“Sure.” I nod, turning away. “I just have to see what Kent is up to. You know that he is not to be trusted, artistically speaking,” I mouth to Branwen, excusing myself, and roll the tension from my shoulders once I’m out of their proximity.
There’s already a small group of admirers crowding around Kent, asking him for his autograph, something that never happens at a shoot like this. It’s pathetic. The style director introduces herself as Rachel Ford, and Ms. Cassidy rushes through the door in a Chanel suit. Again, it is totally unorthodox for her to be here, but I am not surprised. She was the one who made the “no Kent—no shoot” deal.
There are way too many cooks in this kitchen. The dancers start pouring in two by two, and the room is starting to look more like an after party with no one in charge than a photo-op for one of the country’s premier magazines. Then I spot the photographer Ben Chamber and introduce myself as he continues setting lights. He points me to his assistant, Sasha Lane.
Sasha asks me to round up the dancers, and I try to wave over Kent, but he is being hounded. Branwen and Patrick are standing in the back, quietly watching over the scene. When I flash a look their way, Patrick nudges her and nods in my direction, and I half-smile at him for helping out. Branwen rushes to my rescue in her high heels and nods eagerly as I let her in on the scoop.
“I’ve got this.” She starts gathering the dancers and going over sections of choreography, while the photographer and crew start adjusting the lights to the heights of their leaps and framing each pose. One by one, dancers opt out to have their makeup done.
When the positions for the first image are set, the dancers slip into their first costumes and hold their positions for a long time while the crew finish the adjustments. Once that’s done, their makeup is touched up and they are requested to do the same high leaps and extensions over and over again. I can just imagine how sore they are going to be tomorrow, and the process has barely started. Once everyone has fallen into their role, Ms. Cassidy manages to corner Kent for herself. I am proud of how I manage to keep myself from being distracted by Patrick. I guess being crazy busy helps, and he’s been keeping a low profile. He really is trying to keep our deal. Kudos. It is for the best, even if I desperately miss him, aware of his presence at every moment. Time will hopefully fix that.
When everything is in motion, my task seems to be non-existent. An NY Style assistant, who is lower key than Ben’s assistant Sasha, offers me a coffee.
“Coffee sounds fantastic, but an Americano would be absolutely mad.” I pull a face, and she gives me an understanding smile. Then I admire the job the dancers, Branwen, and the stylist are doing. Who ever said designing for dance wasn’t just as noteworthy as being a fashion designer? Because I can tell this is going to be the most beautiful feature NY Style has ever produced.
“I’ll be right back.” The assistant looks as though she has an idea, and I nod. For now, all I have left to do is enjoy the fruits of my labors.
That’s until Simone rushes over with a frown, pointing to her crotch and the massive run bleeding down the inside of her leg.
A dancer knows how to ruin a costumes designer’s day. That’s when the assistant shows up with my Americano and a sweet smile on her face. “Oh my god, thank you,” I mouth, totally surprised, taking the hot drink into my hands. “And”—I bite my lip—“do you think you could help me out with a problem?” She nods as I let her in on Simone’s issue. I am going to take the rare opportunity to be able to hand it off to someone else. Today I am the designer, and I don’t have to worry about spilt crotches, who is on the rag, who might have to run to the bathroom and need help out of their costume, or any other emergencies. This is an NY Style magazine shoot and not Driven Dance Theater’s insanity of a backstage.
I sip on my Americano and make my way to the door to sneak out for a smoke, because it feels like this day could very possibly go on forever and ever.
I walk down the stairs and step onto the street, nearly jump when I see who’s standing there.
“Sorry.” Patrick shifts on his feet. “I thought I would hang outside to give you some space, but I can go back in.”
My eyes hit the ground and I bite my lip before looking back up at him. He rubs the back of his neck as our eyes make contact. The same raw emotion is there, just like all the other times we have crossed paths in the past year.
Time, I remind myself. Time heals all… Except in Mom’s case.
“Thanks.” I press my lips together and look away.
Patrick nods and takes a step toward the front door. When I look back at him, he disappears inside.
