When Dred and Pixie had invited them over the previous day to see the new place, Dred had caught Jordan off guard by offering him the newly renovated apartment above the garage. Just for him, they’d said. Their excitement and enthusiasm had given him the mother of all fucking headaches, as if their emotions had been solid objects hammering the back of his head, forcing him to grind his teeth and close his eyes. While he appreciated their thinking of him, their gesture completely missed the point of what he needed, which was his family together, not a fucking apartment of his own. He needed to maintain his rituals—walking the halls at night to confirm everybody was home and checking their calendar to see where everybody was. The modifications he’d made to deal with the fact that Dred was away, either filming or in Miami with Petal, had been temporary. But this. This was frightening because it was real. Permanent.
The thump of Lennon’s bass drum and the rattle of the snare interrupted his thoughts. They’d agreed to work together on some new material, and soon enough Jordan found himself lost in the music. It was a surprise when Lennon announced, after what felt like only a couple of hours, that they were done for the day. It was nearly dinner, but it didn’t feel like it. They’d never even stopped for lunch.
“I need something to eat,” Lennon said, sliding his sticks into their holder. “Hungry?”
Jordan nodded, and they headed upstairs to the kitchen. Once the pasta Lennon had made the previous evening was reheated, they sat at the bar stools. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he began to devour the food.
“Solid day, huh?” Jordan said, before taking another big bite.
“Yeah,” Lennon answered through a mouthful of food. “We should share it with Dred, see if he can’t start to put some lyrics down, although I guess there’s no rush.”
The new album was pretty much complete, just some subtle changes here and there and it would be done, so new material wasn’t really a priority. They’d be off on tour around Europe toward the end of May, later than they’d previously planned. Thankfully, though, the label had worked with them to come up with a new schedule that everybody could handle. The new album would come out at the beginning of March, and tours of Europe, Canada, and the United States were planned over the next twelve months. It was going to be a busy year.
“Wanna go out and get a drink?” Elliott, the lead guitarist, jogged down the stairs from his room.
“Maybe later,” Jordan said as stood and rinsed his bowl in the sink. He walked to the hallway and pulled on his coat. “Need a walk after being cooped up in the studio all day.”
He hurried out of the house because he didn’t know how to explain to himself, let alone anyone else, exactly what he was doing.
* * *
Lexi was ready.
Readier than she’d been the day she’d auditioned for the National Ballet School, and definitely readier than she’d been for the closing night of The Nutcracker. Last time, her dance hadn’t brought a smile to his face, but tonight she was going to dance as if she’d gotten a private audience with George Balanchine.
Assuming he came.
It had driven her crazy to be stuck at the theater, night after night, performing The Nutcracker when she wanted desperately to be back in the studio where she’d seen him. There might be only two miles between the two locations, but it felt like an ocean between them. Panic had filled her at the idea he’d never walk by again once they relocated back to the rehearsal studios, but then he’d sent her a sign. A tiny symbol of hope that he was thinking of her.
She pulled the envelope from her pocket. The one articulately addressed to The dancer in the end studio at midnight on Christmas Day. Gently, she withdrew the piece of paper, fingering it one more time.
Not sure there is a piece of music worthy of your talents.
Not sure why I need to write it for you.
But I do.
J.
P.S. The link is private. Only you and I have access.
She viewed her reflection one last time and wandered down the hallway, pausing to look at the new schedule that was up on the wall. Their performance in Ottawa, Onegin, in which she would dance Tatiana, was coming up at the end of the month. After that was The Sleeping Beauty, and while they had been practicing that for a while, the frequency and duration was certainly ramping up now. Her father had been thrilled when she’d told him she would be dancing the role of The Lilac Fairy; however, he’d been frustrated that rather than using the choreography that Marius Petipa had created for the Kirov in 1890, they would instead be doing a reinterpretation of it by an ambitious and successful choreographer from Quebec.
