by Tracey Ward
“It was my first audition. I was nervous. I don’t think I did very well,” I explain, reminding myself to breathe. To not get lost in the compliment. “Eve was way more polished.”
“Yeah, she definitely seems polished.”
“She’s good,” I reply diplomatically, not sure what to do with his response.
“You’re being nice,” he accuses with a grin. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to be nice in this business?”
I smile faintly. “I heard that somewhere.”
“When Eve left the show, another girl took over,” Grant mentions. “How did she get that slot and not you?”
“I wasn’t comfortable with taking the lead.”
“Still? Even at that point you didn’t have the confidence for it?”
I feel my blood rushing quickly. I’m tanking myself. I’m doubting my own talent and if I doubt it, they will too.
Shit fuck! I curse internally.
“The male lead and I are old friends,” I lie weakly. “He’s like a brother to me. It would have been too awkward.”
“You didn’t want to make out with your pseudo-brother six nights a week. That’s fair.”
“I wouldn’t care if he was my father,” Sarah informs us. “I’d put my tongue in his mouth seven nights a week.”
I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. What the hell do I say to that?
“Gross,” Grant fills in for me.
Jace’s phone springs to life on the table. He looks at the number, his brow creasing. “Dammit.” He looks up at me, his eyes meeting mine. He looks sincerely sorry as he stands to leave. “I’m sorry. I have to take this.”
I shake my head, dismissing his apology. “It’s fine. It was good to see you again.”
He hesitates, his phone ringing in his hand. His mouth twitches into a grin, slim and satisfied. “Yeah, you too. Thanks for coming.”
Cam was right – he’s different today. He’s casual; laughing and smiling. He’s much lighter than he was in the theater. But he’s all business, too. I don’t feel any of that magical, magnetic pull between us. I’m starting to wonder if I imagined it.
As Jace disappears into the other room, Grant looks to Danny. “Are we ready to see her dance?”
He rises, coming around the table. “I’m always ready.”
This is when I get really scared, every time. Learning a new routine is easy for me. I’m very visual. If you show it to me once, let me run through it twice, I’m good forever. I got it. But I worry they’re going to use language I don’t understand when they explain it. I’ve been in the theater for two years now, I’ve picked up a lot of the lingo, but in the beginning I had no idea what people were talking about. I have raw, natural talent, but there’s knowledge that comes only with education, and I do not have that. It’s a chink in my armor, one that I’m worried someone will see too clearly, and suddenly the entire façade that is my life will come crashing down. They’ll find out that I’m from the streets. They’ll think I’m a thief. A liar. That I’m nothing. And that’s what I’ll end up with – nothing.
I’m also stressing for nothing. The routine is easy. Like, basic as hell easy. I feel like Danny is messing with me at first, but ten minutes later it’s over. I’ve done the routine and everyone is still smiling. Well, everyone but Sarah. She looks bored.
After I dance, they give me a rundown about what’s happening with the show. More than once Grant glances over his shoulder at the door behind him. It sits closed and quiet. Jace doesn’t come back into the room.
Grant smiles at me sympathetically. “As you can imagine, we have a lot going on right now organizing this show. Luckily Jace saw you perform last night. I know he was very excited about you.”
I smile, accepting the compliment demurely on the outside. On the inside I’m pants-crap-crazy, dancing and tumbling around the room in a wild fit of girlish giggles.
Grant rises from the table. He comes around to shake my hand, pulling me gently toward my bag and the door.
He leaves all of the manila envelopes on the table.
“We appreciate you coming in,” he says with a warm smile. He opens the door for me. “You’ll hear from us in the next forty-eight hours.”
Tears sting my eyes, disappointment choking my throat. I saw Cam come home. I know what it looks like to advance to the next level. Leaving emptyhanded is not it.
I force a smile. “I appreciate the opportunity. Good luck with the show.”
“And you too. Rendezvous hasn’t received the credit it deserves.”
“Thanks.” I wave to the room. Danny waves back. Sarah stares at me blankly. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Greer.”
Grant shuts the door soundly behind me. The hallway is weirdly quiet in comparison to the room, but I struggle to figure out why. Maybe it’s not quiet. Maybe it’s the emptiness. I’m alone now, on the outside, and that room was full of something else. Something solid and almost tangible. Something that felt a lot like hope. And now it’s gone.
The tears are back, pushing against my eyes. I wish they’d stop. I hate crying. It’s a weakness, something I’ve learned to avoid at all costs. After all my years alone, though, my tears were never something I learned to master. They have a life of their own, springing up whenever I feel anything too strongly. Joy, fear, anger, frustration. Sadness. Disappointment.
I wish I was stronger than I am. I wish I was more talented. I wish I was a lot of things, but right now, more than anything, I wish I wasn’t standing in the hallway of one of the poshest hotels in New York fighting back tears. Luckily, that’s the one thing about myself I can change right this second.
I hoist my bag up onto my shoulder, lift my shivering chin, and march my ass toward the elevator.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jace
“No, Greg, if you can get him to settle, let’s settle. I want this over with.”
“That’s just the thing, Jace,” he tells me tiredly. “He doesn’t want to settle. He wants to take you to court to get a bigger payout.”