I finish my smoke, butt it out, and head inside. The photo shoot is still in full swing, and Patrick is nowhere in sight, but Branwen and Kent are both leading the choreography now, and smiling back and forth as a team. The dancers look exhausted as they repeat their grueling movements over and over again to catch that perfect shot. It’s still weird to see Kent smile. He used to be the stoic, no-messing-around, scary-director type, but not anymore. The dancers seem to be working hard anyway, though.
Patrick enters my line of sight. He’s in the back corner, sitting on the couch by himself, rubbing the bristles on his jaw. I make my way over there in a moment of insanity, thinking I should say something to him, like, “We don’t have to act so weird around each other. We can still be friends.” Yet being friends isn’t an option. Maybe we can continue to give each other space and just act a little friendlier to each other. God, I am being an ass around him, but I’m so vulnerable, so raw, even extra-shy ever since our night together, and everything had become so awkward. This might be a good time for a little humor, something to break the ice. I could always tell him about my fitting with Lake Leduc—or how about today’s crotch episode, and the poor assistant who had to deal with it?
Ugh. This is ridiculous.
I shake it off and start making my way to the back corner of the room, where Patrick sits. But when I muster up the courage to look into Patrick’s eyes, Ben Chamber calls for a ten-minute coffee break and Sasha Lane magically appears from the refreshment stand with two coffees in her hands, wearing in a very sexy pair of Tom Ford heels. She curves her lips upward into a flirty smile and hands Patrick a coffee.
Lost in some kind of daze, he blinks up at her and takes the coffee, his lips curving up slightly, and she sits down beside him.
Stopped in my tracks, I clutch the menswear garment rack meant for Kent, swallow my held breath, and make myself look busy. Shit, Londyn.
Patrick and the lovely Sasha are hitting it off as I foolishly seek his attention. Hot and flustered, I scan the room for my bag and go in for another smoke. The NY Style assistant from earlier leans over my shoulder as I crouch down and dig in my handbag, and asks me if I want another Americano.
“Sure, unless you have any brand of whisky. Or tequila would do in a pinch.”
I wrinkle my brow in humiliation, but she nods in understanding, and I just pray that she might actually come back with a hard drink. “Make it a double,” I mouth, and then beeline to the fire escape door that I have recently discovered and hope no one else has. The hard drinks will find me there if it is in fact legal for me to be served alcohol during a work day.
I suck on my cigarette, running my fingers tensely through the ends of my hair, and mentally hit myself for trying to mend things with Patrick when this is what I begged him for all along. I told him over and over again to leave me alone, getting so distraught about the fact that he hadn’t respected my wishes. But now I’m wondering if I wanted him to disrespect them all along.
I roll my eyes to myself, the smoke propped between my two fingers as I press it to my lips. A few minutes later Shelly finds me hidden on the fire escape. She is pretty amazing, especially when she hands me a paper coffee cup. My heart lifts in appreciation, taking the cup from her.
“Thanks.” I force a smile, and press the coffee to my lips. All I need is more caffeine right? Not that I’m complaining.
&
nbsp; The liquid burns my lips and tongue, the vapors lift into the back of my nostrils. Oh my god. Shelly is my hero. She put whisky in my coffee cup. Brilliant! And judging by the weight of the cup, there are definitely more than one or two shots in here.
I open the fire escape door and step back into the madness, clutching my booze-filled life preserver in my hand. I decide out of sheer horror not to allow my vision to so much as graze the back right corner of the studio. Thankfully, the photo shoot is back in session, and the style director has a few notes to go over as I take inauspicious sips of my coffee, nodding in concentration.
By the time the day comes to a welcome conclusion, I’ve got a little bit of a glow.
“We’re going for a drink.” Branwen catches her breath.
“Thanks for all your work today. You killed that choreography.” I compliment Branwen, and her lips curve up into a mischievous grin.
“It was kind of fun being back in the saddle.” She tilts her head. “Don’t tell Kent I said that.” She winks, and I zipper my lips together. “I’ll go find Kent, meet you downstairs?” She is on her way.