Lexi opened the door to the studio. Everything was perfect. She’d showered after rehearsal, taking the time to blow-dry her hair and set it in large rollers. As the rollers cooled, she’d applied a little brown eye shadow and curled her eyelashes, applying lots of black mascara, something she rarely did outside of performance. But tonight was a kind of performance.
She’d left obvious hints on her social media pages about how wonderful The Nutcracker season had been, but that she was happy to be home again in rehearsals. If he’d taken the time to find out who she was, perhaps he’d seen it. If he had, he’d be back, she was sure of it. But she was also certain he intended to leave without talking to her again, and Lexi wasn’t going to let that happen. Where this heady wave of boldness had come from, she wasn’t sure, but she’d channel it every way she could to get him to smile. For once, she was going to ignore the niggling little voice that told her she was foolish. It was time to live like the confident on-stage persona she’d created for herself in her day-to-day life. She was going to speak with him whether he wanted to or not, even if only to thank him for the link to the website and the catalogue of music he’d placed there for her.
Excitement and a dash of fear had kept her awake most of the night, but for some reason she didn’t feel tired at all. In fact, she’d had a boundless supply of energy through rehearsal.
Jordan.
His very name made her shiver. It was so . . . perfect. While he’d signed the note with only the letter J, all of the songs she found on the website had been uploaded by somebody named Jordan. She’d listened to them at home the previous evening. The first piece she’d clicked on was “Classical Gas” by Mason Williams, only it hadn’t sounded like a classical guitar at all. It sounded like a bass, all dark and heavy. The second was a haunting rendition of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, only this time she couldn’t tell whether it was electric guitar or bass. In fact, they’d all been on a guitar of some sort. There were three pieces she hadn’t recognized, but they were truly beautiful. Each one a different tempo, as if he’d truly considered what she might want to dance to. She’d finally fallen asleep to the slowest of them, a tune she didn’t know. She had a strange feeling he’d composed it, her head spinning with ideas of dances for each unique interpretation.
Lexi wandered over to the window and peered out into the frigid darkness. She checked the position of the giant piece of card leaning up against the glass. It had one word on it.
WAIT
If she had to chase him barefooted down Lake Shore, she was going to talk to him tonight. With little thought, she executed a classic fondue and moved gently into attitude before lowering her heel. Promenade a half turn . . . allongé . . . pas de bourrée. Lexi caught sight of her reflection in the long windows. No pointe shoes today. And gone were the gauzy skirts. She wore a leotard that had a solid black halter top and a mesh panel around her stomach. Over the top, she wore little black shorts.
Nervously, she skipped her way over to her laptop and started one of her favorites from the website. Again on a bass guitar, it was an interpretation of Imagine Dragons’ “Demons,” one of her favorite songs.
A little girl walked by and pressed her nose up against the window. When she saw Lexi, she raised her hands in the air and did a twirl on the tips of her toes. Lexi laughed and executed a passé relevé. The little girl copied her, wo
bbling to bring her little snow-booted foot up to her knee. Her parents pulled out their camera—whether to take a photo or video, she wasn’t sure, but either way it would be a cute keepsake.
After a few more clumsy twirls, the parents tugged the little girl tearfully away. As she watched them walk toward the city, she spotted Jordan walking toward her. Hands in his pockets, his head bowed, and his shoulders hunched against the wind, he was a lonely figure. The father grabbed hold of the daughter and swept her up into his arms, walking a wide arc around Jordan, who appeared oblivious.
She’d intended to dance for him and then get him to wait while she ran out to talk to him, but the urge to bring him inside, to shelter him from the cold, suddenly overtook her. She tugged on her boots and threw on the long padded coat that she’d dropped by the door. Worried she would miss him, she didn’t waste time with a hat or gloves. She ran out the front door and along the side of the building. When she turned the corner, she sighed with relief. He was still there, in the same spot where he always stood, looking up into the empty studio.
