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

by Brianna Stark

  “Branwen.”

  Yes.

  “Branwen—”

  Yes.

  Yessssssss.

  My body twitches while I explode.

  I want to cry, it’s so damn intense, and his eyes look a little blurry too before we pull apart and I tuck my chin into his neck. His fingers catch on my damp skin, and our breaths race and chests pulse together as I fall into him.

  Then, shit, I remember my plan.

  I forgot to get him to pull out before he came.

  20

  There are rumors slithering by; there are assumptions and speculations; there are, as always, the critics and the skeptics, the doubters and naysayers, the envious, but the question of the moment is: “Can they really pull it off?” Rather: will he pull it off? Because there are at least twenty of us in tight black matching suits on a good day, and there are at least twenty more behind the scenes making sure the production goes on and will be as good or better than the last one. But no one cares if we pull it off or not. It’s all about if he can pull it off.

  You wouldn’t know that much has changed, that Daniela has claimed her royal throne as the lead and that Sterling and I have been shoved to the background. You could never imagine the secrets that are washing up on shore, the distant investors who are dangling strings, making us dance to their tune, the controversies about the great Kent Morgan and his next masterpiece that are either blown out of proportion or swept under the rug. We just keeping moving and doing what we know best, and as my washed-up diva friend would say, “We keep feeding the dragon of dance.”

  Londyn walks into the lobby removing her John Lennon–style, black tea–shade sunglasses.

  “You okay, babe? What’s with the smile?”

  Londyn studies me, the round glasses dangling off her finger.

  I really have to stop it with the smile and remember that I am supposed to be upset about the casting, which I am actually devastated over. Sterling zeros in. I’m dizzy and tired, blissed out and… giddy when he wraps his arm around me just in time.

  Group hug. Grrrr, we grumble.

  “What was I thinking, leaving Push for this melodramatic crap?” Sterling digs his foot into the ground, looking at us: dark eyes, chiseled chest slouched in a black T-shirt, and hands disappearing into black pockets. Even though Sterling would never admit it, he looks pretty disappointed about the news. And he should be, considering the way it was done.

  “You know why you came here. It’s the best dance company around. Don’t tell Kent I said that. Besides, you couldn’t stay at Push with that slut Lindsay,” Londyn says.

  Londyn’s right. I rest my hand on Sterling’s back to comfort him but also to bolster myself, and I think—pray— that everything will be okay, because it seems like it won’t. It’s like an apocalypse is approaching my universe, even though I’m still high from last night. There’s total elation and doom all at once, and I just wish I could close my eyes and be back in Kent’s arms—but that in itself is a dangerous wish too.

  Cory whistles and then claps his hands in the air. With his ingenuous good looks, it is hard to take him too seriously, but we do as we do. Sterling drags his feet to the studio, and I follow closely behind him.

  The room goes quiet when Kent walks in.

  He nods at me, and I blush, and Sterling gives me a look that says, what the hell was that? I suck in my breath and straighten my posture.

  Daniela has a rejuvenated confidence in her strut. She is flirting and blowing air kisses and looks like a cat that just ate Tweety. But Kent walks right by her. He paces a few times and looks up at us, planting his feet into the ground and crossing his arms over his chest. Everyone is anxiously standing in the center of the room waiting for something to happen, maybe an explosion, an atomic combustion, or a once-in-a-century epiphany. But he just inhales a deep breath and looks down. He takes a seat in the director’s chair Cory places for him every day, the one he rarely uses. Then he just sits there in the black chair, his fist clenched under his chin, glaring us over in thought. It’s a stare-down between him and us, and no one knows how or when it’s time to draw.

  “There’s been a change in direction.”

  There are a few gasps and groans, followed by silence and more silence until Daniela raises her hand.

  “I’m still dancing the lead though, correct?” she sneers, and Kent’s gaze narrows and his jaw clenches—and everyone leans back onto their heels.

  “What does it matter who dances the lead? It’s not about who dances the lead; it never was. It is supposed to be about the fucking art.”

