CURTAIN CALL: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series Book 1 (Standalone)

by Brianna Stark

  The corner of his mouth gently curls in response, and because of his comment, and because he’s already seen me naked, and because all the dancers in the company change in front of each other all the time, I strip off my costume and hang it on a hanger without looking at him. And of course he doesn’t move, because he isn’t the kind of guy who backs away from a challenge. Not that this is a challenge. I am just doing what the other dancers do all the time, and his eyes begin burning off my skin.

  I pick up my rehearsal suit and step into it. I slowly roll the tights up my leg, then slip my arms into the appropriate slots before looking back up at Kent, unsure of how on earth I am being so brave. That is, until I meet his gaze.

  “You’re disappointed in me.” I adjust the tight material on my skin.

  “Not even close.” His voice is weak, and by just the look on his face, every pore in my body is flicked on like a light bulb.

  We don’t say anything else. He doesn’t blink or move his full lips slightly at my trying comments, and then somehow in this strange conversation, our bodies have become closer. Close enough to do any of the things that, if they were going to happen, would have happened by now, the mind-blowing kiss in Cayman aside.

  His eyes are shaded as he jams his fingers into his scalp and glides them through his hair. Okay, so he was probably a little traumatized by the fallout of the events in Cayman. And he must be dealing with the aftermath of canceling on Charles in ways I cannot imagine. I have the urge to console him, despite what he said about what shouldn’t happen between us. It makes no sense. I never did buy the bit where he compared himself to Anderson, but I haven’t had a chance to tell him, since he’s barely said a word to me. I cup my fingers on either side of his darkened eyes. His eyelids blink up in resistance as I move my lips to his so that our noses graze and our breaths brush. We shut our eyelids, and our lashes flutter together. I can almost taste it. Everything around me is starting to melt.

  “You could never be anything like Charles Anderson.”

  I lift my lips to his.

  But before they touch, he stops me. He looks angry, tormented.

  Londyn and Patrick’s voices can be heard from the other side of the door. We pull ourselves apart, and our lashes are forced apart. Kent sucks in a deep breath, and my eyes widen. The walls tighten around us.

  “Oh my god,” Londyn giggles. “Did you see that?”

  “What are camel toes?” Patrick wrinkles his brow. “I don’t know why we are talking about mammal toes, do you?” He looks at Kent and I as Londyn cracks up. Then, before the unwelcome image comes to my mind, Kent paces out the door—and Londyn is still giggling. She turns to me with a look of surprise and says, “You changed out of your costume? I wasn’t done with you.”

  “You just want to admire your own work.” Patrick crosses his arms over his chest with a smirk, while Londyn wipes away tears of laughter.

  “Don’t listen to him,” she says to me, but grins all the while at Patrick. I decide it’s a good time to leave.

  After lunch, both casts assemble in the studio for notes. Cory, per usual, sets a chair down front and center, which Kent ignores, pacing the front of the room. While his black moto boots hit the floor, he runs through all the things we already know but haven’t officially been told: there are two different casts, and only one of them will be performing at the premiere. He reminds us that the new production could go viral if the last one is any testament and urges us to look at the schedule every day for changes. He will try to announce the confirmed casting soon, but we should only focus on bringing our best selves to the work. When his words run dry, the pacing stops for a brief moment. He looks up at Cory, who isn’t in his black dancewear but board shorts and a skater T-shirt that says Palm Angels on it.

  “Let’s give Londyn and Patrick a hand, as they’ve been nominated for best costume design and musical score to accompany dance on film at the New York Film Festival in June.”

  Cory shoves his fingers in his mouth and whistles among the hoots and hollers that come from the pile of black-suited bodies on the floor. When the cheers wind down, Kent continues the pacing and scratches his brow.

  “The Friends Gala,” Cory coughs after a bout of silence, cuing Kent.

  “The sponsors event is next week, and everyone is to attend. Be on your best behavior: walk proud, and consult with Londyn about the dress code for the evening. Each one of us is representing, before anything else, integrity, high art, and truth—always. Remember that.”