Seeming to hear her footsteps right before she reached him, he looked away from the window and took a step back. He grabbed her arms to stop her from colliding into him. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t . . .”
His words trailed off. He wore the same scowl as always, an expression that suggested he was in permanent pain. Close up, she could see chiseled cheekbones through the scruff of his beard, and she ached to run a finger along them . . . assuming she could reach them. The guy was even taller than he had looked from the studio window.
“Hi,” she said, trying to will away the embarrassment she could feel creeping up her cheeks. “I’m Lexi.” She held out her hand, hoping he’d take it, shake it, kiss it . . . something. Anything that might break the awkward silence that hung between them. She was just about to put her hand back in her pocket when he reached for it.
He looked at her through deep-set eyes. “Jordan,” he said, simply.
His frozen fingers closed around hers. She shivered a little, and not because of the windchill. The tips of his fingers were rough against her skin, calloused the way her feet were. Dense tattoos with images hard to make out in the dark covered his hand and fingers, and he wore three rings. A skull, one with a round black stone, and a thick silver band.
Her heart raced at his touch. There was no end to the list of ways he was different from just about anybody else she knew, yet somehow she wasn’t scared of him. She desperately wanted a chance to get to know him.
“Thank you for all the songs you posted. I wanted to dance to one of them for you . . . if you’ll let me,” she said, her words sounding bolder than she felt. In her daydreams about how this would have gone, he’d been just as relieved to talk to her as she was to talk to him. They’d laugh and smile about the crazy way they’d met. In real life now, though, she couldn’t decide if he was uninterested or terrified. His fingers were still on hers, though, and he wasn’t leaving. That had to be a good sign.
Jordan looked toward the studio and then back at her. “Probably not the best idea, Lexi.” His voice was thick, like honey mixed with gravel, and she loved the way her name rolled off his tongue. Intensity swirled around him like the white wisps of their breath, but beneath it all, she could swear there was longing.
“Please,” she begged. “I want you to see how much your music inspired me. Come inside. It will only take a few minutes, I promise.”
Jordan looked down at his boots for a moment and shook his head. He ran his free hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face.
“Fine,” he said. “Just one dance.”
* * *
His third—or maybe it was his fourth—foster mom had collected tiny ceramic animals. Those fuckers were everywhere. On side tables, window ledges, dressers. He couldn’t move around without worrying about knocking one of them over. When he’d accidentally sent an ugly salamander crashing to the wooden floor while pretending to air guitar to a new Rage Against the Machine song, she’d beaten him with the handle of the mop she’d been using to clean the kitchen.
Lexi . . . as she flittered around the dance studio, flighty as a fucking butterfly . . . seemed as fragile as those ornaments.
Except she was not only delicate but beautiful.
And him . . . he broke things. He couldn’t be trusted with anything of value.
Yet he was a man. Who was horny as fucking shit after depriving himself of his one release in life for nearly three weeks since he’d first seen her dance. And those shorts, the way they hugged her ass. I’m going straight to hell.
She fidgeted nervously. The ballsy confidence she’d shown earlier had been left out on the street. “Sit, please,” she said, pointing to a couple of chairs pressed up against the long wall of mirrors.
Ignoring his reflection in the mirror, he did as she said. Give him an audience of twenty thousand and he was fine, but a single woman . . . this woman . . . had his heart racing. She bit her lip while she fiddled with her laptop, then hurried her way into the center of the room. Her eyes met his just before the music started, and she smiled shyly. Too overwhelmed to respond, he simply held her gaze, saddened when her smile dropped away.
He recognized the music immediately, of course, because he’d written it. Inspired by the first time he’d seen her. The first time he’d seen her dance then walked away with turmoil ripping him up inside. The voice that was always loudest in his head reminded him that not once in his life had he been good enough for anyone. Nobody had fought to keep him, to make him one of their own. Instead, they had passed him along like used goods. Yet somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind, there was a flicker of hope, the slightest glimmer that she might be the one who could see what was inside.
