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

by Brianna Stark

  For this reason, I stop myself from rushing over to console him, because god knows, there are countless ways I would like to do just that.

  Patrick curses again before pacing the stretch of the wardrobe, his hand furiously rubbing his jaw, and then sits his butt back on a stool at my table, pressing the weight of his head into his elbows. I turn my focus to the checklist in front of me that may as well be a blank piece of paper for all I care.

  “You look seriously fuckable in that mini skirt.” He lets out a hard sigh, and I have to keep myself from looking back at him.

  “Thanks.” My voice is clipped but probably not hiding the heightened emotions surging through me. I try to zone in on the work sheet in front of me while reminding myself to breathe.

  “I’m sorry, Londyn.” His shoulders drop along with his breath.

  “Please stop saying that.” I squirm in my seat. I hate it when he apologizes, because it makes me feel… bad?

  There’s another long stretch of silence where I stand up and take a look at the next costume on my list, still attempting to focus on something other than this impossible situation.

  “There was something you wanted, a favor?” His voice is searching.

  “It’s not a big deal.” I run my fingertips over the costume with my back toward him, and not just because it kills me to look at him. He can’t know that I have tears in my eyes.

  “Tell me.” His voice lowers until it’s a soft whisper.

  “I was going to ask you to get a hold of Kent for me, but then I realized it’s not my place to ask favors of you.” I place my hands on the garment in front of me.

  “Why Kent?” Killer soft.

  “The shoot he arranged at NY Style magazine… well, they won’t go ahead unless Mr. Morgan himself is there.” I roll my eyes as I say it. “But don’t worry about it. I will figure it out.” I always do.

  “Huh.” Patrick smirks a raspy bedroom smirk. “Everyone wants a piece of that fucker, don’t they?”

  “Pretty much.” I turn around now that I have had a little time to compose myself and place my hands back on the clipboard resting on the table. “Look, forget I said anything. I have it handled. If the NY Style spread doesn’t go through, maybe something will come of the Terry Brunette shoot.”

  “You have a shoot with Terry Brunette?” Patrick raises a brow, perking up.

  “He contacted me after your shoot, wanting to see my designs. You didn’t have anything to do with that, did you?”

  “Cool.” Patrick looks off into the distance, and then it’s as if my last question registers. “Me?” He shakes his head. “No, I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  For some reason I’m in doubt. Nonetheless, if I hadn’t been at Patrick’s album cover photo shoot, if it hadn’t been for Patrick, I wouldn’t have met Terry Brunette at all.

  Patrick rubs his jaw in concentration. “I just talked to Kent the other day. He and Branwen are learning to surf. Have you ever thought of surfing?”

  “Not a chance.” I laugh.

  I am not surprised that Kent and Patrick keep in touch. Kent and I were good friends, but Patrick is someone Kent truly admires for his artistry. Even if Kent was shutting the rest of us out, Patrick is one person he wouldn’t turn his back on. But I can’t help but wonder: if Kent is still talking to Patrick, maybe hasn’t distanced himself from the artistic sphere as much as it seems.

  “He doesn’t return my calls.” I look down.

  “Seriously?” Patrick’s brow crumples. “I am going to give him a piece of my mind.” Patrick stands up. “Does he have any idea what you did for his career? That guy has a very short memory, if you ask me.” He pushes himself off the stool.

  “Don’t forget your hat.” I try to be civil.

  “Thanks.” His lips curve into a crooked smile that has me forgetting about everything, momentarily. He secures the stylish hat on his head. He could be right out of the pages of NY Style.

  “Uh, Londyn?” Patrick licks his lips, his focus flashing down to my legs in the short skirt once again.

  “Yes?” I look up at him from my clipboard, and his eyes melt over me in that way they do, and I can’t deny it gives me a little shiver. I can’t deny that I love it when he looks at me like he wants to suck the flesh off my bones.

  “What is it, Patrick?” I toss my hair over my shoulders and lean against the table as his gaze lowers over my body before coming back up to meet me head-on. I swallow. With one look, he can make me totally aroused. If only things were different.

  I wonder if he has forgotten that tomorrow is exactly one week from the day we agreed on our “one night” plan–slash–attempt at closure. If he has, it is probably for the best.

  “Nothing.”

  His Adam’s apple takes a deep dive down his throat and back up under his smooth skin. “I’ll let you know when I get a hold of Kent.” His lips curve into a distracted smile before he leaves, and I realize too late what he’s just said.

  Get it together, Londyn. There’s too much work to do to obsess over Patrick right now. I mark the clipboard on my table between pulling out each and every one of the remaining costumes.

  I am almost through the entire rack when there’s a knock at the door.

  “Didn’t know if it was safe in here,” Lexi teases, and my cheeks warm. The last time she waltzed through the steel door, Patrick’s lips were where they shouldn’t be.

  “It’s fine, just working on some repairs. What’s up?” I press my lips together, letting her know I don’t have all day, even if I always make time for the dancers whether I feel like it or not.

  “Thought I would give you the scoop on what’s been going down in the studio, but if you’re too busy, it’s okay.”

  “Have a seat.” I nod, placing the pencil and clipboard in my hands on the table.

