We need to expand. We need to diversify.
Hip-hop, modern, contemporary—these are all styles we should be opening classes to stay relevant. Ballet will always be the foundation. I would encourage every student to enroll in those classes, except it would not be a requirement.
Pulling the flannel hood of my denim jacket over my head, I exit the backdoor to the studio and head towards the parking structure across the street. I do a few flips and tricks on the way to my car where no one can see. Penny would have a fit if she saw me out here like this.
And why do I care? I’m twenty-four years old!
Because she’s the only family you got, dummy, and you’ll do what she says before you give her a heart attack and kill her, too.
Popping the door open to my sexy white with black rims Maserati GranTurismo, which I bought with the money I made from modeling, I get in, putting the key in the ignition and then pause.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
That woman, Ms. Peters, asked me if I loved dancing and I hesitated. The sheer joy in her daughter’s face with the mention of the word “fiddle”—
I don’t think I’ve ever known joy like that. It makes my eyes wet. My throat feels swollen again and I take a moment.
Leaning my head back, I scroll my eyes, swiveling my head to see if anyone is around...
No one.
The silence is thick and I grab the steering wheel, muttering, “Mother?”
I don’t know why I talk to her sometimes. I’ve never been to church and I have no idea where people go once their gone, but I can only hope that maybe my mother did have a soul and perhaps she’s still around. It’s stupid to try and talk to her, I know, especially since I obviously have no soul. But it seems to make the ache in my throat go away.
“Mom, I need help. I don’t know where you are or if you can hear me, but I need to know if I’m following through on this life you left me with. Am I the dancer you wanted me to be? Can you give me a sign? Any sign, Mom, that I’ve become exactly what you expected of me?”
The air in the car is stiff accompanied only by...
Silence.
I wait a few minutes, collecting my cool.
I’m famous. I’ve been told I’m the most adored dancer on the planet, but I wonder what people would think if they knew I was behaving like a child—I’m a grown man talking to himself.
I turn the ignition and I’m completely surprised to hear...
More silence?
Whatha?
“Ah, hell.”
I pump the gas and crank the ignition again and again.
“Damn!” I slam my hands on the steering wheel.
Pulling out my phone, I notice my eyes are red in the rearview mirror. I was going to call Dirk, but shit! I think I just need to be alone. If Dirk sees me like this—looking like a crybaby—he’ll get teary-eyed as well and fall all over me. I love the guy, but not like that.
Not to mention, he’ll try to console me—get me to think the opposite of what I know is the truth: This is not my mom but Karma trying to teach me a lesson.
I used my skills—my body—to sucker two million dollars out of a single mother.
I grab my sack, flip on a cap, and get out, heading back to the street where I see a bus is preparing to stop in front of the studio.
“Seventh Street” flashes above the oversized square windshield. I figure I live on Sixth and I can take the bus home and deal with my car in the morning. Dirk is supposed to pick me up to take us out later anyway, so I won’t need wheels this evening.
Zigzagging my feet hastily through the street, I slide on my sunglasses and reach the bus doors as they start to hiss shut. The driver gives me a sneer initially, but she opens the doors when I pull down my shades to blink my twinkling dark indigo blues.
Up the steps, I fly, panting just slightly. I did have to run to make it onboard in time.
I clutch the handrails above me as the bus rolls onward. Spying the empty seats at the back, I head towards them when I stop abruptly.
I also stop panting, breathing easily.
The scent of something familiar—floral but light—fills my nostrils and I inhale deeply.
Roses.
To the left, from the corner of my eye, I make out a short pink halter dress and red hair cut into a wavy bob above bare, soft-skinned shoulders.
I look down to the seat next to the woman and whaddya know?
The open bag laying across the seat is stuffed with magazines. I’m on all the front covers.
This is going to be too. Easy!
I reach both hands towards the rail above the seat and lean my body forward just a little. I take a moment to observe the woman’s profile. She’s pretty. Pale blue eyes—a blue much lighter than mine, plus a pointed nose, rosy cheeks, glossed red lips, and a tiny cleft at the center of her petite chin. Not too much makeup. Just a little, but she’s got a lot of thigh. Miles and miles of long fair thighs.
I notice her black umbrella leaning against the seat, blocking my path to sit next to her. So, I grab the handle and nudge it in her direction as I clear my throat.
“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”
The Kisser
End of Sample
The Cuddler Page 18