Players

by Rachel Cross

  “Like this?” he asked, looking directly into her eyes while he copied her movements. She nodded.

  They practiced the step a few times. “Now, when you step forward, try shifting your weight into me, leaning into me, like this.” She leaned into him, just as he leaned into her. He then lost his footing, stepping forward just as she did the same. His hands went down to her waist, her hands around his arms and their eyes locked, unsettling her again. She looked away first, flustered because his eyes were unreadable, and at a loss of patience with herself. Focus on the steps, she chided herself.

  Again, she cleared her throat. “Salsa is a sensual dance, so I’m going to have to give you certain physical instructions, put my hands on you now and then, and look into your eyes because that’s the way it’s danced. And I’m just letting you know because it’s obvious you’ve never done this before and I don’t want you to be embarrassed,” she explained, ignoring the fact that he didn’t look embarrassed.

  And for the first time since she’d seen him watching her from the sidelines, he smiled. A spontaneous and seriously sexy smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t take it personally.”

  “Good.” Keila looked up and, embarrassed at her babbling, laughed.

  • • •

  Jake found he couldn’t stop smiling. She laughed like she danced, with abandon. Right now, surrounded by the powerful cadence of Afro-Caribbean music and holding a stranger that felt good in his arms, he felt anonymous, and that made him feel free, too.

  The young woman shook her head and said, “Okay, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I’ll teach you the side steps, and we’ll put it all together.”

  Jake followed her instructions and her lead, unwilling to take his eyes off her unusual eyes, or his hand off the appealing curve between her waist and hip.

  Though he’d never danced salsa and had never expected he would, it wasn’t long before he was getting the steps. “Rock, step, slower side step, tap. Now forward. Rock, step, slower side step, tap . . . great, you’re getting it.” She smiled up at him, noticeably surprised he was succeeding, and he felt as if he’d just solved every problem plaguing the human race. “Now try to lead,” she instructed.

  “Right, I’ll lead,” he agreed before pausing, “How exactly do I lead?”

  “You have to tug me a bit. Gently, like this.”

  He led, slowly moving them in a circular pattern to the left. “How do I spin you?” he asked, feeling adventurous.

  She hesitated. Finally, she shrugged and explained, “When you step back, separate from me like this,” she demonstrated, moving away from him. “This is called open position and I then slide under your arm, like this,” she expertly twisted and turned, and he got a good and much appreciated look at her back side. Hello, J-Lo, he thought. When she met his eyes again, it was clear by her expression that she’d caught him looking. But she only shook her head and said, “And then back to close position.”

  He tried spinning her, but was so distracted by the way she turned her body, he messed it up and she ended up tripping into him. Tenderly tugging her closer, he said, “I think I’m better at close position.” He held her gaze and leaned into her like she’d taught him as they continued to move together, holding the pattern.

  Time passed, different music played, but he didn’t really notice. He felt lost to her and the music as they laughed while trying and sometimes messing up different steps.

  He spun her again a few times, feeling an odd sense of pride the moment he got it right. She smiled up at him, as if she knew what he was thinking.

  They began to dance smoothly and the underlying energy he’d been trying to ignore flowed between them more freely. He saw his awareness mirrored in her eyes. Their breathing was equally shallow, and though a consistent, balmy breeze prevented them from breaking into a sweat, her skin was aglow and she smelled amazing, like tangy coconuts, if there was such a thing.

  As he looked down at her and studied her, he wondered why he was reacting to her the way he was. She wasn’t the first pretty girl he’d held.

  She studied him, too, but while he knew his eyes never gave anything away, her expression was open and easy to read. She was curious about him, too, but her hesitance about it showed. He didn’t like seeing it there and without thinking, he gently tugged her closer.

  • • •

  As the steady and rhythmic “Ave Maria Lola” played, Keila continued to move to the music. Without thinking, she allowed him to pull her closer . . . and closer.

