CLOSING NIGHT: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series, Book 2 (Standalone)

by Brianna Stark

  Swish.

  They whip their heads in unison, scatter to the sidelines in one breath, and are replaced by new, perfectly formed lines. There’s a brief silence before all ten of Robert’s fingers slam down on the piano keys. Those Buddhist drawing boards come to mind: sand that you swipe clean after agonizing over the perfect symmetry.

  The large round clock hangs on the center of the wall. The black needle ticks. I slide the fingers of one hand into the pocket of a pair of distressed denims, exit the viewing room, and round the corner to wardrobe. My lips curve upward as my hand reaches for the cool steel door.

  Everything is in its place. Last season’s costumes are neatly labeled, washed, and hung on the rack. Drawers: organized. The large white worktable is cleared off except for my tape measure, pen, and scissors, which everyone knows not to mess with.

  I slide a Band of Outsiders biker jacket off my shoulders and hang it on a hook on the wall. I take a seat at the table, paper coffee cup from Fuel in hand, and admire the blank slate.

  I scrape my fingers along my hairline and reminisce. All of the memories and stories—the complete insanity that went down last year—come back to me. With a snort and a roll of my pencil between my fingers, I think, shit, we made it. I shake my head to the image of soloist Branwen O’Hara bracing an injured knee on opening night. We all nearly died. But she killed it in the end. And then… ugh, my stomach turns. I cannot believe I went home with Patrick that night.

  What on earth was I thinking?

  At least I had the brains to cut it short, before we got too carried away.

  I push that uneasy thought neatly away and wonder when I will be able to delete it permanently. It still makes me feel hot and squirmy inside.

  I pull out a fresh bolt of black silk, something I bought on my trip to Milan and have been saving. Maybe it’s time to make something just for shits and giggles, a piece that doesn’t have to abide by all of the limitations imposed by the stage: a costume ultimately takes a back seat to the body and its intricate movements. It’s fall in one of the world’s fashion meccas, and it’s hard not to feel inspired.

  My mind shifts to all of the different directions the fabric can be snipped, measured, and cut and all of the ways the material could hang off the body.

  This is the place I’ve always felt most at home, even though it is probably one of the most modern building designs in all of Manhattan.

  I place the roll of material back on the shelf and pull out a notepad to doodle, caught up in my own little world. A knock at the door rips me back to reality.

  “Come in.”

  I keep my eyes on the image taking form under my fingertips. Class must be over and the dancers on break, so any one of them could pop in for the lowdown or ask me if they gained weight over the break, if I think they have cellulite on their ass. I have heard that question enough times to have a set script answer: “I can always take a picture if you want to check it out yourself.”

  Considering all the skinny asses I have seen over the years, I’ve come to the professional conclusion that there isn’t one on this planet that is completely dimple free, not with all the dieting and working out in the world. If it is, then it’s airbrushed.

  The steel door slides open and closed in one swoosh, and the sound of booted footsteps makes me look up.

  “Morning.” That familiar voice sends a cool breeze over my skin and breaks me out of my concentration.

  Patrick runs his thumbs over the seams of a pair of black Haider Ackermann trouser pockets and tilts his gaze down at me. Damn. That amazing vintage khaki utility jacket, the one I bought him years ago, hangs off of his broad shoulders so perfectly.

  “I should have asked for that jacket back.” I briefly look at him before I force my eyes to return to my drawing, and he places an Americano from my favorite coffee shop on the table.

  “What you working on?”

  “Nothing.” I sit up on my stool and cover the doodle with my fingers. “I should ask what you are doing.” I reach for the paper cup and meet his gaze, which I have mostly avoided. “Thanks for the Americano.”

  “You’re welcome.” He moves in closer so I can smell his musky scent and see the darks in his green eyes lasering through me, as though to remind me of how much I hurt him the last time we were together.

  I decide not to remind him that he hurt me first.

