Dancing by the Sea

by Traci Hall

  “I don’t want to.” Zamira knew how much this meant. How much he’d risked, and it wasn’t about the money, or the costumes, or Lucas, but about taking his family legacy of dance and building something new for the future. Armand had to realize for himself that what Lucas thought about Armand gaining fame from a reality television show didn’t matter. It was a lot easier once you were holding a trophy of your own.

  “I’ll go with you,” Sophie said with a brave lift of her chin.

  Zamira stepped up to the plate, for Armand. “I’ll do it.” She ran over everything that needed to be done in order to get the dancers ready. “We are not going to give up. Everybody get your make-up on, and costumes. Christine, tell Felicity to stick her finger down her throat. She’ll feel better once it’s all out of her system. It isn’t contagious—she can still perform.”

  “Zamira!” JoJo said. “That’s gross.”

  “We are not going to let Armand down.” Zamira pierced each woman with a look she’d learned from her mother. “No matter what else happens, we will dance.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Zamira left the ladies room with dread in each step. She walked into the men’s bathroom, trying not to breathe in. Poor Lance, poor Joshua. The guys looked at her with anxious concern.

  Zamira shook Trevor’s shoulder. “We can handle this.”

  Trevor didn’t look so sure.

  She breathed out and knocked on the two stall doors. “Felicity is sticking her finger down her throat—you guys do it too. You’ll feel better, I promise.” There were only two stalls, the rest of the facilities were urinals.

  “I can’t,” Joshua said.

  “You have to. You are my dance partner, and you can’t let me down.” Zamira leaned her forehead against the stall, empathy welling at his groans. What to do?

  “Okay,” Lance agreed in a low but steady voice. “Like when you drink too much.”

  “Yeah. Like that,” Trevor snickered.

  Zach elbowed him.

  “Joshua?” Zamira knocked on his door. “I can help you during the performance, but you have to try.”

  “I can’t dance. I’m dying.”

  “It might feel like that…but you aren’t.” She looked to Diego and Oscar, who had followed her in. “You two need to get everybody ready. We are going to dance, got it? I’m going to give Armand a head’s up.”

  Diego winced. “He’s not going to be very happy.”

  “No.” That was an understatement. “Joshua has to be ready—if we don’t have the exact number of people on that dance floor then we forfeit. Armand loses five hundred bucks and we will all have to live with Lucas’s gloating.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Lance called out.

  “I’m dying,” Joshua said again.

  Zamira left the men’s room, searching for Armand. She found him talking with a young woman wearing an official name-tag. Jody. He attracted women, always had. It wasn’t just his looks, or charm, but the fact that he genuinely liked them. “Armand, sorry to interrupt, but can I speak to you in private?”

  The young woman’s eyes narrowed with concern. “Is everything okay?”

  “Of course,” Zamira answered. Armand was right, and she wore her emotions on her face. Taking his arm, Zamira led him away.

  “Uh, that was rude,” Armand said as he waved at the woman. “She was a judge.”

  “She liked you, that’s good. We might need a favor or two.”

  “Why?”

  “It seems that three of our dancers have food poisoning.”

  His face paled. “No.”

  “Two are going to be able to buck up and dance, but that still leaves us short a dancer. Joshua says he is too sick.” Her partner. There was only one other man who knew Joshua’s dance moves.

  She stopped and yanked on Armand’s arm so that he stopped too, turning on his heel to face her.

  “What?” he barked.

  Zamira dipped her head, bravely walking into the storm of Armand’s temper. “I’ve been doing a lot of praying on this, Armando.”

  “About what?” His voice was clipped. “Our dancers getting food poisoning on the exact day that we need to be our best? Or about DanceFusion’s reputation going up in flames before we even get to the dance floor?”

  “You have to dance with me today.”

  “No.” He held up his hands as if blocking her words and continued walking down the hall. “That’s a bad idea. I can’t do that. We’ll figure out the problem.”

  It was the only solution. They’d reached the bathrooms, and the smell. Armand’s nose quivered.