I close my eyes, pressing my forehead against the door. On the other side I can hear music playing as Danny describes the steps to the routine we’ve been running. Greer is quiet in her replies. If she asks any questions, I can’t hear them. I wish I was out there watching her move. I wish I could hear her sing again, and the weird thing is that I want to hear her sing something of mine. Something new. Something I haven’t written yet.
“How much is he hoping for?” I ask my attorney.
“He hasn’t said yet, but it’s going to be a lot. There’s no getting around that. He’s out for blood, one way or the other.”
“Yeah, I figured.” I groan, standing up straight. “Do you think he can get it?”
“It’s debatable. He has the notes, which is powerful, but it’s not everything. The bulk of those lyrics are in your handwriting. He made suggestions, but not all of them came to anything. He wants half of the royalties on those songs, but there’s no way we’ll give it to him. There’s no way any judge would agree with that. It’d be like if someone told Monet to use more blue in Starry Night. He wouldn’t have to give that guy half his profit from selling the painting for a simple suggestion.”
“Van Gogh.”
“What?”
“Starry Night was Vincent Van Gogh, not Monet. And Van Gogh wouldn’t have had to give his dad a dime because he never sold anything.” I dig my thumbnail into a seam in the wood on the door. “Not until he was dead.”
“Sorry, right,” Greg laughs. “I’m not great with art. Drives my wife crazy.”
“I’d rather you were good with the law than art history.”
“And I am. Trust me. I’ve got this, Jace. Don’t worry about it.”
“I just want it over with.”
The music outside stops. Muffled voices creep in under the door.
“It will be as soon as I can manage it. His attorney seems like a reasonable guy. I don’t think this is go
ing to get nasty.”
“Nastier than suing his own son?”
“This is Hollywood,” he reminds me dispassionately. “It’s not obscene until you’re suing your grandma for her own grave.”
“When she’s already in it.”
“Now you’re getting it.”
“Alright. Thanks, Greg.”
“You’re welcome. Take it easy, alright? Keep your head up. And your pants.”
I snort, shaking my head. Holding it high. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“I’ll contact you as soon as I have something solid with your dad.”
“Right. Later.”
“Goodbye.”
I look down at my phone in my hand. It stares back up at me, the call still engaged. I watch the timer keep ticking the length of the call until Greg hangs up. It goes dark in my hand, leaving me alone.
“Fuck,” I whisper into the darkness. The curtains by the bed are drawn, the covers still thrown back from when I woke up this morning. We haven’t given housekeeping a chance to come through and clean it yet, but I wonder if I want them to. I think I’d rather leave it like it is; a mess.
It’s exhausting constantly trying to keep everything together. Sometimes you just want to sloth it out. Skip a shower, leave your toothbrush dry, drink your milk straight out of the carton. Jump on a plane, hit a beach in Ibiza, and miss every deadline you’ve ever had.
The door in the next room closes with a soft thud. Greer is gone. I missed the rest of her audition, and right now that bothers me more than my soul sucking dad does, even though I don’t really understand why. The same way I don’t understand why I couldn’t stop thinking about her the other night after I left the theater. Or why I was looking forward to her coming today.
Right now there’s a lot of stuff out of my control. I can’t do shit about my dad or my image or the video of my dick rolling around every corner of the internet, but she’s here right now. Her I can do something about. And I want to. That’s the really amazing part. I don’t know her, but I like her. I like her smile. I like her voice. I like her body and the way it makes me feel inside; desperate and a little wild. Eager for something for the first time in way too long. I want to make sure she’s coming with us to Washington because whatever it is about her that has me by the balls, I like it. I want it.
I go out into the hall through the door here in the bedroom. If I go through the living area, Sarah or Grant will stop me. Not intentionally, but they’ll want to talk and I don’t want to be bothered. Not by them. Not right now.
I spot her the second I get out of the room, and it’s not just because she’s the only person in the hall. It’s because I can feel her when I look at her. I don’t find her just with my eyes. I find her with my hands that sweat, my heart that races. My dick that jerks to attention at the sight of her in those skintight pants.
Not every song can be a ballad. A great album is made up of slow and soft, then fast and hard. It touches all the bases, strikes every nerve; even the salacious ones. That’s the cornerstone of good music because that’s real life. Sometimes it’s love and sometimes it’s a hard on and a need to feel another person’s flesh under your fingers. That’s the song I’m singing in my veins when I look at Greer; hungry and ardent.
“How’d it go?”
Her head snaps up, her eyes finding mine down the hall. Hers are wet and round, full to bursting with something so raw inside her that I feel it in me too. It hurts, what she’s feeling. I can’t place the emotion, but I know that I hate it. I know I’ve felt it before.
She laughs nervously, looking away. Hiding her hurt. “Great. Yeah. Thanks for having me. I’m honored to have had the chance.”
Her words are bottled. Prepackaged. The default response to an audition that’s gone badly.
I look at her hands. They’re full of each other and nothing else, balled up in a tangled mess in front of her.
I heard her singing from the other room; she was incredible. What the hell happened with the dance?
