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

by Brianna Stark

  “Sure thing.” I peer into the car, but I can’t see through the windows, and when she opens the door, she slides in so quickly that the car is weaving through traffic before I can make out anything, or anyone.

  “I don’t even want to know.” Cory waves a hand over his shoulder, standing in the window. His straight posture and broad shoulders are a black shadow against the skyscraper-filled skyline.

  I didn’t sleep well last night. I am not in the mood for this.

  I zip my lips and wait for him to hit me with whatever is on his mind.

  “You are looking at me in that way. Everyone looks at me in that way.” He finally turns around and takes a seat. “Daniela’s solo is too overpowering. There is chemistry between Rick and Simone, real chemistry,” he gripes.

  “I liked it.” I tilt my head in an unconvincing way. I’m lying. I hate the fact that we can’t just make something beautiful, sweet, and filled with love, unlike the addition of Daniela’s solo.

  I hate that heartbreak has the leading role in the cast of players once again. But my opinion isn’t important.

  “You hated it.” Cory throws his head back into the chair, slamming his lids shut. “I need you to do me a favor.” He bends his neck so his chin is horizontal again and looks me in the eye.

  I am not crazy about the look in his eye.

  “I need you to talk to Kent.”

  “He doesn’t return my calls.”

  “If we get Kent to talk to the Harringtons and the rest of the board, maybe the Harringtons will stop trying to dictate the creative process. He still has an honorary position, and everyone actually listens to him, unlike me.”

  I let out a heavy sigh. Through the window it’s sunny, and the gray buildings are all standing perfectly erect. They never sway. They never bend.

  “You’re wearing all black.” I nod at his get-up.

  “I love black. I just realized it. I despise anything that isn’t black.” His smile is weak.

  “The duet captured something… but it’s not real, none of this is,” I sigh. Something has me feeling depressed.

  “Londyn.” Cory eyes me. “Don’t get weird on me now. I need you.”

  “Why me?”

  “I trust you. Everyone trusts you. You are the fucking thread that holds this place together.”

  “No,” I say, not being modest. “The choreography is coming together. You are more talented than you thought—or I thought, honestly. It surprises me. I really don’t know as much as I pretend to. Though I think you could stop focusing so much on the Daniela solo. The dynamic is good—was good: two people in love, a third person enters and splits them apart, but does that third person have to take over completely? Does it have to be the Daniela show, or can love still conquer?”

  Cory starts pacing. His gaze narrows, and he furiously rubs his jaw. He looks up at me. His eyes are dark, the way Kent’s used to get dark, even though it has nothing to do with the color inside. It strikes me how undesirable a job as artistic director is, especially when the artistic director is also the resident choreographer. And I thought my job had pressures.

  “I need to believe that love wins. I need to believe that at the end of the day—no matter how fucked up things get, how far we are pushed—that love always wins. I think our audience needs that too. But…” He looks out the window.

  “Daniela,” I say.

  “Yes.” He grits his teeth.

  “Yet, you love her.” I tilt my head.

  His eyes blink open, and I try to read them. “Do you really think I can make it big?” There’s desperation in his voice.

  “Not if you make the wrong choices in the important moments. There are a lot of factors that go into making it, and a lot of it can’t be controlled—the first being that if you let everyone else dictate your process, the art will suffer and no one will care about you anyway, even if you make every choice for ‘them.’ Will you make art for yourself or for what you think your audience wants? There is no easy answer. You just have to keep going, do what you think is right. Maybe you make something brilliant, or maybe you die trying. Isn’t that what every other artist on the street does? No one ever said it would be easy.”

  “So you’ll try to get Kent on board?” His mind is where it has been all along.

  “I’m not sure it will help, but I will have a word.”

  Cory nods, looking pleasantly surprised at my answer.

  “But let love win. The world needs it.” My chest warms as the tender words make me slightly uncomfortable. When did I get to be so mushy?

  15

  I push open the steel front doors and step out of the building in my leather jacket. Patrick has one booted foot propped on the step, and there’s a huddle of female dancers looking up at him, giggling as they smoke.