  “That’s the problem.” She pointed inside.

  Oscar, his red and brown make-up flawless, his clockwork costume perfect, joined them just outside the men’s door. “Don’t go in there, Armand. Lance has rallied but Joshua is stuck in the stall. He can barely hold himself up.”

  Armand turned to Zamira, his expression cold as ice. Not from anger, she knew, but the mask he wore to hide his feelings. “I can’t change the roster.”

  She pulled the folder from his stiff grip and took the rule sheet, scanning the important part. “La, la, la—here. Names can be changed on the roster, but the amount of dancers must remain the same.”

  “I’m the instructor.” His jaw clenched.

  “Lots of instructors dance too,” Oscar said in a calm voice. “Our costumes are meant to be uneven, so it won’t matter that you’re taller than Joshua. You know the dance. I can get you made up in five minutes.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Armand growled.

  Zamira’s toes tingled and she gave a nervous giggle. “I guess you have to be careful what you pray for, huh?”

  Sophie pulled her into the ladies room before Armand could throttle her. “Come on, let’s get you ready, Zamira.”

  *****

  Armand closed his eyes and mentally recalculated everything he’d thought to do in the next thirty minutes. Soothe the nerves of his dance team, avoid gloating at Lucas when he saw the look of envy on his rival’s face as DanceFusion took the floor with the best show since, well, ever.

  Lance stumbled out of the stall and plunged his face in the sink, rinsing his mouth and slapping his cheeks.

  “Can you do it?” Zach asked.

  “Yes.” The young dancer nodded with determination.

  A groan came from the closed stall. Poor Joshua. Damn Joshua! “We are implementing a new rule, immediately,” Armand said. “No fast food on the morning of competition.”

  Nobody dared to laugh.

  “Where did the food come from?” he asked, knowing that if Lucas had anything to do with it, Armand would get him disqualified.

  “Christine brought it in,” Diego said. “Drive-thru.”

  “The double D’s.” Trevor plugged his nose. “No eating there for a while.”

  Christine had been with the dance troupe from the beginning. Was this coincidence, or had she sabotaged them? He thought back to the recording of when Lance had tripped her. Had she been the one to make him think he’d screwed up? There was no time to check the video right now, but he would.

  “We’ve only got twenty minutes. We haven’t stretched, let alone gone over the performance with music.” Zach’s voice pitched high at the end of his sentence.

  This is where Armand had to step up and perform. It didn’t matter that he’d been trying to keep the dancer part of himself separate from the instructor, to prove that he was a teacher, the driving force behind the scenes instead of grabbing the attention for his dance company because of his, as Lucas called it, “pretty face.”

  Armand met the gazes of each of his dancers hanging out near the urinals in the men’s bathroom. He heard his Poppa’s voice. A real leader leads, Armand. Don’t need anybody’s permission to be who you are.

  “Where is Joshua’s costume?”

  Oscar handed him the zipped clothing bag. “Here. Once it’s on, I’ll do your make-up. Red on one side, brown on the other. Off-centered clock on the left
cheek.”

  “I know,” Armand said with a slow smile. “Eyes and lips lined in black.”

  “Sorry.” Oscar shrugged. “Forgot who I was talking to.”

  Armand nodded, fitting the new pieces of the plan together. “Trevor? Get Lance made-up again. Zach, start the music and I want everybody to dance the routine in your heads.” He quickly stripped out of his tailored pants and into the Steampunk-inspired dance costume. “We have time for individual stretches. We get that small room for five minutes before we go on. Hopefully that will be enough time for one run-through. If it isn’t, so what. You know this routine backward and forward.”

  And hopefully, I won’t mess it up for my team.

  Armand welcomed the butterflies that came before a performance, knowing that for him nerves made him sharper. He buttoned the last brass hook and looked down at his stockinged feet. “What size shoe does Joshua have?”

  “Ten,” Joshua moaned from the sanctity of the stall.