  Lexi runs her fingers through her dark hair and takes a seat across from me.

  “Cory’s hired two new dancers and fired three.” She shakes her head. “And Daniela’s been taking over rehearsals. Is she some kind of rehearsal master now?” Lexi’s eyes blink in disbelief.

  “I don’t know.” I bite down on my bottom lip. “So who did he fire?” I’m partially in the conversation and otherwise distracted by recurring thoughts.

  “Man, I feel so bad for them. Cory’s being a first-class prick lately.” She sighs. Maybe she does feel bad. “I really like Natalie, and Melanie’s been with the company, like, forever…oh, and he hired some super-hot guy from City Ballet. And… I have a feeling all the dancers he hired except one is male.” Lexi’s brow crumples.

  “Who was the other dancer Cory fired?” I push back my hair, trying to focus on the conversation.

  “Oh, um… Rebecca.” Lexi clears her throat. “She’s been with the company forever, very talented, but for some reason I’m not surprised about that one.” Lexi bites down on her bottom lip, looks at the clock on the wall, and jumps off the stool. “Shit, I’m going to be late for rehearsal!” She blows me a kiss and shuffles out the door in her tight black one-piece suit.

  Effing Cory fired effing Rebecca. I could kill him. But my phone decides to ring. It’s NY Style magazine.

  “Ms. Cassidy would like to speak with you.” A voice that sounds like the receptionist from my meeting at NY Style is on the other end. After a moment’s pause, Ms. Cassidy’s voice is ringing through the other end in a regal “Hello,” and before I can say anything in return, she adds, “I just wanted to let you know that we are extending your spread to eight pages. Next time you are in, I would like to discuss some other opportunities at NY Style with you.”

  “That’s great.” I feel my brow wrinkle and wonder if I should ask why or just leave it alone and take what I can get. I might need to pinch my cheeks later to make sure this moment is for real.

  “Gosh, Kent Morgan is as dreamy over the phone, isn’t he?” She sighs and adds, “There’s just something about him, an air of mystery, a charm, a dominance…” The last word comes ou
t as more of a growl than the rest. “Whatever it is, he certainly knows how to get what he wants.”

  She didn’t have to tell me that I had a front row seat to the charms of Kent Morgan for years and witnessed how everyone melted to his tune like butter, whether it was the dancers, sponsors, the Board, press, or the millions of fans worldwide. He was a master, and he managed to do it in a way that made you feel like he was not only a good guy but one of the world’s greatest artists—which he was. I am happy to report that I am one of the few members of the female sex immune to his charms, and perhaps that’s why we became close friends.

  Once Ms. Cassidy and I say our goodbyes, there are a few things that occupy my mind. I am not too happy about the fact that I officially owe Patrick a huge thank you. I also wonder if there’s a small chance in hell I can convince Kent to save this company from Cory once we are face to face.

  I decide to avoid the front steps for the rest of the day, because gossip and chain-smoking are both weaknesses, and I should know better. Besides, for once I really don’t feel like engaging in either. Not lying.

  Once I am through the entire rack of costumes, I let out a sigh of relief and roll my knotted shoulders before putting the clipboard away and clearing my table. Everyone has left the building, and many of the lights are out. I lock up and head out. The steps are the emptiest they have been in a while. You can almost feel the ghosts, the rumors, the heartbreak, and the speculations circling in the cool air.

  I step down the stairs and cross the street, deciding to have one drink on the way to the metro home. I could sure use one, and as much as I love my tiny but well-designed digs, I can’t bear the idea of another lonely night in my Brooklyn apartment.

  I sit at the bar and order a double whisky on the rocks. The strong drink burns the back of my throat and sends a zing up my nostrils. I let out a sigh, crossing my platform-footed legs at the bar. All good. It was just another day of insanity at Driven Dance Theater. And insanity is what we artists love and live for, is it not?

  I take another sip, reach into my bag for my phone, and flick my finger over it, so badly wanting to call Patrick and tell him the latest on Cory’s shenanigans and to thank him for helping me out with Kent. I want to know how Kent is doing anyway.

  I start composing an apology text to Kent while polishing off my glass and ordering another. But I can’t think of the right words. “I’m sorry I didn’t understand why you gave everything up, just when the world had become your oyster.” Terrible. How about, “Just when you had changed the way the world looks at art…” Nope, those words won’t do.

  Dancers are probably better at speaking their feelings than I am. And even though I want to apologize to Kent, I guess I am still pissed at him for leaving the way he did and pawning us all off on Cory.

  While I’m staring at my phone, another text comes in:

  What are you doing?

  My lips curve upward when I see who it’s from. I can’t help but type back: Just sitting at the bar by myself like a loser, drinking Jack Daniels.

  My phone beeps back right away: Where?

  Should I tell him? I type: The Distillery. It’s a popular lounge with the dancers, a few blocks from Driven and near the subway station.

  My finger rests on the send button. Should I? I squeeze my eyes shut. What the hell. I hold my breath and press send.

  Patrick shows up no more than twenty minutes later, wearing my favorite utility jacket and smelling delicious. He kisses me on the cheek before he takes a seat beside me.

