by JJ Knight
“What if I’m sent home after the first one?” I ask.
“Confident, aren’t you?” Amara’s voice is cutting. “We focus on the next dance, and just prepare the basics for the future. But we have to be ready, as time will fly once all this begins.”
I snatch up my bag as she hurries out of the room. I assume I’m supposed to follow her. This woman doesn’t do anything at a normal pace.
The door bangs my elbow as I simultaneously try to go through it and pull a water bottle out of my bag. Amara turns at the clang and says, “Don’t get injured. We have no protocol for what to do with a hurt finalist.”
I rub my elbow as we head toward the stage doors. They’re propped open today, and I can hear voices and music inside.
Unlike the night of the finale, the backstage area is brightly lit. Quite a lot of people stand around.
“Jessie, you’re on Livia,” Amara says. “Keep her hydrated and do what she asks.”
A young girl with wispy blond hair, barely sixteen, hurries over with the easy grace of a dancer. She wears all black, like the crew did the night of the show, which I assume means she is backstage help.
“Hello, Livia,” she says, her voice a squeak. “I’ll hold on to your bag.” She takes it from me. “I’ll be your gopher. If you need something to eat, or to get a prop or dance shoes or anything, I’m the one who does it for you.”
“Thank you, Jessie,” I say. “Are you a dancer?”
“I want to be,” she says. “I was about to start in the corps at a ballet company until this happened.” She points at her ankle, which is wrapped in a bandage. “I got this job so I can at least do something until I’m cleared to dance again.”
“Does it hurt?” I can’t imagine losing my dream to an injury.
“Not really. It’s just not up to the dance work I need to do to stay in the company. They won’t risk it. I’m not worth the risk.” She says this very matter-of-factly, as if it is just part of life.
“I’m really sorry, Jessie.”
“This is fun. I’m lucky.” She waves to the stage. “They are still working.”
The music has stopped. When I look beyond the stage wings, I see Blitz lowering Mariah out of a lift. She has on a wispy skirt now. Amara is shaking her head.
“I should have been out here,” she says. “That was completely wrong.”
Conflicting feelings of relief that someone besides me has displeased her, and chagrin that her time with me was a burden that made her angry, rise up in me. “Is she always this harsh?” I ask Jessie.
She shrugs. “I’m new. She was pretty tough yesterday, though, with the other girls.”
I feel pressure on my shoulder and turn to see Giselle hanging on me, her pale red hair twisted up in a knot. “We’re about to see what the ballerina has to show us,” she says.
My face feels hot. I sincerely regret not spending every waking hour at the academy working on my ballet skills. But there was the DVD trip, and the craziness of the fans wanting a rematch. Valentine’s. And before that, all the trouble with Denham.
Excuses. All of them. I should have been dancing. Now it was going to get me. That producer would be right. I’m not up for this.
I sincerely want to turn and leave, but Amara motions me out onstage. “Come on, Livia. And Giselle, back off her. We have to assemble a show here.”
Blitz turns and fires an angry glare at Giselle. She blows him a kiss and turns away. “Come on, Mariah. Let’s eat something.”
Mariah doesn’t appear to want to seem chummy with Giselle, but they both head back to the hall, followed by two girls in black, their assistants.
I walk out onstage. Blitz holds out his arms. I fold myself into him and he kisses my head. “How are you holding up, Princess?” he asks.
I can’t even answer. I just want to stay right here, away from this pressure, the expectations, and the competition.
But sharp hand claps make me pull away.
It’s Amara. “Okay, yes, we see who the love affair is. We still have to put on a dance show.”
Devon saunters over. He’s the director, dressed in jeans and a dark turtleneck much like the night I met him during the finale. He hugs an iPad to his chest, completing the picture that he looks like Steve Jobs, and frowns. “This star-crossed love worked great for the surprise appearance, but it’s not going to sit well with the audience who wants a competition.”
