by Traci Hall
She’d taken the morning after pill. Didn’t take.
When they’d driven to the abortion clinic and gotten a flat tire, Armand questioned fate. You had to believe that Alex wanted to be born.
Chantal wasn’t at all religious, but she listened as Armand suggested they keep the baby. Once she’d agreed to give up the party lifestyle, she’d changed into Super Mom. Healthy eating, exercise, spa days and meditation. Yoga on the beach.
“You want some toast or something?” Armand asked.
Chantal, eyes closed as she breathed in the coffee, clutched her mug and shook her head.
She didn’t want marriage or partnership. He’d signed a morality clause while filming the six months of Dance, Dance USA. Chantal’s pregnancy had come at three months into the show—it had been her idea to toy with the press and withhold her baby’s father’s name, giving a layer of mystery to the supermodel that the newspapers loved.
Armand’s heart had been numbed by Zamira’s betrayal, but he learned a different sort of love for pregnant Chantal. What did he know of parenthood? His mom and dad had been killed in a car accident and he’d been raised by his grandparents, both famous dancers, who taught him the legacy of dance. He’d thought to share that with Zamira as his wife, to create his own traditional family, but she’d chosen another.
Armand sat at the table opposite Chantal, blowing on the hot brew in his mug.
Having Alex changed Armand immediately—one wobbly smile from the newborn had cemented his need to protect. His son’s infant finger wrapped around his?
He’d changed the focus of his life from dancing around the world to creating something tangible for Alex—so that even if Armand was wiped off the earth tomorrow, his son would know that he’d been loved.
Chantal finished her coffee. “Want to go out tonight? Beat 88 is playing at Kola’s. I know how you like your club music.” She drawled the words, poking at his feelings toward the Miami party scene.
As in, he hated it. Loved the music, wished the drama could be checked at the door. “Beat 88?” He tapped his fingers against the table top. “That might be worth the wrath of Lucas.”
“He owes you for being such a douche last time,” she said, getting up from the table to rinse out her cup. “He set you up with that bouncer.”
Lucas hated him…Armand didn’t care why. He operated Miami Dance Company and told anybody who would listen that Armand didn’t have the talent or business sense to run his own dance company.
“I don’t know,” he said. Since he wasn’t dancing now, it would be great to blow off steam and Beat 88 was his favorite band for club music. Usually the dance places relied on DJ’s picking the jam so live music was cool.
“If you decide to go, tell me. Mom will take care of Alex. I wouldn’t miss a show-down for the world.” Alex lived with Chantal, but Armand got his son every Thursday and Friday night and sometimes during the week if she was busy. She did commercials, her charisma translating through the screen as well as print.
Her mom lived close by and also took care of Alex. The boy was adored on many fronts, despite the unconventional life choices of his parents.
“There won’t be a show-down.” But no way would he accept getting set up and kicked out again—if he got booted from the club, he’d take Lucas with him. “I don’t know...I’ve got a lot to do here.”
“You’re acting old, Armand. Let’s go have some fun.”
“I am old. Thirty.” Too old to be a club rat.
“Yeah, ancient. I bet you can’t keep up with the moves the kids are doing these days.” She added a country twang to her voice, her eyes challenging him.
“How can you even think about going out again?” He pointed to her bare feet, concerned for her liver.
“You don’t worry about me, Armand. The day I can’t keep up with you will be the day I retire for good.”
He knew she was right. To go, or not to go? “Want me to take you home?”
“Nah, let Alex sleep.” She pulled her cellphone from her tiny black bag. “I called a cab while Scott was screaming.”
“Why didn’t you have him take you to your place?”
She shrugged, giving him a glimpse of her vulnerability. “Don’t know.”
Armand guessed she’d actually been scared. Rightfully so. You could only push a guy to the edge so many times before he snapped. “You should be careful, Chantal.”
She headed for the front door, then stopped and went down the hall to where Alex slept. “Can I peek at him?”
He followed.