  “Let’s get to work, team!” Cory claps his hands in the air and somehow undermines the whole ordeal, which has left most of us twitching with excitement.

  “Hip, hip, hooray,” Sterling mimics in my ear as he tugs on my arm. I push him away, my eyes saying shut up this is serious, so effing serious, but he knows. We each take our own space in the room and prepare ourselves for an emotionally invested execution.

  Sterling, who has been distant all rehearsal, waves me into our next lift. “If you aren’t happy with the way I am approaching the piece, you should tell me.” Maybe I’m a bit insecure after the last rehearsal, when a comment was made about my port de bras. “Because I could do the piece like this.” I mock the steps around him with arms flopping lifelessly behind me. “That’s how I dance, isn’t it?” And I don’t even get a smile.

  “It’s not you. It’s Skankaroo.” His new nickname for Lindsay.

  “Sure it’s not chafing?”

  “Good as new.” He winks, but his smile quickly fades. He must be in one of his moods.

  After rehearsal, I walk by the hallway to Kent’s office. Richard, Driven’s controller, is standing at the door. When it swings open, he steps in.

  “Don’t tell me we have more overdue accounts to deal with.” I hear Kent’s voice intone. The door shuts and my stomach sinks.

  Cameron walks through the door, and I take the leap and enter. Kent looks up.

  “Is it a bad time?” I ask, though he looks tired.

  He pulls out a minimalist chair. I take a seat and cross my legs. There’s a breath that hovers in the air. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know why I came here. All I know is that more and more, I just want to be around him. There is a gravitational pull between us, and he is becoming a part of every facet of my reality.

  “Is there something I can do?” I swallow, looking back at him. “I mean, I’m at least partly responsible.”

  “You are not.” Kent stands up from his chair. He walks back to my side of his desk. “Don’t even think that.” He reaches for my shoulders, and my gaze falls to his hands. His eyelids slam shut before he blinks them back open. I reach my hand to his instinctively. My eyes fall to his pink lips and shaded jaw, and I look at him with everything inside of me. He sucks in a harsh, knowing breath, and his masculine scent melts over me: it’s perspiration mixed with aftershave and pheromone-dusted skin.

  “It was right to cancel on Charles. I only wish I did it sooner.” His fingers lift off of me, and he turns away so that the lines of his profile are in contrast with the view of the skyline. “I should never have let you meet him in the first place.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, black pants pulling against his firm legs.

  “But I was the one who…” I stand up and step toward him. He turns around and presses a finger to my lips. His eyes burn with warning as my heart thuds against my ribs.

  His gaze pulls from mine. “This is not your fault, Branwen.” His jaw clenches as we step apart. “This is my problem.” He swallows hard, and my insides sink as I back away. His wide shoulders sink. “And I can’t help but wonder that if this never happened, if it wasn’t you… I might never have seen through him.”

  “You don’t know for sure,” I mumble, wondering if I missed something that night, and his gaze snaps my way. “I mean, nothing happened with Charles other than him inviting me for dinner alone, and neither of us will ever know if his intentions were as you assume.” It’s possible. Maybe. Though it is a red flag that he wanted
me all to himself for dinner. Maybe his chef really is as temperamental as he said. What do I know about the lifestyles of the rich and famous? I just wish that none of it had happened and placed the company in jeopardy.

  My hearts stops, waiting for his response. But he looks away. His wide chest deflates.

  “Maybe you’re right. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be discussing company matters.” He gaze turns to the window.

  “I think we’re beyond that.” I’m not sure what I’m saying. But maybe he is, because his focus shifts back to me. There’s something in his eyes other than an opening. He’s trying to read me, but there’s uncertainty in there too. Fear. “Well, I’m here if you change your mind,” I add, to the silence.

  That’s when Renee walks in to let him know he has a meeting and cuts our conversation short. Her eyes widen, and I excuse myself. Kent pulls his wide shoulders back, and she hands him a note. He glances my way. There’s an unfinished note in the air.