Blitz pulls me back against him. “I couldn’t care less about your competition. And you know damn well all the fans want to see me with Livia.”
“I don’t know that,” Devon says. “The rematch fury was pretty intense. It’s my job to figure out how to spin this into a workable format.”
“He’s not going to be able to hide how he feels,” Amara says. “He’s not an actor.”
Devon shakes his head. “I don’t believe that either. We all saw him buying that diamond ring for nobody. That was good television.” He walks in a circle around us. “We have to drive a wedge between the couple.”
He tucks the iPad beneath his arm and holds out his arms in a V shape. “This allows a chance for the other girls. Only to snap shut,” he claps his hands together, “when true love is threatened.”
Amara steps forward. “All right. You work your drama. It’s my job to create a dance number. She’s not as strong as the others. We can work with that. Make him disappointed.”
“No,” Blitz says. “I will not have a negative thing to say about Livia’s dancing.”
“Honey, you won’t have to,” Amara says. “Her hesitation and inexperience are going to be evident.” She looks out into the seats where a man sits behind a huge soundboard. “Ricky, give us a waltz.”
After a few seconds of silence, the music begins.
“Just dance for a moment,” Amara says. “Let’s see where you are.”
Blitz takes me in his arms. I try to forget everyone else and just follow him. I did it the night of the finale, tuned out the studio audience, the angry finalists, everything but him.
But it’s harder this time. I’m not coming in for a surprise. There are expectations. Stakes. Blitz tries to turn us and I stumble, losing the rhythm.
He leans in close. “It’s all right,” he says softly in my ear. “We have nothing to prove. It’s just a few months of our lives, five episodes, then we’re done.”
I settle in and let the music work its magic. I don’t look at Amara as we pass, nor Devon. I follow Blitz’s lead in the waltz, sweeping and turning with him, until finally, my nerves start to calm.
Chapter 17
The next few days are a whirlwind. I work out with a dance coach, sometimes alone, sometimes with Blitz. Amara occasionally comes in to supervise.
Jessie follows me around, bringing me meals from the chef, filling my water bottle, and keeping Giselle at bay. For that, I am very grateful.
I have three dances to prepare. The first one will be on episode two, a waltz that expands on what Blitz and I improvised during the finale. Devon says we need to “show our love” since the other girls will have jazzier numbers.
For the “Classic Dance,” we’ll be doing a ballet-styled number with lots of lifts. My coach has me doing tons of abdominal crunches to make sure I have the core strength to hold the poses.
Even though I will probably be eliminated, we’re also working on a number for the third live show, which is the “Sexy Dance.” This will be a straight contemporary dance, which I’m not very well schooled on, but Amara is trying to make sure I can handle the positions if I get that far.
She hasn’t prepared a dance for the final show yet. I’m assuming she will, or maybe we’ll get to the eliminations before she plans that far ahead. I try not to think about the possibility that the home audience will vote me out right away due to my rather mediocre dance skills.
I don’t feel like it will matter. In the end, Blitz and I will be together. After all, I’m the one who goes home with him every night. But it would be nice if t
he world was behind us.
The best part of the workday is when I get to practice with Blitz. For the past few months, we’ve had fun working out together and dancing on our own. But this is an entirely different level of togetherness. We have coaches, the choreographer, the costume designer, and Devon all watching our every move, preparing us to dance for millions of viewers.
Everything is heightened, each time our eyes meet, his hand on my back, every slide into a position where he lowers me down, his arm bracing me. The music is amazing, and when it all comes together the way it’s supposed to, it’s like magic.
I know he dances with the other girls too. I assume it feels different with them, more like work. But I don’t know. I have to have faith.
Our evenings, of course, are mainly about crawling into bed and trying to sleep enough to feel ready to do it all again the next day.
Shelly was right. We have zero time to look at properties. She rides with us to the studio Friday morning to say that during our one day off on Sunday, she has lined up three places to view in a row.