Alex, sprawled on his back, had his thumb in his mouth and one arm flung wide. He slept like a cherub in a blue onesie. Chubby legs, dark brown curls and dimpled hands, Armand felt a wave of love wash over him.
Chantal and Alex had brought Armand back to life after Zamira, and for that, he would be forever grateful. Chantal blew a kiss toward her son, then crept backward from the room. Once she reached the front door, she turned to Armand and grinned. “Damn, he’s a beautiful kid. I’ll call Mom, you take a nap, old man, and get ready to party. Should I get us a D.D.?”
“I’ll drive,” Armand said, opening the door.
“Maybe we can find you a girl,” Chantal suggested.
“I don’t need one.” He’d shared his broken heart story about Zamira once, and that was all he was willing to do.
“You’ve got to move on.”
“Look, there’s your cab,” he said. “Don’t forget your shoes.”
*****
Zamira studied the Internet for clues on how to dress for the club, which turned out to be no different than the clubs in Buenos Aires. Dances seemed to be the same, too. She also read about the different dance companies in Miami, fascinated by a man who regularly made the headlines. Lucas Ferraro.
Tall, fair hair and skin with electric blue eyes, he had a smile that promised sin.
No thanks, she thought. I will save my sinning for Armand.
By 8, she was dressed to kill in black high heels, a black skin-tight sheath that stretched across her chest. Sleeveless, it went to the top of her thighs. No hose, and underwear was a skimpy black lace thong and a strapless bra. At the last minute she grabbed a black lace shrug to cover her bare shoulders.
She met Sophie outside of her hotel. The lean ballerina looked far from innocent in a dress impossibly shorter than Zamira’s, showing off her long legs. Sophie seemed at home behind the wheel of her silver Mercedes. Zamira had never learned to drive.
Zamira got in. “Thank you for giving me a ride.”
“Sure!” Sophie drove away from the hotel and back toward the freeway. “It won’t take us long to get there. I’ve got music until we do. Red Bull?”
Zamira followed Sophie’s finger to a silver can. “What is that?”
“An energy drink. When we get to the club, we can add vodka. Yum!”
Was this Sophie’s secret to endless energy? Zamira cracked open the can and took a sip. “Yuck.”
“You get used to it,” Sophie promised, cranking the music. “This is Beat 88. That’s who will be playing tonight. Later, at ten.”
Zamira had never heard them before so was glad to get a preview. She’d hoped to question Sophie on the ride to Miami about the rivalry between the dance companies, but as her new friend sang and shimmied her shoulders behind the steering wheel, Zamira realized that music was the priority and decided to get into the dance beat.
There would be plenty of time for questions later.
Chapter Five
Zamira, flying high on Red Bull and club music, entered Kola’s at nine. The bouncer let them in, giving Zamira an appraising look.
“Who’s your friend, Sophie?”
“Zamira. She’s from Argentina!” Sophie had to shout over the pulsating beat that spilled onto the sidewalk and street.
He smiled, his teeth too white against his tanned face. Slick, Zamira thought as she smiled back. He pulled the red rope aside and she followed Sophie into the dark.
Music hit her like a physical push. Flashing lights in electric colors—blue, silver, red—changed with each thump of the bass. They walked to the end of a long hall, turning left into a large mirrored room with an empty dance floor.
“It’s early still,” Sophie said loudly, searching the room. “In an hour it will be grinding room only. C’mon, there’s JoJo with a table.”
JoJo was one of the dancers who’d braved censorship to join Armand’s dance company. “Hi,” the young woman said. Black hair, slicked back from her face like an Italian gangster, showed off sharp cheekbones and deep brown eyes lined in black. Long lashes glittered with silver that matched her lipstick.
Zamira was instantly intrigued. She adored make-up. “Hello. Nice to see you again.”
“Yeah.” JoJo stirred her drink, curiosity in her gaze though she didn’t voice any questions.
Probably wanting to know about Armand and me, Zamira guessed. Well, she wasn’t talking.