  “You know that jacket seriously does it for me. Is that why you’re always wearing it?” I say, feeling a bit of a glow.

  “It reminds me of better times.” Patrick wraps his long fingers around a bottle of import beer, nods at the bartender, and tucks a strand of dirty blond hair behind his ear.

  “What’s on your mind, Londyn?” He licks his full lips and his green eyes burn into me. I am in so much trouble.

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Cory effing fired Rebecca, and I owe you a big thank you, but honestly… I am having a really hard time with it,” I say, my vision suddenly blurry and my voice choked. That didn’t take long. Somewhere in the back of my rational mind, I know that hanging out with Patrick when I am juiced is a really bad idea. It’s just that I didn’t feel so tipsy when I sent the text. His thick gaze is resting where it always is: on me. God, I’ve missed that. And I’ve missed the way we are sitting so close that I can smell the sweet musky scent of his skin and the clean odor of his clothes.

  “You don’t have to thank me for anything,” he says. “I am sorry about Rebecca. I know how close you two were.”

  “It makes no sense to me why Cory never gave Rebecca the time of day, even after she went through all that shit last year.” I wrap my fingers around my glass and take a sip.

  “That was rough.” Patrick’s eyes slit as he sips on his bottle of beer. I am looking down when I get this funny feeling.

  “You don’t know anything that I don’t know, do you?” My brow wrinkles as Patrick’s fingers slide over his bottle of beer and he lets out a hard exhale.

  “Sometimes people get left behind, Londyn. It’s the nature of the business.”

  “Well, it shouldn’t be.” I meet his heated gaze.

  “Anyway, I don’t care about Cory or Rebecca. All I care about is you.” His voice is firm. Deep.

  Our gazes lock. The way we are shifting closer together on our stools so our knees touch combined with my lack of inhibition is doing something to me.

  I place my hand on his muscular thigh, and feel it flex. I let my fingers slide farther up the grain of his black pants, having no idea what I am doing. Maybe having one last night together is still the best form of closure.

  Maybe.

  That or I am totally loaded.

  “Did I tell you I liked your album?” I swallow.

  His gaze flares as we move closer. I pull away from the warmth of his flesh and close my eyes, moving my hand toward his. I sense his raw hesitation.

  When I open my eyes, his are flashing their darkest shade of green. He looks away as his knuckles whiten around the bottle of beer.

  “No, you didn’t.” He swallows, holding our tense gaze.

  Because I can’t help myself, and have lost my mind, I press my fingertips to the rough bristles covering his jaw. I hear a tight, hoarse moan from deep in his throat and sense the tension in his breath.

  I inhale. Deeply. “It was…” I place my hand on his. “How do I say it? Your music makes me want things I shouldn’t want.” I look up at him, weak all over.

  Then I realize it’s now or never, since there are two opposing forces battling inside me. I go with the first impulse that comes to me. Maybe because the alcohol is seriously loosening my inhibitions, or because the thing that has been building up in me for what feels like forever will not stay contained any longer.

  In a moment of insanity, I lift off the stool and tug on the hand gripped in mine with a suggestive nod. He gives me a cautious look, as though he is assessing the situation, before he follows my lead down a back hall. My instincts take over, along with my raw need. Desperation. I cannot wait any longer, especially not for him to make the first move. Our eyes lock as I lead him into the ladies’ room. He shakes his head, giving me a look like I’m crazy, but he’s wickedly smiling at the same time. It’s the same cocky Patrick Moss smile that drives me, and probably a lot of other female fans, mad. And I might be smiling too. I push open the door to an empty stall, pull him in with me, and lock the door.

  Holy crap.

  Who am I right now? I gulp as we stand face to face, and he pins me into the metal before I can question myself further. He crushes his lips to mine.

  9

  I slide my fingers around Patrick’s neck and through his hair before I reach for the zipper of his jeans.

  I am really doing this?

  Yes.

  There isn’t anything I want more.

  Our lips part. Hi
s fingers reach under my blouse to unclasp my bra.

  I hike up my skirt, and he unzips his pants. Fuck, yes. I place my hands on his hard cock. Good. This is all happening fast, like I need it to. Yet I am breathless.

  Anticipation.

  His teeth and hot breath graze my neck.

  He moans inside my mouth as our lips join.

  “It’s time, baby,” I beg.

  One. Last. Night.

  Our noses bump as we part. He lifts me under the hips, and I press my hands against his shoulders, adjusting myself higher.

  Ready.

  But…

  He stops.

  With a clench of his fist and flutter of his lashes, he lets out a frustrated curse, his hot breath heating my neck. He lowers me to my feet.

  “Shit,” he hisses.

  “What is it, Patrick?” I whisper as he inhales through his nose, his eyelids slamming together.

  “Sure you want to do this, babe?” His eyes blink open and his gaze forces itself into mine.

  What? My jaw drops as a hidden fury in my chest rises. Heat fills my cheeks like molten lava fissures. I’m stunned. How dare he?

  “Now you choose to think soberly? Now, Patrick?” I huff as I yank my skirt straight and turn around to unlatch the lock.

  “Hold up, baby.” His hand clasps my arm, but I push on.