I make my rounds to the NY Style staff, photographer, and the dancers, thanking everyone for all their hard work and blowing air kisses to the peeps across the room that I miss. Then I locate my leather jacket and slide my arms in, successfully avoiding the far corner of the room that Patrick has been occupying.
The shoot feels like a success, even if we’ve yet to see the photos. The mood, choreography, positions, lighting, and angles all captured the essence of Kent’s work and were in line with my own personal aesthetic, which isn’t an easy thing to capture. I have very particular tastes and extremely high standards that often veer from the traditional, and I am impressed that the magazine followed suit rather than going off on their own tangent.
The thing that keeps me from being too excited, I suppose, is that it wasn’t really my shoot at all, like I thought it would be. Just like everything else at Driven, it was all about the team, about the studio, and about the genius of Kent Morgan and ‘the dance,’ even if it is a feature in a fashion magazine. My name will be spelled out in the column beside each one of my designs, but somehow it feels like my designs, as usual, are taking a backseat. But I am not going to focus on that. Sometimes there isn’t anything that compares to being part of a team.
People are walking past me in silence as I lean against the painted white brick wall. I pull out a smoke and light it while waiting for Branwen and Kent. Blocking out the traffic noise, I inhale the scent of freshly brewed coffee coming from a coffee house next door.
Patrick and Sasha Lane walk out of the building next, and I swallow hard, keeping my eyes firmly planted on the cars zooming by.
“Nice meeting you,” Sasha says to Patrick in a sickening flirty tone. “I can’t wait to hear your album.”
I can imagine the sexy smirk on Patrick’s face. I suck back another drag, and from the corner of my eye, Sasha tucks a small piece of paper into Patrick’s back pocket.
She wraps her jacket over her shoulders and slowly steps down the street, looking back at him in her sexy high heels. “More errands for Ben.” She winks at Patrick, suggesting they already share an inside joke.
I butt out my cigarette. Sasha was the only one who didn’t congratulate me on the designs, the shoot, and our work that day in general, but I guess hanging around Patrick is distracting.
Where the hell are you, Branwen? I lift my shoulders and tuck my hands in my pockets, but Patrick’s gaze finds me.
“You should be happy.” Patrick clears his throat. “Everything went well.”
“Yeah.” I keep looking away and down the street at the people walking by, the outdoor seating at a few restaurants and bars, the newspaper stand, and a market with fresh fruits and vegetables and buckets of colorful flowers.
“I wouldn’t have come… but Kent insisted. You know what he’s like.” Patrick presses his full lips together and leans back into the wall on the other side of the door from me.
I reach for another cigarette. “You don’t have to explain anything.” My vision is going burry as I clear my throat. “Obviously, we are going to cross paths, and it’s not like you are pursuing me anymore. You’ve made it clear you are moving on, that you’ve kept your promise.”
My focus locks on the gritty cement sidewalk in front of me as I light up.
There’s a heavy silence suspended between us.
“As you wanted.” Patrick’s voice is hoarse.
“Ha.” I smirk and tilt my head back against the wall, closing my eyes before I reopen them to glance over at him. He’s facing forward, as I was, and the muscles in his jaw are tight.
Finally, Kent and Branwen push out of the doorway with smiles from ear to ear, looking as handsome as ever.
“That was fun, wasn’t it, babe?” Branwen tugs on Kent’s hand, and then looks at Patrick and I. “Why are you two looking so grim? Did someone die?” She wrinkles her brow.
“Nah,” Patrick says through his teeth. He reaches in to kiss her on the cheek and holds out his knuckles for Kent to bump. “I have to get going. Fucking fantastic to see you, bro, and Branwen…” Patrick nods. “You’re looking as gorgeous as ever.”
He’s acting cool, but his green eyes look torn.
“You can’t leave. We’re going for drinks!” Branwen plants her hands on her hips.
“Come on, man.” Kent’s smile drops. “Whatever you have to do can wait. You’re coming with us.”
Patrick turns his dark focus to me, saying, I am doing this for you.