  Daniela’s brow furrows, and her stomach makes a loud grumble of a sound, and her eyes widen in panic, and it grumbles again louder, like there’s an animal dying inside, or red-hot lava from within a volcano that’s about to erupt. She clutches her belly and her cheeks flush blotchy pink. She bites her lips together as though worried something indecent might escape. She eyes the door. It seems like she might not make it. Her stomach growls again like a hyena. Everyone is looking at her now instead of Kent. Her pink cheeks turn whitish green, and sweat beads pop on her forehead. It grumbles again in a long, moaning, downward descending octave, and her jaw drops as she gasps with a look of mortification on her face, and she scurries to the door without lifting her heels, her knees knocked tightly together.

  Everyone looks too shocked to say a thing. I am not sure who they are more afraid of: Daniela—even though she’s left the room and probably squatting on the can by now—or Kent, who looks just as stunned as the rest of us. But then someone lets out the first break of laughter, and then more follows, until the room is filled with crumpled brows, curling jerky lips, and people falling to the floor clutching their bellies. There’s a symphony of giggles that eventually fades. Then, just when it seems every last bit of hysteria has been squished out of everyone’s lungs, a residual round or two of kicking legs and rolling onto our sides in exhausted chuckles makes an encore.

  Finally, when it’s quiet and the tension has inevitably lifted, Kent stands up and shakes his head, a crooked, disbelieving smile on his face.

  “Tomorrow we start fresh.”

  He walks his booted feet across the floor, rubbing the back of his neck.

  And before there’s time to think or uncross our eyes or even begin to fathom the unfathomable, he’s gone, and the room is so quiet, like before the tsunami. No one says anything; we only look at each other with speaking eyebrows that say, holy shit, wow, what do we know?

  “Was that not the best fucking thing that’s happened all year?” Sterling lets out a mischievous smile after rehearsal.

  “You didn’t slip her laxatives, did you?” I eye him, and he shrugs.

  “The bitch had it coming. She stole my meds and tweeted all that shit about everyone, not to mention had her parents rig the show. It’s about time someone put her in her place.”

  “Remind me not to get on your bad side.” I sip on my water.

  “I need a celebratory coffee. Maybe we should score a shot of whiskey off of Londyn. You know she hides a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in a top cupboard in the wardrobe. Coming?” Sterling arches a brow.

  “I’ll get my coat.” I can’t keep myself from smiling. But at least this time I’m allowed to smile, now that everyone is in a strange liminal space between giddiness and hilarity, disappointment and fear, and… hysteria.

  There’s a full-on congressional debate happening in the women’s change room. Seems as though everyone has forgotten about Daniela shitting her pants and is back to the serious topics at hand. With the dynamics of the change room, it’s just a matter of time before the Chairman of the Judiciary Committee takes the floor, and everyone is speaking over top of one another. I am wondering if I should shout out, “Order in the house!” or just grab my things and scram. I decide on the latter.

  As I quickly slip off my sticky suit, replace it with something clean and dry, and stuff the necessities in my bag, quiet Elena is standing on the wooden bench
with one hand on her hip, a finger pointed in the air, and spit flying as she speaks. I don’t think I’d heard quiet Elena speak a word all year, and I pause for a moment out of intrigue.

  “We have less than two months till the premiere, and he doesn’t know what the hell he is doing. We can’t let him scrap all the work we have done. We just can’t!”

  There are mostly nods of agreement in the room and shaking of heads.

  “What are we going to do? We have worked so hard. I worked so hard. I had no life for months, racking my brain to learn all… all…” She huffs in exasperation.

  “We have to tell him. We have to do something,” another voice belts out. “We can’t just… take it.”

  “The women’s change room is a witch hunt.” I enter the elevator behind Sterling. “I wouldn’t go near it if I were you. I think they may be preparing to sacrifice a male member to the gods.

  “I never go near that place.” He cocks a brow. “I stay right clear of it, believe me.”

  We stop at the wardrobe. Sterling opens the door, Rebecca comes out the other side, and they bump into each other. “Happy to see you too,” Sterling drawls, but Rebecca rushes by.