  Lola, Ay Lolita Lola, a back-up vocalist’s melodic voice rang out, louder than the rest, and he might as well have been singing Keila, what are you doing Keila?

  What this man had was what Tania had been warning her about for years. Sex appeal. She’d never really experienced its magnetic pull, and she’d begun to think she was probably, and thankfully, immune to it. But here it was, reeling her in.

  Even his sweet and spicy scent was almost unbearably sexy. Keila made herself think of her boyfriend Mark, and wondered if she was, in a sense, cheating. Yes, it was just a dance lesson. But her body’s response to the man holding her had to be some sort of betrayal, especially in light of Mark’s constant complaints as of late.

  Lola, Ay Lolita Lola.

  The last chords of “Ave Maria Lola” died away and Rojita’s seductive salsa version of Frank Sinatra’s “Strangers in the Night” came on. Sensual salsa was danced closer, more slowly, and they continued to move together, completely in tune with one another. She felt enveloped in addictive sensations she hadn’t yet encountered in her twenty-six years.

  It began to rain, just a trickle, and a few people began to leave, while others laughed and stayed. The rain tickled her cheeks, her lips, and her shoulders, and the sweet, earthy scent of wet grass permeated the air. But they continued to dance, their gazes never wavering.

  Then, in the distance, Keila heard Tania’s voice calling her. Finally breaking eye contact, she looked up at the sky, taking in a deep, awakening breath. With great effort she put mind over body and decided it was time to leave. “I have to go.”

  “Why?” he stopped dancing, but continued to hold on to her. “My sister’s calling me,” she explained.

  “I don’t hear her calling you.” His voice was so low, it reverberated in her chest.

  She laughed. “That’s because you don’t know my name.”

  They’d stopped dancing, the rain coming down just a little bit harder.

  “That’s right. I don’t.”

  As they continued to stand there, Keila realized he wasn’t going to ask for her name. She realized she didn’t want to tell him anyway, and didn’t want to know he who was, either.

  He was looking at her lips and she didn’t like how good that made her feel. It also made her feel guilty. She let him go.

  Seconds later, as the last notes of “Strangers in the Night” died away, he released her.

  “Bye,” she said, unable to think of anything else to say.

  Chapter One

  September 9th, Pittsburgh

  Keila sprinted through the Streets of Pittsburgh, eager to get home. Michelle Moynahan, Second City Symphony’s concertmaster, had left her a voicemail asking her to call back as soon as possible, but she didn’t want to talk to Michelle with the sound of traffic and the buzz of dozens of conversations surrounding her.

  She took the steps to her apartment two at a time, fumbled with her keys, and opened the door. Before she called Michelle back, though, she needed to get a grip. It was a well known fact within their world that orchestras never bothered to call with a rejection. She leaned against the door, closed her eyes, and put her palm against her chest, willing her heart to slow down.

  When she opened her eyes, her gaze landed on a picture of her and her father taken after her very first recital. She’d done everything he’d told her to do. She had striven for plan A, but had worked equally as hard to have a more practical plan B in place, just in case. After eight years of co
nstantly studying, working, and playing, it seemed like plan A would come true.

  Keila knew how fortunate she was and she felt dizzy with happiness at the thought of moving back home to Chicago to play with a renowned orchestra. Thoughts of renting a loft near Tania’s Albany Park condo and buying a cute used car also whirled in her head. A dream job, family nearby, a nice place to live, and a car!

  But two minutes later, the thoughts stopped whirling. They collided with reality and came crashing down.

  “It’s not you, Keila, it’s us.” Though Keila could hear the conviction in Michelle Moynahan’s voice, it didn’t make her feel better.

  She was now sitting on her bed, listening to Michelle reject her. “I wanted to catch you before the auditions committee called, wanted to talk to you first and explain.”

  “The auditions committee is going to call, too?” Keila struggled to keep her voice steady. All she wanted to do was hang up and have a good cry. She really didn’t want to hear the sympathetic thanks, but no thanks, twice.