Armand wanted to keep his secrets, that was fine with her. Annoyed that he hadn’t called when all she’d done was think of him, Zamira decided to put him from her mind for the night.
“Who else is coming?” JoJo asked Sophie.
“I invited everybody. Trevor, Zach, Oscar, Christine. Marciana. Felicity can’t make it. Thought it would be cool to hang out socially, you know? As a show of allegiance.”
JoJo sipped her drink. Something clear in a tumbler with an olive over ice.
Zamira slid onto the half-circle bench facing the dance floor. Was the Miami dance competition scene that divided? The questions that she hadn’t gotten to ask in the car burned at her lips but she kept quiet. Her mama had often advised listening as the best way to find out what was going on.
Too many people didn’t pay attention to the details. As a lawyer, her mother thrived on the details.
Had Armand been given an invite—and would he come if he had? Probably not, but that didn’t stop her from keeping her eye on the hall leading to the dance floor. Thirty minutes passed and more people showed up, eventually finding their way to the large cement dance floor.
Probably easier to clean spilled drinks at the end of the night, she assumed, looking for a waitress. A long black bar with mirrors along the wall behind it took up the left side of the room, leaving the center space free for dancing and the space on the right filled with tables for people watching and drinks.
“Did you want something to drink?” Sophie stood by the table, swaying in time to the music. “It’s faster to get it yourself than wait, usually. The waitresses get swamped.”
Zamira slid off the bench to the floor, holding her slim purse just large enough for a credit card, her phone and her lipstick. “I can get it. I’d love to buy you both a drink. What are you having?”
JoJo lifted her now empty glass. “Vodka. Double.”
Sophie shook her head at the black-haired girl. “Did you take a cab?”
“I live six blocks from here. I can walk. Stagger. Done it lots of times.”
“Whatever,” Sophie laughed. “We’ll dance all the alcohol out of your system before closing time.” She looked at Zamira. “I’d love a rum and Diet Coke. Thanks!”
Zamira headed across the edge of the dance floor toward the bar. She wasn’t a club girl, really, usually too tired to go dancing after a day of dancing and she wasn’t looking for a guy. Loud music, while fun for a while, gave her a headache.
She made her way to the bar and hiked a stool closer to the long metal counter.
The bartender, a woman with long, dark brown hair and an arm of ivy tattoos, turned toward her and set down a napkin. “What can I get for you, hon?”
Zamira ordered for her new friends, then asked for a Bellini.
“Out of the peach puree,” the bartender said with an apologetic shrug. “I can do a Rossini, with strawberry?”
“I’ll try it.”
“If you don’t like it, I’ll get you something else.” The bartender winked before going for a champagne flute.
“She likes you,” a man said, sidling to her right. “Sam’s a bitch usually.”
Zamira nodded. “I’ll be sure to leave a good tip.”
“She’d prefer your phone number.”
Oh. “I don’t play that way,” Zamira quipped.
“Well, how do you play?”
Blushing, Zamira turned to the man teasing her and almost swallowed her tongue. It was Lucas Ferraro, his eyes as blue as his pictures. He exuded straight-out sex appeal. He wore a black silk shirt, tailored black pants and matte black shoes. His blond hair and smooth shaven skin mistakenly made one think he was young until he captured you with his all-knowing gaze. Oh yes, she thought with an uncomfortable squirm, he would know how to treat a woman right. “I don’t, actually.”
“Too bad.”
Definitely.
The bartender gave her the three drinks, catching Lucas’s small shake of his head with an oh, well, lift of her brow.
Zamira paid the bill, adding a nice tip, and turned to bring the drinks to her friends.
“Let me help,” Lucas offered.
“I’ve got it.”
“I want to. Besides, I see you’re sitting with some old friends of mine.”
She got a bad feeling about that, but since he’d taken her champagne and strawberry Rossini, she couldn’t do anything but follow him to the table.