Blitz and I are tempted to tell her just to pick one, but looking at them together is the right thing to do. The house we choose will be our home, the first place we can call ours. We should do this ourselves.
The property tours become the thing I look forward to. On Sunday morning, we linger in bed because we can. It’s our first morning to snuggle in, not jumping up and preparing for another grueling day.
This room isn’t even close to the size of the suite we had in San Antonio, so only half our stuff came to the hotel, the rest sent on to Blitz’s camera-filled condo. Even so, we are surrounded by luggage and racks and boxes, so there isn’t a lot of room to move around.
Because of the claustrophobic feel of the room, once we are up and about, we leave the hotel to have breakfast before meeting Shelly and the real estate agent who will show us the properties.
Blitz gave Duke the day off, so Blitz himself drives us around in the black SUV. I still don’t have my driver’s permit, and my little convertible was left behind in Texas. That will be something for another day. There’s no way I could manage LA traffic anyway.
Blitz avoids anything trendy, settling on a little diner across the street from an old-school workout place called Buster’s Gym. We have French toast and smoothies, watching the people come in and out of the facility, men and women who all look like they could seriously kick butt.
“I think that famous boxer used to work out there,” Blitz says, stabbing a bite of egg. “The Cure. Cure McClure.”
I catch a drip of syrup before it hits my chin. “I don’t keep up with sports, but there’s a big sign up there for Colt McClure.”
“His son. He has like a billion MMA championships,” Blitz says. “I think I was at some charity event with him last year.” He shrugs and dives back into the decadent breakfast. This is one of the few days we can risk eating like this.
Shelly buzzes us that the agent is at the first place a little early if we want to get a jump start. We figure that’s our cue to quit stuffing ourselves. We pay the check and head on over.
It’s a beautiful February day. We wear sweaters but no jackets. The sun beams down. You can feel spring just around the corner, not that winter ever really took hold. It never does in Southern California.
Sometimes I think I could live here, but then I remember that Gabriella is in Texas, and I can’t let her go. She will grow up, and I want to see what I can of her for as long as possible.
When Blitz pulls up to the first address, I feel shock. It’s outrageous, stretching down the block, at least ten times the size of my parents’ house back home.
“It’s a lot,” I say, peering out the window.
“Yeah, that’s a big place,” Blitz agrees.
We step out and shield our eyes from the sun as the chipper realtor comes over in her stilettos and beige suit.
“Don’t you love it?” she asks, extending a hand. “I’m Tammy.”
“Are they all this big?” I ask, shaking her cool, limp hand. Her hair looks like it just came out of one of the hair dryers you sit under at salons, big, blond, and airy.
“You will want space to entertain,” Tammy says, clicking a button so that the tall iron gate slides open. “Let’s take a look.”
Blitz and I follow her uncertainly. Shelly pops out of her car and hurries to catch up.
“I tried to tell her you wouldn’t be throwing big parties,” Shelly says. Today she’s in shorts and a pink tank top that matches her hair exactly.
Blitz takes my hand and we walk up the impressive drive. Shelly fusses with some keys and manages to open the door. “It has six bedrooms and five baths,” she says. “Then another bedroom and bath in the pool house out back.”
“I could live with a pool,” Blitz says, pulling me close. He whispers in my ear, “I want to swim with you naked.”
I squeeze his hand. The house is grand but the echoes of our footfalls sound depressing and empty. “We really need something furnished, don’t we?” I ask. I can’t imagine having time or energy to buy an entire house full of stuff.
“Oh, we can have it staged for you,” Tammy says. “The designers will fill it however you like and pull it all when you leave.”
I would argue at how expensive all that is, but then I remember those numbers on the contract. If mine were that big, I couldn’t even imagine what Blitz’s look like. I guess it doesn’t matter.
“Are they all okay with a short lease?” Blitz asks.
“Three months is fine by them,” Tammy says. “Although I’m guessing you might need six.”