  15

  Something that smells strangely like food wafts through the air when I walk in the door. My stomach growls, and it crosses my mind I may have walked into the wrong apartment.

  My roommate Liz’s new BF Marco is sitting on the couch, and Liz walks into the room stirring a bowl of kale Caesar salad in her arms.

  “There’s a vegan lasagna in the oven. Do you want to have dinner with us?”

  I agree, since we are never home at the same time and still haven’t spent much quality time together. Plus, I’m hungry. Two minutes later, a text comes in from Kent. He asks me to meet him. I’m stunned. Then I wonder if he wants to finish our conversation after all, or if he changed his mind. Either way, I decide to keep it light, unlike our earlier conversation.

  I text him back, smiling: A date?

  I text him again before I get a response even though I know better: My roommate is making me dinner. It must be some kind of monumental occasion because she never cooks.

  And then I start to write something else: Do you want to come? But I quickly erase it. I’m way over texting, but what the hell? I am in an unusual mood. I write the words again: Do you… but I wonder if he thinks I am losing it over him. I could be losing it in the sense that he is my director and I love the hell out of him for that reason, like I loved Raina. Director should have its own love category up there with family and boyfriends, because the devotion is so much like love. I type it one last time: Do you want to come here for dinner? The words stare back at me as my finger rests on the send button, but when Liz barges in, I press it accidentally.

  “Shit.”

  “What is your problem?”

  “I just accidentally invited Kent here for dinner,” I frown.

  “You mean Kent, your director, Kent? You invited him here for dinner, tonight?” She is talking in a robot voice now, and I feel badly that I didn’t even ask her.

  “It’s not like we’re friends. I don’t know why I invited him. We might have kissed, but that was likely a one-time thing.” I cock my head, thinking it through.

  “You kissed?” Liz looks at me funny, and I deny it. “Okay, just let me know what you decide,” she says as though I am crazy. I am feeling a little… off.

  Maybe I’ll write him back and tell him I sent the text to the wrong person. But my phone beeps and I look down with one eye half-open.

  What’s the address?

  Brilliant.

  Twenty minutes later—barely enough time for a shower and change of clothes—Kent arrives with a bottle of wine, smelling like panty-dropping serum. Marco holds out his hand. “It’s so good to meet you, man. Paradise was awesome. The show of the year for sure.” He’s referring to Kent’s last creation.

  Kent rakes his fingers through his hair as Liz hangs his jacket. I hope he doesn’t start pacing. “I don’t really do much. It’s the dancers who make the show.” He looks up at me for the first time. His expression is stoic, even if a tiny bit less assured.

  I hand him a glass of wine when Liz and Marco start their interrogation.

  “Were you on Ellen?” Marco asks, and I am thinking I should have had a pre-Kent meeting of the minds so they wouldn’t ask him if he was on Ellen or anything like that. But he is a big boy, I am sure he can handle it. I am still trying to figure out how I ended up having my director over for dinner with the roommate I barely know. I guess this is nothing compared to the Cayman trip.

  “Don’t remind me,” Kent says, his full lips curving upward slightly, which gives me a sense of relief.

  “Yeah, I remember that, didn’t she give you a real bird to take home? Hey, do you still have that bird?”

  Kent laughs. I like how relaxed he looks out of the context of the studio. The last time I saw that smile was on the beach in Cayman, and I must say, I am really enjoying it.

  “You’ve, like, put performance art on the map. It’s huge.” Marco launches in again, while I help Liz in the kitchen. Not that I am that helpful—I’m too busy eavesdropping, which is very easy to do considering the size of our apartment.

  “Bon appétit.” Liz clinks each of our glasses once we are sitting at our tiny table, and we sip on Kent’s fine wine. The conversation is stilted at first, but faithfully, Marco has taken Kent on as a subject of interest, and none of us are complaining.

  “So how did you do it? How did you make dance—of all art forms—such a huge success?” Marco asks Kent, tearing off a piece of baguette and scooping another serving of pseudo-pasta.