“Yeah, Patrick, one drink.” I tilt my head in agreement, and then curse to myself when they all look away.
“Great!” Branwen says, hailing a cab.
We get out on Tenth Street in the West Village. Branwen and I poke our heads into Anine Bing’s shop, and then Castor & Pollux, before meeting up with the guys at Highlands, where they have managed to score us four seats at the bar. Branwen slides in next to Kent with all her shopping bags, and I take a seat beside her. Patrick has the seat at the far end of the bar next to Kent.
Kent orders us each a different type of Scotch off the list of one hundred.
“Patrick picked this place. I guess he knows your drink of choice,” she says, totally oblivious, as she takes a sip of her hard drink and puckers. “Try this.” She hands me her glass. Patrick pushes his full glass down to the far end where I’m sitting. I tilt my gaze up. Our eyes catch, and when I take the glass into my hand, our fingertips brush. I press my lips to the smooth surface, feeling conscious of my every move as he watches me. The amber liquid hits my upper lip as I swallow, and then I hand the glass to Branwen, but she lifts her nose and passes it back to Patrick.
Branwen and I catch up while Kent and Patrick engage in a more serious conversation. I don’t grasp much of what they are talking about beyond the odd muffled word. Every once in a while, when Branwen leans back and Kent turns a certain way, Patrick’s gaze sears me as his fingers stroke his glass.
He’s watching me.
“Don’t you miss dancing?” I ask Branwen. She pulls back in her seat and widens her eyes.
“Sometimes.” She winces. “But I must admit, I am enjoying the time away more than I thought I would. I mean, it’s been so great for Kent to get away from all of the pressure. He’s a totally different person.” She shakes her head, sipping on a champagne cocktail, and I nurse my Scotch. “Though,” she says, shrugging, “dance will always be a part of me—and, yeah, I miss it.” She looks over her shoulder at Kent, who seems tense, zoning in on Patrick as he nods.
Patrick swipes his rough jaw with his fingers and looks at me from the corner of his eye. I quickly look down and wrap my fingers around my drink.
“So how’s it going with Cory being the man in charge?” Branwen asks, noticing that Kent is still focused on his chat with Patrick and might be for a while. I look up at Branwen and meet Patrick’s gaze once again as Branwen leans back in her chair and looks a
t me intently. It’s hard to focus on Branwen when it feels like Patrick’s presence is taking over the whole room, but I force myself back to the topic at hand.
“Don’t get me started.”
“That bad, huh?” Branwen looks down. “Shit.” She shakes her head. “That was the one thing that made me very uncomfortable about Kent’s departure. The company was his whole identity, his whole life at one time—and Cory?”
Need she say more?
“That damn Board.” I sigh. “No wonder Kent threw his arms in the air and called it a day, the way they were pushing him around. And that horrible Charles Anderson scandal. They had his hands tied, but man, the company is screwed without him.” I’ve said too much. If I keep up the guilt trip, they both might cut me out of their lives, seeing how they are on a mission to escape the demands of the limelight.
“You don’t think he would consider coming back, do you?” My brow knots as I sip.
“I don’t know.” Branwen bites down on her lip, looking torn and much less joyful than she has been the rest of the day.
I quickly change the topic. “Forget about Driven. Tell me about your life. I heard you guys have taken up surfing and are running a dance school?”
Branwen smiles brightly. “Yeah, and we’ve been doing some traveling, which has been great. We just got back from Thailand, Bali, and India—incredible. The beauty of it was that it was the first time in my life I’ve gone somewhere without having to perform.”
“That must have felt good,” I say.
“You have no idea.” Branwen’s lips curve into a smile as she tells me all about the food, the ashrams, elephant rides, and the beaches, and… “The colors and materials would blow you away. You have to go.”
“One day.” I nod, pursing my lips together when I think about the trip Patrick and I were supposed to take before we broke up, and how I changed my flight and went to Italy on my own instead. It was totally unlike me.
Branwen turns away, placing her hand on Kent’s. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
CLOSING NIGHT: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series, Book 2 (Standalone) Page 13