  “Yes—to offer you the newly-created contract position.” Michelle paused and Keila heard her take a breath. “I was afraid you’d reject the offer on the spot because it doesn’t pay much, only a $6,500 stipend for ten months, but I wanted to let you know it’s really a great opportunity in disguise.”

  Keila bobbed her head robotically at Michelle’s hurried speech. Inside, different emotions were playing out. Contract position? She’d still be part of the orchestra and she’d be home! But . . . only a $6,500 stipend for ten months?

  She forced herself to untie the knots in her stomach and to listen, to consider. With student loans to pay off and not much money saved up, she was only being offered a small stipend by the orchestra. She couldn’t stay where she was because the education department was cutting music funds and her current position was on the chopping board. The full-time teaching position she’d been offered at an elite private school in New Jersey seemed like her best bet.

  “Though we’re stable right now and we’ve largely escaped the funding crisis plaguing many orchestras across the country, we still need to have a healthy reserve and we need to bring in more support,” Michelle continued.

  “It’s a funding problem? So, you’re not going to hire anybody full-time just now?”

  Michelle sighed. “Well, not quite . . . we’re hiring Julia Hamilton, but we really want you, too. It’s hard to explain . . . ”

  “Julia Hamilton?” Keila repeated, feeling the walls of her already too-small studio closing in on her. Funding crisis. Julia Hamilton. She shouldn’t be surprised.

  Keila fell back on her bed, her thoughts racing. Julia Hamilton was, in a sense, Chicago royalty. Her mother owned a string of trendy, boutique hotels and her father had played bass for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra for over thirty years. Julia was a technically outstanding violinist, though many felt her performances lacked emotion.

  But orchestras needed outside patrons, funding, and support. And someone like Julia Hamilton could bring all three to the regional orchestra.

  “Keila, are you there?” Michelle asked.

  “I’m here.” She sat up. Should she chase a difficult dream with everything she had or should she settle for a bland, but easily attainable reality? Taking a deep, calming breath she asked, “And you were saying something about a contract position being a great opportunity in disguise?”

  “Yes! Even though it sounds like a raw deal, there’s a really great chance you’ll be asked to become a regular member at some point . . . ”

  None of what Michelle said sounded especially promising, but Keila pushed the thought away. Her decision was made and she now needed to focus on making ends meet. She’d have to move in with her mother, take on private students, and find part-time work.

  After a warm, feel-better shower, Keila heard a knock on her door. Tying a long towel around her body, she padded across the stained carpet and peeked through the peephole to see that her boyfriend, Mark, was back from Chicago. Happy to see him but still feeling ambiguous about the future of her career, she opened the door, eager to share her news.

  Mark took one look at her towel-wrapped body and pried his eyes away, settling them instead on one of two battered chairs in front of the window. In two quick strides, he was sitting there, legs apart, hands folded between his knees. Frowning, Keila swung the door shut, noting he didn’t even offer her a hello.

  “Sorry, I should’ve changed.” She quickly went to the bathroom to pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He’d been acting strange the past few weeks, but Keila figured it was because they’d been doing the long-distance thing for a few months.

  When she came back out, he said, “We need to talk.”

  Keila sat down on her bed. Awkwardness stifled the air. “Are we having the sex talk again?”

  “No, I’m tired of that talk, Keila,” he snapped.

  Keila stared at him, surprised. Mark shifted in his chair, but didn’t apologize. “We need to talk,” he repeated, still not looking at her.

  “You said that already.” It was her turn to snap. She wasn’t feeling up to one of his melancholy moods today.

  “Yeah, well, this isn’t easy,” he said, obviously on edge.

  “Oh God,” Keila said, catching on. “Are you breaking up with me? You’re going to give me the ‘it’s not you; it’s me’ speech, too, aren’t you?” Keila hopped off the bed.

  “What do you mean too? Are you seeing someone else?” He looked up at her, his eyes finally showing some emotion.