  “Yes, I’d really like to know that myself.” I wink at Kent while tilting my wine glass back, but he does not take the bait. It’s interesting, though, because this seems like an impossible question to me. It’s like asking why Facebook became a success, or Picasso: the inventor doesn’t make it successful—they just invent it, and it either catches on, or it doesn’t.

  “I guess like with anything else, it fills a need that’s present in the world,” Kent says as I sip my wine.

  “Right. So once you find this… need, how do you capture it, or express it?” Marco looks at Kent intently.

  When Kent takes a while to respond, I take the opportunity to play a little more. Even if he intimidates the hell out of me at times, he is also so easy to have fun with.

  “He paces a lot,” I say, looking straight at Kent, “and he has x-ray vision.” Kent raises a brow in my direction, Marco’s eyes pop, and I bite my lips together to keep from smiling. “Isn’t that right? You can see right through us, sense everything about us. It’s a kind of a superpower, you know.” I tilt my head, meeting Kent’s gaze. “That, and he plays mind games with us.” I take another sip of wine.

  “You don’t play mind games, do you?” Marco asks.

  “Not good.” Liz waves a finger in the air.

  “Yeah, but all directors do it, and Kent has mastered it.” I cross my legs and straighten the napkin on my lap without dropping the challenge in Kent’s gaze. I still have no idea why Kent wanted to meet with me in the first place, which I am a little concerned about. Kent takes a sip of his wine. His knuckles grip the stem as he eyes me.

  “Branwen is right in that it is all about the dancers and how well they are encouraged to perform.” His focus does not relent.

  “Encouraged… Now that’s a fairly optimistic word, wouldn’t you guys say?” I look over at Liz and Marco, who have opted out of the conversation without previous notice. Liz is digging in the salad bowl, Marco is scooping more lasagna with his head down, and neither of them responds.

  “And I am very optimistic,” Kent says, still looking at me without relent, which makes me tense all over. I don’t know if it is anger or lust or just the desire to be better, but that is quickly bypassed by a pang of jealousy that I wasn’t in Paradise— and Daniela was, which hasn’t really struck me until this moment. I pull my focus away from Kent and take a large gulp of wine. I start losing myself in my own thoughts, consumed with something like motivation. This must be where motivation comes from, because I need the piece we are working on to be everything
that Paradise was and more. There must be a way to make that happen, if only I could be better—find that need he is talking about—and have it ooze out of my movements for his use.

  “Earth to Branwen,” Liz says a few moments later. Her plate sits empty as Kent stabs his fork into the last pieces of lettuce on his saucer. “Do you want some more wine?” She holds the bottle to my glass, but Kent rests his fork and napkin on the table and stands up.

  “Branwen needs her rest for rehearsal tomorrow. I should go. My compliments to the chef.”

  “You’re going?” Marco says with disappointment, as we all walk Kent toward the door and I wonder how to find out why he originally wanted to see me or even agreed to come here at all.

  When we get to the door, Kent reaches for his black Belstaff moto jacket, and Liz and Marco disappear into the kitchen. I gather the courage to ask, “Wasn’t there something you wanted to discuss?”

  There’s a long silence as his focus melds with mine and the black pupils in the centers of his eyes grow slowly. It’s seriously attractive. He sucks in a long inhale.

  “Is there somewhere we can go for privacy?”

  There’s a flicker in his eye that is not as confident as usual. There’s something serious on his mind. I look back at Liz and Marco, who are lost in their own little conversation, and I grab Kent’s hand. Next thing I know, we are in my room and sitting on the edge of my bed, and no one is saying anything. I am not sure where to start because I would like to shake the words out of him and his whole mysterious persona. That or absorb him whole.

  “So what did you want to talk about?” I ask, but all he does is look at me like he wants to avoid telling me what he wanted in the first place. Not that it matters anymore. He’s in my bedroom, and it seems we are both adjusting to that. After a moment, I become self-conscious about how I look, and I shift around trying to create that perfect pose. It’s an old habit—when I realize what I am doing, I place my hands in my lap and look down at my twiddling thumbs.