  He presses his plump lips together, leans his back against my table, and crosses his arms over his wide chest. “Cory asked me to help him with his new project, but I thought I should run it by you first.” He flashes me another mixed look.

  “Thank you.” My voice is tight as I reach for my cup. “But… I thought we agreed… last season would be our last time working on the same project.” I avoid looking up.

  “We did, did we?” He crosses one toe-cut booted ankle over the other and pulls in a deep breath. “Because all I remember is you taking off on me without a word of explanation the last time I saw you.”

  “There’s nothing to say.” Nothing that we haven’t been over many times.

  “If you say so.” His jaw tenses along with his gaze, and I look away.

  “I do.” I swallow, trying not to notice his sickening, perfectly dressed body that reeks of pheromones and trying not to think of all of the women that throw themselves at him all of the time. What is it with the attractive men in this building? It is a frigging dance company. That’s just not how it is supposed to be. The way the strands of hair hang messily over his shoulders, his tanned skin, and the thick golden shadow that caresses his jaw express pure alpha male, heats me from the inside.

  “You need a shower. Your hair could really use a wash.” I lift my glasses higher on my nose.

  He smirks. “Avoiding the question, I see.”

  “I didn’t realize that it was a question. All I know is that one of us can’t work here anymore.” I point my gaze into his.

  “And you think that should be me?” His green eyes become slits.

  “Yes.” I cross my arms over my chest. “So you can tell our new artistic director that it’s too bad, but you are unavailable.”

  “I’ll resign once we have a proper conversation about what happened closing night two months ago. You’ve been avoiding my calls, Londyn.”

  “My prerogative.” I cross my legs, and he exhales slowly. I am not about to tell him that seeing that gold record on his wall was a harsh reminder of what he gained, and I lost.

  He pushes his firm body off my desk and shrugs. “I guess you’re just going to have to get used to me being around, then.” He opens the door and shoots me one last hard look before the door shuts behind him. Unfortunately, his pissy mood does nothing to stifle his attractiveness.

  I reach into the pocket of my biker jacket. Fuck. I swear I left myself an emergency smoke in there. I will quit again eventually, just not today. I throw the jacket over my shoulder, make my way to Cory’s office, and knock on the door.

  “Hey, Londyn.” Daniela, one of Driven’s star female leads and Cory’s girlfriend, kisses me on the cheek on her way out. “Looking forward to another gong show of a season at the world’s craziest dance company?”

  “Always.” I wink, feeling my teeth clench.

  “What can I do for you, Londyn?” Cory straightens his posture and clasps his hands on the desk. It’s weird how much he follows in the footstep of Kent Morgan, the former artistic director. He even has the same haircut and wears trendy clothes all in black, like the Alexander McQueen jacket that hangs over the back of his chair. But then again, I guess everyone around here does.

  I clear my throat. How do I say this?

  My eyes roll up to the ceiling for a moment, feeling hot and blurry. What the hell? I make sure the door shuts as Cory patiently waits for what I have to say.

  “I am sorry, Cory, but I just can’t work with him again this year.” I exhale. My shoulders sink, and the pressure behind my eyes builds.

  Cory doesn’t even pretend ignorance. He
just nods his head slowly and clenches his lips in thought. It’s no secret that I have a sore spot where Patrick is concerned. Even if I tried my best to act cool last season on Kent’s behalf, I don’t have it in me to do it again. At Driven we are practically one big family, which is why I am not afraid to send this message to my boss. He is more like a younger brother.

  “No one asked you to work with him, Londyn. You are a costume designer and he is a musician. The two of you will barely cross paths.”

  I let in a deep breath and nod. Cory knows, of course, that both Patrick and I are exceptionally hands-on in the creative process and have to be present at meetings and rehearsals together. Not to mention that we would be working in the same building from time to time. Soon enough, we would be going for lunches together, he’d be casually popping by wardrobe to bring me Americanos, and I’d be asking the dancers if they know who he is flirting with. It would take a lot more than a few rooms and a hallway to keep us from falling into our old patterns. That’s exactly what happened last year, and we almost ended up in bed together.