  He smiles. “There’s my girl.” He looks up at me, and I wave tightly. The dancers don’t look elated about our reunion. They separate into pairs, chatting, holding the cigarettes to their lips and waving them in the air. Patrick walks up a few steps to greet me in a way that I will never tire of.

  He’s wearing a Lewis Leathers Roadmaster jacket with his Engineered Garments slacks and black toe-cut boots.

  “Damn, you have good taste.” I squint.

  “Damn, you have good taste. Can I take you and your good taste out for lunch?”

  “Damn right.” I grin, and his lips twitch into a sly smile as his fingers sift through mine. We walk down the steps and onto the street.

  We walk hand-in-hand to the car—eyes all over us—and he opens the door.

  “This feels like a guilty pleasure. I have so much work to do that eating is a luxury.” I run my fingers through my hair, leaning my elbow on the window frame. Patrick starts the car.

  “I’ve missed you,” he says.

  “We’ve been apart for what, two days?”

  “Is that all?” His eyes flash to my side of the car. He leans over my lap, reaching over to unhook the glove box as his focus extends over his shoulder and remains fixed on the road. The glove box falls open. It’s mostly empty other than important papers. Not insurance and bills, tax forms and such, but the papers that all of his brilliant ideas are scribbled onto. He always said he got his best ideas while driving. To anyone else, the papers would be illegible. They look like codes, even to me.

  He tosses something onto my lap and leans back to re-position his hands on the wheel.

  “Is this what I think it is?” I cock a brow.

  He smiles and reaches one hand over the other to make a left turn onto Twenty-Ninth.

  “I guess we could have just eaten near the studio, but I thought a change of scenery might be nice. Sushi?”

  “Fine by me.” I rest my hand on his knee. He sucks in a breath and adjusts himself in his seat. My gaze falls to the disc in my lap.

  “They still make these?” I hold up the square piece of plastic.

  “Yeah.” He smirks. “Not very many of them, though. They’re more of a novelty.”

  The cover is red and black. They did go with our picture, the one where I am pulling Patrick by the hand toward the makeup artist, though no one would guess that’s what we are doing. His head is tilted to the light and his eyes are shut in a blissful way, his pink lips slightly parted and curving upward in the photo. He looks serene and lit up, and I look shadowy and dark. His face is the only light part of the image. Around it, the intense hot reds and dark blacks are like an impending presence of doom. The title is disconcerting.

  “Burned?” I cock a brow, and Patrick’s eyes slit. His teeth slide over his bottom lip when he spots an empty parking spot on the street and reverses in.

  “That was lucky.” He rests a hand on my lap and leans to kiss me on the cheek once he knuckles the emergency brake. He smiles. “Don’t read too much into the name. It could mean any one of many different things.”

  I crumple my brow. “Just curious, though, which one of us got burned?” Or maybe I should rephrase that question: who is going to
be burned?

  His eyes flood with a warm, dark brown. It looks like he is thinking. I wonder if he hasn’t considered that question before.

  “Me, of course. But… artistically speaking?” He watches me in a more serious way, waiting for my answer. Or praise.

  I hold the plastic case in contemplation.

  “It’s mysterious, dark, sultry, and… foreboding, just like the music. The title is a good one-liner, catchy.” I rotate the package. “I would buy it. To me, it reads gritty yet emotionally charged.”

  “And hot as fuck.” Patrick’s lip twitches.

  “Isn’t that what I just said?” I roll my eyes.

  “Let’s eat.” He grins, and I tuck the disc into my bag.

  There’s a very good sushi place practically next door to Driven, but it’s always crowded with dancers, and this sushi place… My heart feels heavy and warm all at the same time, because it’s where Patrick and I used to go to all the time when we lived together. It’s our old place.

  We order our regular: the largest plate of salmon sashimi on the menu, gomae salad—warm spinach drizzled with peanut sauce—miso soup, and a small carafe of hot sake. The sushi chef recognizes us and nods as he slices a massive raw scallop. A waitress pours us two small cups of tea and leaves the pot on the table.