  Okay. Shit. “Everybody out now. Joshua, feel better.”

  Armand joined the dancers where they huddled in the hall, stretching but quiet, as if this was a funeral instead of a competition. Except for feisty Zamira, who grinned at him, her face made-up just like his, red on one side, brown on the other, the clock on her cheekbone with a broken time piece.

  “You look great, Armand.”

  “So do you.”

  “Pfft.” She stared down at his feet. “I can ask around, see if the other dance troupes can loan you a size twelve.”

  He handed her his car keys. “I’m parked in the front by the bus drop-off. I think I’ve got a pair in the back.” Armand wiggled his toes. “I’d go myself but...”

  She laughed and headed toward the doors leading outside. “I’ll be right back. Armand, there will be shoes. You know why? Because you were meant to dance today.”

  He shook his head, wanting to believe that he wasn’t making a colossal mistake. The performer in him understood that shit happened and you had to just go with it. The instructor had a more difficult time relinquishing control.

  Time sped by as Oscar led the dancers in stretches and Armand mentally went over the routine—there was an acrobatic twist that happened after the first crescendo he needed to pay attention to...it was something he’d choreographed for Zamira and Joshua.

  The young judge he’d spoken with earlier came by and stopped abruptly as she realized he was now in costume.

  “Jody! Just the woman I was hoping to see,” he said in rush, taking her arm and leading her toward the roster. “One of my guys is sick in the bathroom. I’m stepping in. Can you help me fill out what I need to in order to be legit? I don’t want to break the rules my first time out.”

  He could hear Colin and Lucas now.

  “Nerves? That happens. Hardly ever in the adult regionals, but still,” Jody said, taking the time to give his back a stroke. “Of course. I’ll take care of everything.”

  “You’re an angel.” He handed her the roster. “Strike Joshua Smith, here, and add me. Armand-”

  “Vargas. I’m sorry about your dancer, but I’m looking forward to seeing you dance in person.” Jody gave his backside an appreciate look. “You were great on Dance, Dance USA. You know that Lucas Ferraro tried out for that show, and didn’t make it?”

  Armand kept the smile on his face as she walked away, feeling light-headed. That was the root of the smear-campaign?

  “Well, that explains the green-eyed monster,” Oscar observed. “She’s hot. Totally into you.” Oscar’s lips twitched as he checked out Armand’s behind. “It must be difficult, being a superstar.”

  “This is why I didn’t want to dance!” Armand clenched his fists tight, coming to terms with months of baggage answered. “The judges might look down on our troupe because of my time on the show.”

  “Uh, use every advantage, Armand.” Oscar punched him lightly on the arm. “You’re the leader of our troupe and we want to win. So shake that bootie and bring home the gold.”

  “Great advice, Oscar,” JoJo said, laughing while shaking her own butt.

  The costumes were red on one side, brown on the other. Androgynous, with tights on one half, a jagged hem at the ankle, and a stiff A frame skirt on the other half. Brass buttons decorated the front like a sailor’s coat, the collars high around the neck. They made a statement that would either be appreciated and marked high for creativity, or bomb for being too outside the traditional waltz.

  Jody, paperwork in hand, came back to where DanceFusion was warming up. “All set.” She pointed toward the auditorium to the right. “You are on next. Good luck.”

  “Thanks, Jody.” Where was Zamira? He had to have shoes.

  “Armand?”

  He turned at Zamira’s strained voice, taking the black dance shoes from her outstretched hand with a huge sigh of relief. “Thanks.”

  Her lip trembled beneath the make-up and he sensed that something was very wrong. They were surrounded by their troupe, though, ready to go into the room and wait. He and Zamira hadn’t had a chance to go over the performance together at all and they were partners. Was she upset about that?

  “What is it?”

  She drew in a breath, avoiding his gaze. “It can wait.”

  He put on his shoes and they all filed into the warm-up room. They each got in position as Oscar started the music. Armand held out his hands, and Zamira put hers palm to palm against his.