I take a step toward her. “Did they give you the forms to fill out?”
“No,” she says with a stiff shake of her head. “They said I’d hear something in the next two days.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Her face turns to mine again, surprise painted in the greens and golds of her eyes. “No. It’s—they were really nice. They said—”
I hold up my hand, signaling for her to stop. To wait. “It’s bullshit. Just a second.”
I swipe my cardkey through the slot on the living room door. Leaning on the handle, I step halfway inside.
Grant looks up, surprised to find me standing there. “Hey, I thought you were in the other room on a call.”
“I was. It ended.” I nod to the table. “Hand me a packet?”
“For who? The girl?”
“Yeah. For Greer.”
He grabs an envelope. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to offer her a slot or not. You disappeared before she danced.”
“How was she?”
He looks over my shoulder as he hands me the envelope. I don’t think he can see her standing there at the elevator. I also don’t think she can hear us. “She was a pro. Like you said she’d be.”
“Then I want her in the show.”
“She’ll have to work something out with Rendezvous. We already offered a spot to their lead. They might not be thrilled we’re stealing someone from the ensemble as well.”
“They’re shutting down soon. What do they care?”
Grant frowns. “I don’t think I’d lead with that logic. I doubt they’ll appreciate it.”
I grin, tapping him on the chest with the packet. “I have an idea. Let Sarah explain it to them.”
“I will not.”
“Smart.”
I step back, pulling the door closed with me.
Grant sticks his foot out at the last second. The door jerks to a halt in my hand.
I look up at him, confused, but the concern on his face tells me everything I need to know.
“Nose. Clean,” he enunciates carefully.
My mouth pulls into a tight, stubborn line. “I know.”
“No women.”
“I know.”
“I know you know, but I also know that look.”
“What look?”
“The look that says you know but you don’t care.”
“I care.”
Grant stares at me blankly.
“Dude, I do,” I insist seriously.
He stares at me for a long time before moving his foot slowly out of the way. “Nose clean,” he repeats. “No women. And if you break either of those rules, I won’t protect you this time.”
“From who?” I smirk. “The ‘razzi?”
“No.” He nods over his shoulder. “Sarah.”
My cocky grin disappears, my eyes drifting to the barracuda behind the table. She’s listening, staring back at me with stern eyes. I know Sarah. I love her, but only because I live on her good side. Grant and my money keep me there where I’m safe. I don’t want to know a world where I’m on her bad side.
“I’m just giving her a shot,” I tell Grant quietly. “Nothing else.”
“Yeah.”
“See, you say that but you sound like you don’t believe me.”
“I’m gay but I’m not blind, Ryker. She’s hot. And I see how she looks at you. All amazement and awe. She’s got stardust in her eyes, man. She’s definitely not used to money.”
“Maybe I like that about her.”
“Maybe she’s a novelty. A new kind of toy to play with and walk away from when it’s destroyed.”
I scowl at him. “You make me sound like a fucking monster.”
“You feeling much like the hero lately?”
My hand tightens on the door handle, my blood flooding my veins until I hear it rushing in my ears. “Nose clean,” I tell him tightly. “No women.”
I pull the door closed, not waiting for Grant’s reply.
Gr
eer has her back to me, her eyes on the elevator doors. They’re closed and reflective, her face clear as glass. She’s looking down, a fact that throws me for a loop. Turning her back, keeping her eyes away from the reflection – she’s doing everything she can to give me privacy. People don’t do that in this business. Probably not in hers either.
The small gesture feels unbearably large as I stride toward her, my gut churning, and I know without a shadow of doubt that it’s going to be harder to keep my promise to Grant than I thought.
She lifts her head when she feels me come in close to her. She turns toward me, her scent wafting over the small space between us. She smells like lavender and lilacs. Like the color purple.
I offer her the envelope. “They should have given you this inside the room. Sorry I wasn’t there to make sure you got it.”
Her hand looks small next to mine when she takes it. Delicate like a porcelain ballerina in a music box. “Thank you. Are you…”
“Am I what?”
She smiles with self-deprecation. “I was going ask ‘Are you sure?’, but then I figured it’s probably better not to talk myself out of a job.”
I grin, tucking my hands into my pockets. “Not possible. You had me at the hen.”
Greer frowns, her thin eyebrows pulling low over her eyes. “The hen?”
“E-I-E-I-”
“Oh,” she flushes, chuckling. “That. Yeah. I wonder if that will ever stop being embarrassing.”
“I hope not. You look beautiful with that blush on your cheeks. I like knowing the button to push to see it.”
The rose on her face blooms deeper, fuller, making her eyes glow like emeralds against it.
My hands flex anxiously in my pockets.
“How were they in there?” I ask, releasing us both from the moment. “Were they professional? Did anyone call anyone a ‘douche fuck’ or did they keep it PG-13?”
Greer hoists her bag on her narrow shoulder, laughing. “No. They were PG at their worst. I think at one point Danny said my moves were ‘fly as shit’. That was as ugly as it got.”
“What about Sarah?”
“She was great,” Greer answers too quickly.
“Really? She wasn’t a bitch? Not even a little?”