“Nope,” Blitz says. “The finale airs in less than ninety days and we are out of here.”
“All right,” Tammy says. She stands in a formal room with glossy wood floors and windows that stretch along the entire back wall, looking over the pool. It’s so Hollywood that I feel like people must film things here. Maybe that’s why short leases are popular, and the staging of the furniture. It all starts to make sense.
“Doesn’t feel very homelike,” I say to Blitz.
“Agreed,” he says. “What’s next?”
“A condo about two miles from here,” Tammy says. “I’ll text you the address for your GPS.”
And the morning wears on. The condo is on the fourth floor, and while there is an elevator, it’s on the wrong side of the building. I can’t imagine trudging up all those stairs after a long day of dancing.
The third place is another house, probably also used in filming. It seems vaguely familiar. It’s not as large as the first one, though, and tucked in what feels like a normal neighborhood.
“Four bedrooms, three baths,” Tammy says. “No pool, but there is a hot tub. Lots of living space.”
We walk around. It’s partly furnished already, the living and dining room fully set up, as well as bar stools set around a tall counter in the center of the kitchen. We’d only really need to outfit our bedroom.
“What do you think of this one?” Blitz asks.
I look around. The living space has a high ceiling, but the other rooms are cozy and close. Everything is beautiful, from the tile floors to the granite countertops.
“I like it,” I say. “I think it’s a good fit.”
Blitz turns to Shelly. “Get us a bedroom suite, something traditional, and a king bed. We’ll move in midweek.”
Tammy claps her hands together. “Excellent. I have the lease agreement in my car.”
“Let’s do it.” Blitz rubs his hands together. “A real place.” He pulls me up against him and kisses my hair. “You were right. I’m glad we’ll have somewhere to call home for a while.”
“I’ll cook you dinner every…” I hesitate, thinking of our exhaustion every night. “Hmm. Every Sunday.”
“Sounds amazing,” Blitz says. “I’ll have to run over to my condo later to check on things. We’re filming one of the dates there next week.”
A chill passes through me. “Really? Wh
o with?”
“Christy,” he says. “She’s been the most aloof and Devon thinks it will make us seem closer if I take her home.”
“You mean to your condo,” I say. “This is home.”
“Yep, exactly that.” He twists a piece of my hair. “This is not going to be easy, I know. Just trust me.”
“I do,” I say. Just not them, I think. Giselle especially will try to get him in a compromising position, just for ratings and drama.
Tammy brings the lease. Blitz signs all the paperwork and Shelly handles the transaction. Blitz and I walk around the house, holding hands.
“Our place,” he says, turning me in a circle in the big empty master bedroom. “Can’t wait to break in this room.”
“You know, that living room ceiling is high enough to install an aerial silk,” I say.
“It is.” His grin is mischievous. “And I can think of a thousand things to do to you all strung up on it.” He kisses my neck.
“Can you ask Shelly to have someone set one up? Will the ceiling hold it?”
He nuzzles beneath my hair a moment more before saying, “I’ll let them figure out where the beams are. I’m just wondering if we can get everyone else to leave.”
We hear Tammy’s sharp heels coming down the hall. “Toodle-oo, Blitz, Livia!” she calls. “We’re heading out! Keys are on the kitchen counter!”
“Perfect,” Blitz says. We walk to the front as Tammy and Shelly head to their cars.
“That was quick,” I say. “It’s ours already?”
“It’s ours already,” Blitz says. “And I believe that sofa in there could use a little checking for comfort.”
I laugh as he walks me backward into the living room. I have a feeling we’ll be thoroughly exploring each and every room before it’s over.
Chapter 18
On Wednesday afternoon of that week, Blitz pops in my workout room at the studio. He’s completely decked out in a suit, perfect hair, and shiny shoes.
“Whoa,” I say, pausing my third set of ab crunches for the day. “You’re all wardrobed up.”