  “It feels good, to dance with you again.” Armand had missed this so much.

  “Oh?”

  “Zamira, what is it?”

  Armand attempted to follow the music while trying to figure out what was the matter with his partner.

  “Whatever it is, I’m sorry. Can we dance, please, and not mess this up?”

  Her dark eyes turned fiery black. “Certainly, Armand. And then when we are through, you can explain to me why you have a diaper bag in your trunk.”

  Alex.

  Armand tripped over Zamira’s feet, going left instead of right. “I can, yes, definitely explain. I was going to tell you next weekend.”

  “On our date?”

  He nodded, feeling the hurt radiate off Zamira in waves. “Yes.”

  “Chantal?”

  “God. Do we have to do this here?”

  She jerked her chin up. “No. We don’t.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Zamira blinked and gathered her emotions. “We’re even, then, Armand. You never forgave me for breaking your heart. Now I won’t forgive you, for breaking mine.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dancing with Armand was the most torturous thing she’d ever do. How could he have hidden a baby from her? From the world, in general, but most especially, her?

  Jody opened the door between the warm-up room and the stage. “You’re on.”

  He accused her of being too emotional? Well, she would be nothing but professional from here on out. She had to protect her heart. She realized she no longer knew Armand. If he was willing to hide a child from her then what else was he keeping a secret?

  Zamira poured her heartache into her character as they took their places on stage. He’d thought to tell her—later? A bad idea gone funny, lyrics from the song that spoke to her now. Broken trust, broken time.

  She nodded to the judges, and saw Lucas and his troupe, who had already competed, sitting with some of the others in the auditorium. They were allowed to watch—quietly. Zamira saw the small wave Christine gave to Lucas. Had the girl put something in the other dancer’s sandwiches? Why?

  The judges gave nothing away as they watched from the dais, pens poised over notepads. A waltz, by definition, was done in triple meter with a ¾ beat. They’d chosen an Indie song from Built to Spill to separate themselves from the other traditional ballroom dances, spliced and speeded to different measures so they accommodated the salsa and tango elements—a perfect mix of old and new. Fusion that Armand excelled at.

  Proud of how they’d put it together,
Zamira would give this performance everything. It might be the last time she danced with him.

  Palm to palm, she and Armand looked over each other’s shoulders, the characters in the song at a disconnect. Perfect. One, two, three, turn. One, two, three and turn. They danced across the stage, the choreography with the other couples so close that if one person was off beat it made the others run into one another.

  They’d practiced non-stop, and she guided Armand when he needed it. The crescendo built, then dipped and slowed as the guitar met the drums and the piano, higher and higher.

  Her pulse picked up as she lived the music.

  The twist came at the peak of sound, and required Armand to bend down so she could roll over his back, on her back, with her sliding under his legs to come out the other side.

  She trusted him, in the dance. She’d trusted him in her life, and look where that had led her?

  Zamira blocked her emotion and concentrated on the roll, and coming out the opposite side, meeting Armand hip to hip, thigh to thigh. Forehead to forehead.

  The last note sounded and they all halted as if broken puppets.

  She counted to thirty before looking up. The audience in the back was clapping--even Lucas brought his hands together a few times. One of the judges smiled before remembering she wasn’t supposed to give anything away.

  “Thank you,” the middle judge, an older man of about sixty, said. “The scores will be posted at three this afternoon. The ceremony will be directly afterward in this room.”

  Zamira felt Armand’s hand at her back and they bowed. How was she supposed to spend the next three hours acting like nothing was wrong, when her world had fallen apart?

  *****

  Armand had no idea how to fix things with Zamira, so he focused on the dance troupe as they gathered under a palm tree outside on the grounds. Joshua met them there, looking pasty white and miserable. Christine had disappeared.

  Zamira avoided Armand, standing next to Diego. Figured—Diego had been waiting for his opportunity to swoop in and take care of Zamira. Armand faced them all with a satisfied grin. “You were awesome. Did you see the Miami Dance Company watching us from the back?”