  “How’s the music making going? Do you still have time for that?” I am thinking of how Patrick used to get up at the crack of dawn on busy days to write new lyrics, maintaining the sentiment of ‘use it or lose it.’

  “Been kinda busy, babe.” He shifts in his seat.

  Odd.

  “I know.” I can’t help but study him.

  Patrick pulls his wooden chopsticks apart, and I place a white napkin on my lap. I can’t remember the last time I ate, and my stomach is hollow. After stirring some wasabi into soy sauce, I dunk a piece of pink salmon into the mixture and lift it to my lips.

  “What’s up at Driven?” Patrick sips on a bowl of miso soup.

  “Cory is more talented than we all thought,” I say.

  “So the piece isn’t going to be the biggest flop of our careers after all?” Patrick’s brow arches.

  “I wouldn’t bet the farm yet.” I reach for my sake. “I’m glad that your album is releasing before we are bombarded by potentially negative reviews.”

  “But if he’s talented?” Patrick cocks a brow while stirring more wasabi into his soy sauce.

  “As you know, talent is almost always never enough.” I look down at the untouched pieces on my plate and pour myself another sake.

  Patrick lets out a thoughtful breath. “Well, you do have that Terry Brunette shoot to look forward to.”

  “And if Driven’s show is a flop, will anyone give my designs a second look, especially if they are the designs featured in the production?”

  Patrick reaches for my fingers and rests his hand on top.

  “We should go on a trip after the premiere. I have a few weeks off between the album release and my tour. Plus, it will be the holidays. Maybe Cabo?”

  “Maybe.” I tilt my head. I am normally not that keen on leaving Manhattan—why does anyone need to go anywhere when everything is right here? I have only ever ventured to travel to places of cultural interest. Umbrella drinks are not my idea of cool. I wouldn’t be caught dead at an all-inclusive. I don’t like the sun, and salt water wrecks my hair. But Aztec designs are interesting and would give me a possible area of research. And spending time with Patrick… just the two of us… watching salty drops of water dry off his six-pack and making love in the swarming heat after a few shots of tequila while sucking on lime wedges and licking the salt off his six-pack. “How much time are we talking?”

  “Maybe a month.” He swallows, and I poke at the gomae salad in front of me with a chopstick.

  “A whole month?” That is surprising.

  “I would have to cancel a few interviews, and Sylene and Vin might not be happy, but they owe me. I’ve given them everything they want.”

  “I’d feel better if we pull off the show first. If everything goes well, I also owe mom a visit, but… maybe it would be fun. You know, if everything comes together.” My lips curve into a tight smile. Obviously, we would stay at a boutique hotel, something minimalistic and hipster-designed, possibly an eco-resort.

  “You know what else would be fun?”

  “What?” My eyelashes flutter as I pop a piece of edamame into my mouth.

  “A quickie at our place before I drop you off.”

  Patrick and I walk down the SoHo street with his hand tucked into my back pocket. When we reach the Karmann Ghia, he pulls me into him. His hands slide up my back, as our lips crush together. With my hips against his, it’s obvious how much he missed me, and by the way I am aching I have missed him big time too. With one hand wrapped around my waist, he opens the door to the car with the other and leans in to press his lips to mine one last time as my butt hits the leather seat.

  Good thing I buckle in, because for the short ride home, as his hand grips my thigh, he’s revving the engine and cutting off cars. He barely puts the car into gear when we are both racing up the stairs, and he pins me against the elevator wall, reaches his hands up my shirt, and unclasps my bra. The elevator stops on our floor, and he lifts me up and whisks me straight across the hall, impatiently fiddling with the lock before kicking the door open. It swings shut behind us and we fall onto the bed, where he unzips my jeans and yanks them off my ankles, and I pinch my fingers to the material of his shirt to pull it over his head. Our lips crash together and I reach for the button of his pants, and before I can get my T-shirt off, he’s inside of me.