  “No, I’m not seeing someone else! Are you seeing someone else?”

  Mark stood up, too. “Never mind, forget it. And no, I’m not giving you the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech, he paused and Keila sat back down, relieved. “If anything, I’m giving you the ‘it’s not me, it’s you’ speech.”

  Keila stared as Mark hooked his thumbs on the back pockets of his torn jeans and went to look out the window, avoiding her eyes and directing his words to the world outside instead of to her face. “You’re not into me, Keila. You’re not attracted to me.”

  “Of course I find you attractive—”

  “But you’re not attracted to me. If you were, you’d be all over me right now. Damn it, Keila, I haven’t seen you in over a week, and then you open the door wearing nothing but a towel, and you drive me nuts because I know that, once again, nothing’s going to happen!” He turned to look at her, eyes blazing.

  “I’ve had a strange day and I was really looking forward to seeing you. I was dying for a hug and a kiss; you’re the one who ignored me.”

  “You know I’m not talking about hugs and kisses.”

  “Mark . . . you know I have issues.”

  “I’m not buying your issues anymore. So your first boyfriend told you he was gay right after your first time together, so what? That was years ago. You’re over it enough so that he’s your best friend, but you still use it as an excuse to not take the next step with me.”

  “The whole thing left me insecure, okay? And you know it isn’t just what happened with Robbie. Every time I want to try and go there, I just—I can’t. I was very clear from the beginning! I told you it would take time and you said you were okay with that.” She kept waiting to be swept away by a desire for intimacy, but something was apparently wrong with her.

  Mark raked both hands through his hair and closed his eyes. “Listen to me, Keila. I need you to understand where I’m coming from. I’m a saxophone player, I play at jazz clubs. There are willing women, every night, and every night I reject them, hoping that after six months you’ll finally get over your issues. But this weekend it finally hit me that you’re just not into me.” He finished his little speech, never once bothering to look at her.

  “If you think that telling me all about your disease-infested groupies is going to get me into bed, then you are seriously delusional. You sound like an ass.”

  “Disease-infested groupies?” Mark shot her a weary glance and Keila shrugg
ed, picking at a loose thread on her bedspread. He walked away from the window, squatted in front of her and took her hands in his. “Look, Keila, I didn’t come here to fight. I really mean it when I say I just don’t think you’re attracted to me.”

  “But we’re so great together,” Keila reasoned, grabbing onto his hands. “At least, usually we are. We’re both musicians, we like the same restaurants, the same music, the same movies. My more optimistic nature balances your occasional gloom and doom . . . ” Keila’s voice trailed off when Mark looked down at the floor.

  “You’re describing friendship, Keila, not the kind of passion you should feel for me.”

  “So, you’re really breaking up with me because you don’t think I’m attracted to you? There’s no other reason?” Keila looked into Mark’s soulful brown eyes. Of course she thought he was attractive. But out of nowhere, an image of intense blue eyes came to mind, and she felt real guilt, quickly dropping Mark’s hands.

  Mark leaned in and kissed her softly, and she felt comforted, but not on fire. How could one stranger’s gaze be hotter and more moving than her boyfriend’s kiss?

  The answer didn’t matter. Comfort is what she wanted, not fire. Fire left destruction in its wake. In very different ways, it had left parts of her sister and mother in ashes. Comfort could last forever. Fires were eventually put out.

  “What I’m saying is: I think we should take a break. Maybe in three or four months you’ll start to miss me and you’ll want to throw yourself into my arms because you can’t resist me instead of opening the door as if you’ve got other things on your mind.”

  Keila slowly nodded, wondering if she could wake whatever was dormant within her for Mark. But in the back of her mind, she was busy swatting a nagging thought away. He hadn’t even asked her what the other things on her mind were, hadn’t even noticed she was feeling blue. Their break up conversation had revolved around his needs and her faults.

  “Fine, let’s take a break, Mark. Let’s both try and figure out what it is we really want from each other,” she agreed.