  “Did you see that?” Sterling mutters. “She practically jumped me. I feel used.”

  I’m hitting him with my dance bag when Londyn looks up from her worktable.

  “Y’all shouldn’t be smiling, because something weird is going on. As far as I am concerned, you two just lost the best roles of your lives, and your jobs could be next.”

  Did she really just say y’all?

  Sterling reaches into her top cupboard, and pulls out a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “What I have to tell you deserves a toast.” He unscrews the cap on the bottle. “Daniela shit her pants in rehearsal today, and the look on her face was worth losing my damn job ten times over.” He swigs from the bottle, and Londyn drops her jaw. It’s the first time I have seen a shocked look on her face.

  “You’re lying.” She reaches for the bottle and presses it to her lips as Sterling re-enacts the episode in detail, down to the sound effects and running to the door with his knees tightly pressed together, which might actually be even funnier when he does it. Londyn practically spits out the whiskey she is trying to swallow then wipes her lips.

  “What’s so funny?” Lexi walks in. “Other than Daniela having the shits in rehearsal.” Her small pink lips break open into a smile.

  I feel bad about laughing at Daniela behind her back, but I suppose she’s just getting a taste of her own medicine.

  “Man, I so wish I had that on video.” Sterling takes another swig of whiskey, and Lexi snags the bottle from him.

  “Don’t you have a rehearsal this afternoon?” Londyn stares me down.

  “I don’t know, do we?” Lexi rolls her eyes. “Don’t get me started, because not only have Daniela and her parents ensured that no one else has a shot at the lead by coming to Kent’s rescue when he lost his last large donor, but on top of it, he’s somehow decided to scrap everything we have so far.” She squishes her face, swallowing another shot of whiskey.

  Londyn sucks in a shallow breath as her fingers twitch over her table, and even Sterling looks a little grim as Lexi complains about casting. I take a sip from the bottle, and Lexi pulls a cigarette out of her gold case and lights up in the window while typing on her phone.

  “Y’all are being boner killers on the best day of my life. Don’t forget what just happened.” Sterling rolls his eyes as he hams up the y’all that Londyn breathed earlier.

  Lexi wraps her arm around Sterling’s shoulders, holding the bottle of whiskey, and pecks him on the cheek. “Why dwell on our careers when we could be talking about bodily fluids, right?”

  Lexi bats her lashes at him, and Londyn and I roll our eyes. Then Sterling curses while staring at his phone. It didn’t take long for him to start moping over Lindsay again. He’s always texting her. But he looks up at us with a look of surprise in his eyes. “The tweeting war continues,” he says, and my muscles contract.

  21

  Kent wheels up to the steps of Driven while Londyn and a few dancers are hanging out on the steps. They are all joking about Daniela soiling her pants.

  “It’s just shit, and you all do it most every day.” I remind them, but they mind me no attention.

  Kent steps out and opens the door for me. There goes anonymity. I’m glad for the tinted windows, not that anyone is paying attention. I step in.

  “Don’t tell me, there’s a merry-go-round somewhere around here that serves cotton candy.” I cross my legs under my skirt and roll a heel, holding my purse on my lap. He shoots me a look before placing his eyes back on the road. “Are we off to a tropical island?”

  “Try again.” He shifts gears as I press a finger to my lips in mock thought.

  “I know… We’re going to look at foreclosures in the burbs.” I raise a brow, waiting for another reaction.

  He rolls back his shoulders. “My aunt is the curator at the Guggenheim, and the Ricardo Karalla exhibit is opening tonight. I thought you might like to meet her, since she’s the one person in my family I truly admire.”

  “I’d love to.” I smile and squeeze my bag and look out the window. Everything looks brighter, the people happier as they zip in their trapped way around the grid, and it still hasn’t hit me that I am not dancing the lead in the production.

  The valet takes the keys from Kent, and he opens my door. He’s in a suit, and I’m glad that I wore a skirt with heels today. Kent takes my hand. It’s so symbolic, I can’t help but stare at our hands clutched together as the photos start clicking. Inside, we are asked to pose together in the corner in front of a large poster.