  “Fuck, you feel good,” he groans.

  And I am literally there. The muscles in my vag are pulling together tightly around his cock.

  “I’m coming—” I gasp, and his eyes blink into mine saying, It’s ok, babe, come as fast and hard as you want, which I do. My hips buck and his pull back to thrust into me again. I shut my eyes and press my nose into his neck. He retreats his hips once more, sliding out of me, and then pushes back into me with a groan and just anchors himself still as I slide up and down, allowing me to control the speed and rhythm of my exploding orgasm.

  Oh dear god, the pleasure is so intense, and so many things fly through my mind, from the feel of Patrick’s smooth skin, to the sex in his words, to the sounds of his rhythm. I bury my face into his neck, pulling him into me.

  “That’s it, babe.” His husky voice brushes my ear. “Come again,” he says, as his rough fingers graze my neck. He presses his lips to my neck, and his cock slips back into me until it’s in as far as it goes and I lose myself inside of him.

  “Come for me.” His breath brushes over my damp cheeks.

  He lifts his body off me, and I roll onto my knees, resting my elbows on the pillow. He makes a guttural sound as he enters me, and I imagine his eyes shutting with mine.

  He presses one hand flat to my back as he thrusts into me.

  We ride the rhythm for a while until he pauses. “I’m going to come. I need to hold you, and I want us to do it together, looking into each other’s eyes.”

  He slides out of me. He presses his hand into the mattress and falls back so he is leaning against the wall behind the bed. He pulls me toward him.

  “Sit.” He flexes. I crawl over to him, and we easily slip back together. He strokes his fingers through my hair.

  “I love you,” he says under his breath, as his eyes turn a dark shade of brown. “Don’t leave me, babe.” His eyes hold mine, and even though I know he means for us to stay connected so my mind doesn’t drift into undesirable and old territory, he also means so much more.

  I ride him, controlling the tempo. His hands rest on my hips, and his eyes stay glued to mine. Slowly—just like that—the sounds of desire slip off our lips. We let ourselves fall into one another.

  His hand strokes the side of my face. My back arches, our breaths get heavier, and the riding becomes faster, but we stay presen
t.

  After we catch our breaths, I reach for my black leather handbag, naked, and pull out his album, a lighter, and my half-empty pack of smokes.

  “Burned?” I cock a brow at the title, and Patrick has a very satisfied look on his face as he tangles my fingers with his. I prop the case between my belly and thigh on the bed and pull the top open with the hand that isn’t holding his.

  Reading from the inside cover, I clear my throat.

  “Mine, together, I know you…”

  My voice tightens as I read further down the list of songs. “For the love of ambition, wicked woman, the final decision, gone too far, unforgiven, missing you from a distance, empty success, one last night…”

  “Wow, it spared nothing.” I give Patrick a contemplative look, about to light up.

  “So tomorrow’s the big day at Driven?” He leans into the headboard, changing the topic.

  “You’ll be there?” I cock a brow.

  “Of course.” He wraps his arms around me, and I place my lighter and pack on the nightstand to lean into his chest.

  It feels so good to be in his arms. Soothing. A nap may be in order. Even though I have a ton of work to do, I let my eyes close. The smoke, the wardrobe, Driven, they can all wait, because this is where it is at. I let out a dreamy sigh, breathing him in, as he strokes back my hair and places a kiss on my forehead.

  16

  I’m staring at the door, waiting for Patrick to arrive. He promised he would be here after his meeting with Sylene.

  “Let’s just get started without him. When he shows, he shows, but first…swig.” Simone hands me the bottle of Jack Daniels I keep in the cupboard.

  “No, thanks.” I breathe in through my nose. My stomach is in knots about the task at hand.

  “Drink.” She cocks a brow, pushing the bottle to me, and I reluctantly take it from her.

  “Fine. I’m just struggling with the idea of ruining the costumes I have been working on for months. Man, these babies were slave drivers.” I take a big gulp of whisky and feel the burn.