  “It’s not that simple.” I brush my hair back from my face.

  He sucks hot air into his cheeks, lets it out in one loud flutter of his lips, and leans back in his chair, plopping his chin on his fist and tapping his bottom lip with his pointer finger.

  “I hear you.” He breathes in through his nose. “But I promise I will do my best to make this easy on you. No joint rehearsals, whatever you want, but you know that Patrick is the best at what he does.”

  “I am sorry, but I just can’t do it.” I eye him firmly. I am not going to let this go. Especially since my job description has expanded to become much more than ‘resident costume designer.’ I was the past artistic director’s number-one confidante and a key contributor to many artistic decisions beyond design.

  He taps his finger. Thinking. He pauses, bites down on that same finger, and narrows his gaze into the distance. He plants his arms and feet into the ground to stand up in one sudden move, and then rubs his hands over his face quickly before he sighs.

  Shit, has he ever taken on Kent’s mannerisms. Any minute, he’ll start pacing like a mad man too.

  Cory bites down on his bottom lip and does just that. He paces back and forth while he scrubs his neck in thought, exactly how Kent used to do it.

  He stops pacing and looks me in the eye.

  “That’s not a threat, is it?”

  “No. I don’t know, maybe.” I shake my head. “All I know is it’s either him or me. You’ll just have to decide. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need a smoke.”

  I head straight for the door.

  “Londyn.” Cory looks at me. “Just think about what you’re saying. Don’t you want this production to be a success? You know that the stakes are higher than ever after Kent’s last production raised the bar, and I need all of the assets I can get.”

  “I do, and you’re right. Patrick is the best. I just can’t be near him right now. Which is why I’m the one leaving.” My focus flicks to the ground, and my chest swells. “Sorry.”

  “Hold on a minute. It’s the first day back, and last season was an emotional one. Just think about this before you do anything rash.”

  “I’ve thought about it. You should start looking for someone else to do the costumes. Better yet, I’ll help you,” I say. Cory is stunned into silence. He stares at me with a drooped expression as I leave, not wanting to prolong the moment.

  Next stop: find a damn cigarette.

  A few of the dancers are smoking outside, and I bum a cigarette from Simone. She lights it for me in her tight black suit. “I still can’t believe that Cory is the new choreographer and director. This company is going to shit,” she says. I let out a long stream of smoke after a deep inhale. With a nod, I eye her. I know exactly what she means, and I’m not happy about it either. Not that it’s my worry anymore. “At least you know how to talk some sense into Cory. He won’t listen to us. And you’re the only one who might be able to convince Kent to come back. Have you even tried?”

  The last time I talked to Kent, he and Branwen were decorating their new home in suburbia, running some local dance school, and busy making their very own rug rat. Just the thought made me sick.

  “Nope.” I squint. “Can I bum another smoke? Or make it a few, please.” I hold out my hand and shove the goods into my jacket pocket. “I owe you.” I wink.

  “Then, please, get Kent to come back,” Simone says, like Kent would listen to me. He used to. I used to be the first person he went to for artistic advice, but those days are over.

  Luckily, I won’t be here. I don’t yet have the heart to tell her.

  How bad a choreographer could Cory be? He had set a few works on the company before, and he definitely has potential. But let’s face it: he’s no Kent Morgan, even if he was his protégé. This is yet another example of the Board stepping in and fucking things up. I do not understand why ‘conflict of interest’ does not apply in the arts. Even after everything that happened last year.

  Our most powerful funder is throwing around his weight in more areas than one. Even Daniela has become a women’s rights activist, never mind that her powerful family is the reason Cory has the position he does. I take another drag on the cigarette and lean back against the stairway railing.

  Simone bats her lashes and straightens her posture, and the other dancers spread flirty smiles when Patrick props a booted foot on the step in front of us.

  “Ladies.” He nods, with a shrug of his bangs behind his ear.

