Rosie? Should I yell to him that my name is Rerun?
I’m sick. I’ve never felt so nauseous in my life. As Taylor joins the bustling crowd of pedestrians, I wonder what it will be like to live on the street. I already know what it’s like to be without a home, but never without a roof over my head.
For a year, Taylor’s been avoiding meeting with me, his social marketing manager. I’ve always had to deal with his grandmother, which never felt right. He should be the one involved in all the decisions regarding his commercial presence and value.
It won’t matter much now though. Per yesterday’s email, Taylor did finally agree to meet with his manager, me, at the studio tomorrow. After which, I’m sure I’ll be out of a job because there’s no way I’m meeting him tonight.
3
Taylor
She stood me up. I still can’t believe it.
I get off the nine o’clock morning bus and head to the back of the studio. I don’t want to hear about how late I am. I’m never late and the second I walk in through those heavy, enormous, Moorish-inspired double front doors, our office manager, Delores, is going to yell at me.
My own head is already blaring in my ears. I stayed up way too late after I got home this morning.
I waited. I actually waited for Rosie until midnight. And when I finally gave up, convinced by a curvy brunette who listened to me yap for most of the night about my bus encounter, I got up to go home. With the curvy.
I had to turn her away though. She was cute. She definitely had some moves. Salsa moves I’m sure would’ve translated well in the sack. But when I realized how late it was and how early I needed to be in the studio this morning, I had to ditch the curvy, explaining that I had to get some sleep for 5 a.m. training.
But I didn’t sleep. Instead, I stayed up all night searching through hundreds of images of me across social media, along with some of my millions of followers as well as the thousands of comments for any sign of my biggest fan.
Rosie.
But I saw nothing that would resemble the girl from the bus.
I should’ve gotten her name.
I should’ve gotten her number!
I was so sure she would show. Chicks always show. Every one of them—my groupies, my femminions (femme plus minions equals femminions). They’ve never failed to come when I call.
Maybe something happened to her. Maybe she fell coming out the bus and got injured and got rushed to the hospital and is in the ICU at this very moment with a brain injury.
Jesus, I’m full of myself.
Like a girl would have to have a brain injury before she’d stand me up. But the truth is no one has ever stood me up.
Maybe I said something that wasn’t impressive enough. She said she knows everything about me. Surely, she knows how much money I have.
I open the back door and pop into the back hall. When the door shuts behind me, I consider what else I might’ve done to repel her.
I pause. I didn’t wear deodorant yesterday. I forgot!
Spinning my head, I see I’m alone. Voices and music echo but the hall is empty. Everyone must be in class.
I lift my shirt, tugging it way up to my ear and sniff my pit.
Smells good—like a champ. But shit. It’s possible my stench might’ve been what put that Rosie off yesterday.
I bite my shirt. Goddamn! She was so cute and fuck! She smelled so good.
She smelled better than roses. Whatever she was wearing reminded me of what happens after a final season’s performance—the final curtain call to a long season.
She reminded me of the release I feel when my toes step back for the last time and going backstage where bundles upon bundles of roses and other flowers in various colors flood the dressing rooms. It’s where congratulatory smiles of patrons and families beam amidst flashes of light as cameras fire off.
Of course, I don’t have much of a family. Penny and I rarely talk unless it’s about business. She also never comes to congratulate me. She can’t. She’s always too busy with sponsors. Making them happy, instead of the boy she raised.
But it’s fine because that last performance is the one I enjoy the most being backstage on my own. The night of the final performance is the night I experience what it’s like to celebrate with anything resembling a family. A big one.
Parents, spouses, and siblings of fellow dancers all stop to offer me congratulations in passing. It’s the one time of year I receive a ridiculous number of hugs. And it’s not just because I’m the lead dancer. I suspect people feel connected to you when you put out a performance the way I do. As I said, I kill myself when I dance and I’m guessing the audience can feel my pain. They’re happy to see I didn’t actually die for them.
“Taylor!” yells Delores, peeking her head out of the office door. “You’re late. What are you doing standing around? Where have you been and what are you doing?”
I blush. I have the bottom hem of my shirt, which is soaking now, in my mouth.
I spit it out. “You got those video screens in your office?”
The plump, silver-haired woman with coke-bottle glasses bounces when she answers. “Yeah.”
“I was showing you my abs.”
She pokes out her tongue in disgust. “Put those away.”
“Wanna see my guns instead?” I mutter softly.
“You know I can hear you in here, Taylor. These cameras are equipped with sound.”
I love Delores but she’s a bit ornery. She’s got eight children, thirty-something grandchildren, and a couple of great-grandchildren. She says every one of them is a rascal, but she insists the worse kid she’s ever had to take care of is me.
My grandmother wanted to fire Delores a few times, but I can’t get rid of her. Delores is the only person who shares her memories of my mother with me.
Yep, Delores has worked here a long time and she knows me too well, which means she also won’t put up with my shit.
“Taylor, you need to hurry up.”
“Hurry up for what?” I ask, walking towards her. “I’m between rehearsal times right now.”