The way she’d looked at him through the glass that night. Like she saw him. Really saw him. Beneath the ink, and the hair, and the leather. He wanted her to look at him like that again.
As the first few notes washed over them, she didn’t move. She extended her arm and then raised her chin if she was testing the sky for rain. He watched, transfixed, as she raised her leg high into the air, a slow, controlled movement. This close, he could see every muscle, every ounce of strength it took to make the move look totally effortless. He’d thought her fragile, but he could see the raw strength in those long legs. Her eyes rarely left his except for when she turned, but even then, she found him again straight away.
He’d fought the demons inside himself, dug deeper than he’d thought possible to find a whisper of joy from which to create a song worthy of her. He wasn’t even certain the memory of happiness he’d drawn from was real or was something he had created in the darkest moments in the attic. But he’d known Lexi had deserved joy no matter how fleeting. The moment had been fragile, but it had been enough to at least start the song optimistically.
Jordan leaned forward on the chair and rested his elbows on his knees, wanting to be even closer to her as she leapt into the air as if a breeze had lifted her off the ground. Smiling, she offered her hand to him and pulled it back quickly before twirling away. Her movements reminded him of a kite being buffeted by the wind. At first the dance was bright and optimistic, her steps playful, her smile soul-crushingly beautiful. Happiness poured out in waves.
Words couldn’t describe what it meant to see her dance so uninhibitedly to his music. To see what the two of them could create together. With her as his inspiration, his fuel tank of ideas would never run on empty.
As the tone changed, her movements became charged. Her hips swayed and her hands travelled the length of her body suggestively, though not at all the way the girls did at The Brass Rail on Yonge Street. Fuck, he hadn’t imagined it was possible to combine grace and sex this way. Lexi ran her tongue along her lower lip before biting it gently. His dick responded.
But then the tone of the music changed and her steps changed with it, her moves becoming angry and jerky and slightly discordant with his notes. She twirled, stopped suddenly, t
hen repeated this motion over and over, mirroring the vicious cycle in which he found himself daily. The look gracing her face was of such sheer sadness that he was of two minds as to whether he should run over and slap the damn laptop shut or keep drinking her in. How could he have drawn her into his misery when she was filled with such a natural light?
Tears pricked the corners of his eyes as she reached her arm out to him desperately. It was hard to explain how he knew, but it was clear she was trying to dance through the storm he’d put down in the notes. How had she been able to understand what he had been unable to express in words? How had she known that as he’d sat down to write, he’d tried desperately to access any kind of capacity for love, to reach the single nugget of life tucked deep in the recess of his soul? Briefly, he’d felt its flickering heat as surely as if it beat in his chest. But he knew, too, that within moments he’d realize the foolishness of those emotions. He could never act upon them, after all. The darkness was too encompassing; it filled so much of him and his life that nobody could ever mine through all the layers of black and dirt to find the gold that Maisey had claimed existed deep within him.
Jordan could barely swallow and didn’t dare to blink. He didn’t want to miss a precious second of the glorious moment somebody finally understood him. When somebody penetrated his shell. As much as he hated himself for bringing out the pain in her, it was the one emotion through which they could connect, bridging the gap between them.
The end of the song was a testament to dealing with all those feelings he laid bare. It slowed, bringing him back to the present. Embarrassment filled him for having spewed everything he felt into four-four time. Acid rose in his throat at having to swallow all those feelings so he could put the mask back on and pretend to function like a normal human being. And, finally, he felt grief creep in for the things he would never get to experience with her.
Lexi’s movements slowed as she folded down to the ground at his feet, resting on her knees with her arms tucked in and her chest folded over. Her forehead was pressed to the floor and her ribs expanded and collapsed at a frantic rate, highlighting the true physical toll her seemingly effortless performance had taken.
Jordan Reclaimed Page 4