  “Brrr.” I shiver. “For early September, you can sure feel the chill.” I stand up and excuse myself. None of the dancers seem to notice. They are too busy checking out Patrick. But he nods at them and follows me inside.

  His warm hand lands on the top of my arm, and I jump.

  “Are you going to give me the cold shoulder through this whole process?” His lashes lower before he looks in my eyes. “Because I really appreciate you, and I really enjoy working with you, and I thought we might have even become ‘friends’ over the past year.”

  His translucent-green gaze washes over me.

  “I’m quitting.”

  He flinches, and then tensely rakes his fingers through his hair. “Why?”

  “Because I told Cory I wouldn’t work with you, and it didn’t look like he would consider replacing you. Plus, the company needs you.” I look down at the ground in the lobby. Renee answers the phone in the corner, but her brow steeples in our direction before she looks away. I shift my focus back to Patrick.

  “Gotta go.” I suck in a breath and make my way to the elevator. “To collect my things.” My eyes sting as I say it, and I look straight at the elevator doors while I wait for them to open.

  “Sorry, babe,” he whispers. “This is my fault. If anyone quits, it’ll be me.”

  The elevator door swings open and we both step in.

  “What floor?” I stare at the ground.

  “Three.” He clears his throat, and his jaw tics. Cory’s office is on the third floor.

  “What are you doing there?” I keep my eyes down.

  “Telling Cory I’m no longer available.” He grinds his teeth together and lets out a breath in one long hiss. My stomach balls with regret; it’s like a heavy weight is sinking down to troll the bottom. But it’s exactly what I’ve been hoping for, isn’t it?

  “I didn’t mean to…”

  “No problem, babe. Didn’t want the job anyway—I’m kinda busy.”

  Right. “The record label deal.” How could I forget?

  His hot focus swells down on me apologetically, making it hard for me to be mad. “Like I said, don’t worry, babe. I’ll take care of this. You don’t have to go anywhere.” His gaze turns tense as he steps out of the elevator.

  “Patrick—” I sigh.

  He grabs the elevator door with one strong hand before it closes, waiting for what I have to say.

  3

  I’d have left this place a
long time ago if it not for the dancers. I know every single one of their secrets. Instead of the words ‘resident designer’ written on the wardrobe door, it should read, ‘resident psychiatrist.’ When those wide-eyed, skinny, beautiful, and—let’s face it—neurotic creatures knock on my door, sometimes even before I roll out my tape measure, they slip off their clothes and break down.

  Maybe it’s to do with their hang-ups over their bodies, or because their costumes indicate the role they were given instead of the role their heart was set on. Or maybe, as I prefer to believe, they just feel comfortable around me. This wardrobe is a safe place, because there’s no one else around to tease them or judge them for how they really feel.

  Whatever it is, they let their guard down when they are in my wardrobe. And even when they come in here with crossed arms, quivering lips, and jumbo tears rolling down their cheeks—over casting, or the latest scandal—they usually leave with a smile. I know enough gossip on everyone in this building to let them in on a thing or two, which often makes them just a little more self-assured. At the least it makes them laugh.

  Even if I want to walk out on the whole thing—and the idea of going through another creative process with Patrick close by turns my guts inside out—could I really let the dancers down, or jeopardize the company in any way? They need me. And Patrick is the best composer around. He knows the company’s aesthetic unlike anyone else. And his music is unlike anyone else’s. It’s intelligent, melodic, gritty, and emotionally charged. Perfect for dance. Especially for the kind of dance that Driven is famous for.

  My chest fills with air. “You don’t have to quit. I already did. It’s done.” My throat knots as I say it.

  Patrick’s eyes darken from the other side of the elevator doors. Simone and the other dancers who were outside earlier huddle into the elevator in their tight black suits. A few of them arch their brows and lift the corners of their lips into flirty smirks at Patrick. Who could blame them? Even if there are a few other gorgeous men in this building, they are all but taken, and the women far outnumber them.