JoJo and Sophie now sat there with two of the other young women from their new company. Zamira forgot their names, remembering that they’d been quiet but focused. Christine? They all smiled at Lucas, who placed Zamira’s champagne on the table. Zamira handed the vodka to JoJo and the rum and Diet Coke to Sophie, pretending not to notice the thick tension surrounding their group.
“Hey ladies.” Lucas’s sexy smile had a predatory edge. “How have you been? Sophie, long time.”
Sophie toasted him with her drink. “Nice to see you, Lucas.” Her tone was cocky, her attitude sharp. “It’s been a while.”
Zamira’s list of questions was growing by the second.
JoJo made room for her on the bench. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Who is your new friend?” Lucas asked Sophie, then JoJo.
Bristling, Zamira said, “You could have asked instead of playing your own game at the bar.”
“Beauty and a sharp tongue. A great combination.”
Zamira, uncertain, held back until she understood who this man was in relationship to Armand.
“Zamira,” one of the new arrivals said. “She used to dance with Armand.”
Sophie gave the young woman the stink-eye.
“What?” With a nervous laugh, she added, “We all saw him lose his cool.”
Zamira wished she could reach across the table and strangle the blabbermouth herself, but there was too much room between them.
Sophie took the little black straw from her drink and pointed it at her. “Christine, you have a big freaking mouth. It’s none of Lucas’s business who Armand used to dance with.” She looked up at Lucas and studied him. “We all know you just want to know what he’s doing now.”
Lucas’s jaw clenched. “I don’t care what Armand does.”
“I think you do,” Sophie insisted. “Why else would you be talking to us?”
“We are old friends,” he said with a sophisticated shrug.
“No.” Sophie sipped as she seemed to consider her words. Zamira was impressed by the ballerina’s cool. “The last time you and I had a conversation, you called me a fat pig in slippers. I called you an arrogant jackass and quit your company.” She tilted her head to the side. “Isn’t that right?”
Lucas waved the incident away. “Dancers are full of drama.”
“You make it worse,” Sophie insisted.
“You could come back,” Lucas said. “Bygones.”
“No.” Sophie’s mouth tightened. “I’m happy at DanceFusion.”
“Armand’s little dance company is going to fail. Go up in flames.”
&nbs
p; Sophie was right, and Lucas did care—very much. He was Armand’s enemy, and now that Zamira knew that, she knew exactly how to play.
“Want to dance, Zamira? I can show you a few moves Armand probably left out.”
She lifted her chin. “I guarantee that Armand left out nothing.”
*****
Armand and Chantal arrived at Kola’s at eleven, just as the music geared up again. They’d stayed at her house for a late dinner and to play with Alex before he went to bed. Their son liked it when they sang together.
The evening had put Chantal in a mellow mood and she’d been quiet on the way over. “We can still go home,” he said, putting his hand on the center of her back as they entered the dance floor.
“No! You never go out. I want to have fun. I just need a Jameson on the rocks and I’ll be golden. Should we sit at the bar? There are never any tables this late.” She took his hand and pulled him after her. Smiling, he came along as she wiggled to the front of the waiting line. She ordered hers then turned to him. “What are you drinking?”
He took his wallet from his pocket and handed her a twenty. “Heineken.”
“Light weight.”
“Designated driver.”
He waved away the change and accepted his bottle. Chantal took a drink and closed her eyes. “Now this is more like it. I am coming alive again.”
“Didn’t you sleep?”
“I napped with Alex for a few hours. He’s too much fun these days.”
“We don’t have to stay late.”
“Once your favorite band is through? All right, I’m okay with an early night.”
Armand looked toward the stage where Beat 88 was beginning another set. Keyboards, synthesizers, drums and two vocalists kept the music going until 1, and then a DJ would continue the party until dawn.
An early night for Chantal meant before two. These days, he was lucky to make it until midnight. Was he getting old? Or just coming to his senses?
She nodded at his beer. “Drink up, Armand, so we can dance!” Her shoulders shimmied with the beat and all of sudden he felt the rhythm rise up from the floor.