighing you down. You had that look on your face I had when I was starting out in New York. I know Judith’s games. You left the studio without your bag. I suspected it was stolen, and then you wandered into a presentation center for the free coffee. It’s something I would have done too.”
I watch him, trying to understand. It’s impossible to imagine someone larger than life struggling at all, never mind like I’ve been.
“I was seventeen when I moved out.” He looks far away. “My parents weren’t supportive, and the town I grew up in was too small. I slept in my teacher’s garage for a year before I made enough money washing dishes to move to New York. Then, I did exactly what you’re doing now, and I didn’t tell anyone either. I thought it would make me weak. But it’s the opposite, Branwen.”
Something about what he says makes his aesthetics very pleasing. It’s almost poetic how different he looks. My mind wanders. Why do we do it? It’s one of my most contemplated questions. I’m falling into a mental tangent. This thing called dance, there’s all the pressure of having to dance your best every day, even if you’re too exhausted, worn out, injured, and underpaid to keep your head above water without monetary reward. Imagine being in his shoes, all over the news and having to walk into the studio and create something on the spot every day with the whole world watching and financiers, board members, and artistic staff breathing down your neck. I’m being philosophical. And the answer is obvious: we are artists.
CURTAIN CALL: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series Book 1 (Standalone) Page 4