“Yes,” she ogles my dumbfounded face as I get close, “which is why you had your meeting set up at this time.”
“What meeting?”
“With your marketing manager,” she says, flicking me across the forehead.
“Ow! Delores, stop doing that. You’ve been doing that since I was a kid.”
“You’re still a kid.” She turns her back to me.
“I’m twenty-four.”
“Mmm,” she huffs, planting her butt in her office chair to drown among stacks of files and a sea of leotards hanging for sale on the walls around her. “Twenty-four and still a deviant. Please be a gentleman and go see the young lady waiting for you. She’s been waiting for over an hour.”
Pulling the strap of my sack higher up my shoulder, I head down the hall towards what used to be a powder room in the early 1930s but had been turned into a meeting room. My grandmother used to entertain sponsors inside and although she doesn’t anymore, it’s still quite impressive. The wallpaper has to be updated now and then but the tiny tiles covering the floor in a mosaic of dancing peacocks remain from the original building’s infrastructure.
The heavy cherry-stained wooden table decorated at the corners with cherubs is also near a century old, but the two folding chairs I added are made of plastic. I only use the room nowadays for storage and when I need some time to myself, but the marketer requested via email that we meet somewhere private and the powder room was the only option.
My legs feel so heavy today. I can’t recall the last time I’d felt so weighed down. I pause at the door with my hand on the handle, pondering why I feel this way. Even after a twelve-hour day of gymnastics, I can’t recall feeling so sluggish.
It’s probably because I’d stayed up so late. Even after I’d fallen asleep initially, I still didn’t sleep well.
It’s all her fault. The girl from the bus. She’s the reason I fe
el so ill.
She could’ve had the decency to be honest with me and tell me she wasn’t going to be there.
I will admit the one good thing to come out of last night was that I did get a chance to look at all my social platforms. I must say the marketer is doing a good job. I definitely picked the right company and they did good on their word, selecting the best person for the task. He’s clearly talented with an eye for the arts. I think my accounts look a lot more intriguing, professional, and exciting than some other celebrity’s socials. It’s not just my image but my entire persona looks good. I’ll have to congratulate him when we meet and shake hands.
I open the door.
And reclose it.
Keeping my hand on the door handle, I try to think about what I just saw.
Was that...
Her?
No. It’s not. It can’t be.
“Taylor?”
Yes. It is!
It’s her.
Fuck. Me.
“Taylor, I want to apologize for yesterday. Taylor, are you coming in?”
She wants to apologize. That’s why she’s here.
Cool. I’ll let her apologize and then I’ll let her make it up to me. Physically.
Or I could just turn my back on her. That’s probably the better option but...
The second I cracked the door open, her scent escaped and is now lingering. She still smells like roses but mixed with something else today. It’s sweet like... honeysuckle? It makes me think of what it might be like to get close to her again. Close enough to suckle her sweet lips between my teeth and take a bite.
Just thinking about those thighs makes me want to do things to her. She left me high and dry last night and the thought she’s come all the way out here just to apologize makes me believe I might be able to get more out of her.
I open the door.
“Taylor,” she blows, exasperated. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt. “It’s really sweet you stopped by to apologize, but you didn’t have to do that.” I drop my bag on the table and lift off my shirt.
“I didn’t... That’s not... I... I...” Her mouth is already on replay watching me get undressed. Good.
I reach for the button of my jeans and zip down my fly. “So, are you still interested in dance lessons?” I lean forward, pulling my jeans down my legs. “But you’re going to have to beg me a little this time,” I say in all seriousness.
Glancing upward, our eyes lock but she quickly turns her gaze towards the ceiling.
“Taylor,” she smiles coyly. “That’s not why I’m here I’m—ah!” Her breath hitches when I drop my briefs, letting everything hang loose.
“You okay?” I ask.
She covers her eyes. “Taylor, what are you doing?”
“I have to change.”
“Can’t you do that somewhere else?”
“This is my private space.”
“That doesn’t mean you should let your... umm... stuff hang out when you have someone in here. Where’s your professionalism?”
“I don’t know. I’m a dancer. Not a professional.”
“Taylor, you’re a professional dancer, which by the way is the exact reason why I’m here. We need to talk about the catastrophe that happened yesterday with your ex-girlfriend, Diamond, posting those very unprofessional pictures of the two of you all over her social media.”
“Pffft,” I huff. “Diamond can do what she wants. She’s just upset because she wants more of what I refuse to give her.” I shove my clothes in my bag and pull out practice wear but pause. “Wait a sec. Why are you so worried about it?”
Rosie peeps through her fingers and gasps again, quickly clamping her eyes under her pressing hands. “Because I’m your marketing manager,” she replies.
“Huh?” I’m baffled.
“Taylor, I’m sorry. I tried to tell you yesterday when I figured out who you were on the bus, but I—”
“Whoa,” I rub my jaw. “Is that why you said you know everything about me? Are you the one who’s been posting all those images and building my following? Are you the marketer who works for me?”
“Yes,” she peeps through her fingers again. “Oh jeez, Taylor! Can you put some clothes on please?”