  He takes both of my hands in his and kisses me on the lips when the next flash goes off, making me dizzy. It’s all like a fairytale.

  Being out with Kent makes me realize just how famous he is, because everyone wants to talk to him and have their picture taken with him, and even one of the most highly regarded photographers in New York, Terry Brunette, asks him for his autograph and compliments him on reinventing the art form. He’s referred to as the Picasso of the dance world. He’s had his photo on the cover of Vanity Fair and GQ. I remember reading the articles before I joined the company, and I thought I would hate him. I thought, like Sterling did, that I would brush him off as an egotistical, way-too-good-looking turd. But from the first moment I laid eyes on him, I knew that I was his if only he wanted me back. And being here now with him holding my hand and telling people we are an item makes it magic. But it also reminds me that I know the scenario all too well. Life is not always a happily-ever-after, and even the concept overwhelms me.

  “Excuse me, I need to find the ladies’ room, be right back.” I turn to Kent, seeing spots from the flash of another camera. I faintly hear him ask if everything is okay through the ambient noise, but I am already gone and pushing through the crowd.

  In the washroom, I take a while to catch my breath and think. What the hell am I doing? I am way out of my league here. I am head over heels in love with a man who is conquering the world as we speak, and my career is on the verge of falling flat on its face. I barely recognize myself in the mirror. Once Kent knows that my dancing days are over, he is going to drop me like a hot potato, because who am I without dance? The idea of being normal is just a fantasy, because his life is and always will be in the limelight, and what star doesn’t sometimes dream about having a normal, boring life? But no star actually ever trades it all in for one. If this relationship actually went anywhere, I would do nothing but be by his side as he went in every day and worked with beautiful artists that could actually give him what he wants. They wouldn’t be yesterday’s news, like me.

  Two women walk into the washroom, their high heels click-clacking on the tiled floor. One pulls a tube of lipstick out of her purse.

  “Did you see Kent Morgan?” she says to her friend as she swipes the ruby color over her lips and smacks them together. �
�God, he’s sex on legs, do you think he’s available?”

  “Why, you plan to ask him out?” the friend says to Lipstick Lady as she powders her cheeks and pulls a pick out of her purse.

  “Maddy Morgan, his aunt, said she’d introduce me. She’s the Guggenheim curator, and a good friend. As much as she hates to see him unhappy, she’s adamant that he’ll never settle down. But brooding artist or not, I’d drop my panties for him any day.” She tucks the lipstick into her Fendi bag, and her friend shakes her head.

  “You and me both. Married or not, if Stu saw him, he’d understand.” They both giggle.

  “But have you heard the accusations on Twitter about him and that new dancer sneaking around—what was her name?”

  “Oh, please, young beautiful people working in an intimate situation… don’t tell me Kent Morgan is the next sexual predator. Though last I heard she was conveniently cast as a lead.”

  “And it sounds like she has issues.”

  Holy crap. My worst fear is confirmed: our relationship reflecting badly on Kent or at least stirring up speculations.

  Sick to my stomach, I think about ordering a drink and finding Kent. But when I spot him, a small crowd—many of whom are women—has formed around him, and there is no way that I’m going to barge through them to claim my place after what I just heard. I down my drink and wait for the crowd to thin out, but it doesn’t, and I dash outside for fresh air, the room closing in on me.

  “Where’s Kent?” One of the photographers punches out the flashes in my direction. I look over my shoulder. Kent is walking toward me. Another flash lights his face, and he cups his hand over his eyes. I need to disappear. We can’t be seen together again. I take the opportunity to run down the stairs and jump into a cab.

  Just when I think everything might be okay. It is clearly not. Even when lost in the moment, flying high over the skyscrapers in the most glorious orgasm of my life, I have to pinch myself—it’s not a dream. Even if I tell him, everything will be ok, it probably won’t be. Now that my director looks into my eyes—even if for brief moments—to seek the answer instead of telling me what to do, I fear the worst is yet to come.