I study Rosie for a minute. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about this. Should I be upset this girl knows me so well yet I know nothing about her? Can it really be she’s the one responsible for the increase in revenue the school has seen in the last year? More so, is it true that we met purely by coincidence less than twenty-four hours ago?
She’s wearing pink again, except the button-up top covers her shoulders, unlike yesterday. The top buttons are undone showing some lace and I suddenly feel like my prick is about to swell. I’d like to put my face in that open space between her tiny bite-sized tits.
I see she has her usual stack of “research” materials pouring out of her bag. And there’s the umbrella again, leaning up against the chair next to her. It’s not even raining outside. I wonder why she carries that thing around. In case of an emergency? It’s rather big.
I’d like to give her something big.
Let her rain all over it.
“I’m surprised you have a problem with nudity,” I say, slipping into my dance briefs and sweats. “You’re the one who looks at all my pictures, correct?”
“Yes,” she nods.
“Do you filter through all of them? The professional and the unprofessional ones.”
“Mhm,” she nods again.
“Look at me.”
“What?” she keeps her eyes covered.
“I said... Look. At. Me.”
She peeps through her fingers, exhaling with relief, seeing my crotch is covered.
“Why’d you stand me up last night?” I ask, pulling out a chair but not before I pick up her umbrella and toss it.
“No, wait!” She reaches but misses. She grinds her teeth when it lands on the floor too far from her grasp. Taking a deep breath, she finally looks at me and I mean she really looks at me.
She purses her lips in anger, glowering. I let her glower and we maintain a staring standoff until I stick out my tongue. A smile slowly plays on her lips. It’s like magic, the effect I have on her. Her face brightens and the corners of her mouth curl upward but just slightly, like she’s in love with me. Like all my other femminions who have too many stars in their eyes, she ogles me. So, I still don’t understand why she stood me up.
“Where were you last night?” I repeat.
Her lashes flutter as she comes out of her daze. “I rarely go out,” she says, opening random notebooks and a calendar.
“You don’t go out. You don’t dance. What the hell do you do?”
“I work.” Her pretty grin flattens into a straight line. “How did the meeting go yesterday?” she asks, changing the subject. “With the Peters?”
My stomach twists. “You set that up?”
“Uh-huh. I set up all of your meet-n-greets, modeling shoots, cameos. That’s not something a social manager usually does but I don’t mind doing the extras. I promise I have your best interests at heart. Everything runs through your grandmother, of course, and then she decides which is best suited for you.”
“I’m not doing any more meet-n-greets,” I say sternly. “It pisses me off that you and Penny think you can just sell me out like that. I’m not going to dance for sponsors anymore.” Christ! I feel ill thinking this girl and my grandmother are in cahoots using me like I’m some kind of stripper.
Her brows knit and her neck twists. “I wasn’t selling you out and this school needs that sponsorship. Ms. Peters just wanted to see you dance. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but it didn’t feel right. Dancing privately like that in front of Ms. Peters and her daughter—I’m not doing it again.”
“Dear Lord, Taylor.” She massages her forehead. “I don’t know what happened yesterday but the meeting wasn’t about you or Ms
. Peters. It was about her daughter, Melissa. The girl had bilateral hip replacements last year due to a congenital condition. She has a huge crush on you and Dirk. Since Ms. Peters was an alumnus at this school, she thought she could pull some strings...” Rosie clears her throat. “My heartstrings, so her daughter could meet with both of you. I’m sorry if you felt like you were being used. That money isn’t for you. It’s as your grandmother says, it’s for future dancers. Ms. Peters made her donation because dancing is the one thing her daughter wishes she could do, but since she can’t...” Rosie swallows. She’s getting as choked up as am I. “She just wanted to give her daughter the next best thing, which was a special performance given by Melissa’s favorite dancers, and especially by the greatest dancer in the world. The one man who demonstrates more passion than anyone else on the planet.”
I turn my head away, raking my fingers through my hair, trying to cool down. I feel like an ass. I had yesterday’s exhibition all wrong.
“Taylor, are you okay?”
“Mmm,” is all I can manage looking in my lap because now, it’s me who feels ashamed and wants to cover my face.
Who is this girl?
My eyes gravitate upward to see stunning pale blue eyes twinkling at me.
I hate the way she’s looking at me like she can see right through me. Makes me wonder if she can see the true persona behind the fake façade. I wonder if she can also see the dirty thoughts I’m having about her right now.
“Taylor,” she cocks her worried little head with a wrinkle between her brows and a poke out of her bottom lip before asking, “you do love dancing, don’t you?”
4
Rerun
“Being the best is all I care about,” he says.
He is the best, so why do I get the feeling he’s not happy about it?
Taylor sends me a flat grin, before his eyes drift downward and his grin perks up. I follow his gaze and realize he’s looking at my chest!
I bow my chin and let out a soft yelp.
This blouse, which I just got yesterday in the mail, has come undone. The two upper buttons have popped open letting my breasts covered in a cream-colored lace bra show through!
The Kisser Page 4