“Okay, now we have work to do.” Lexi rubs her hands together after she takes a sip with a loud exhale. “Unless you’ve changed your mind and have decided to go with professionals?”
“No, this is perfect.” I bite my lip.
Well, almost perfect. There’s just one person missing. But I’m sure he’ll show up.
“The idea is to make it raw and personal,” I say. “So the costumes have a greater connection to the artist.”
“I think you just like to be overworked.” Simone pulls a face, and I pull one back at her.
Lexi, Simone, and I are all dressed in white protective paint suits I bought at the hardware store. We each have a bottle of fabric spray paint clutched in our hands.
The thought of ruining—or ‘transforming’—my beautiful and expensive Italian-made material, with their hundreds of hand stitches, makes me more than jumpy.
“This is such a freaking bad idea.” I shake my head, planting a hand over my brow.
“It’s a brilliant idea,” Lexi says.
That’s what Patrick said, too. I wonder if I should text him and see if he really meant it. Nah, if his meeting is running late, I don’t want to interrupt him.
“We are going to rock this shit.” Simone points the nozzle of the can at one of the costumes in the first round of four hanging before us. The floors and walls around it are covered with butcher paper and taped off.
“Thanks for doing this with me.” I shake my head and look at my two favorite dancers. Not that I really have favorites… okay, maybe I do.
“We wouldn’t miss it for the world, Londyn. We know how big a deal this is. You put so much work into these designs, and if today doesn’t go well, the entire show will be jeopardized.”
“Please shut up now.” I gulp. “And remember, the first line starts here and ends here.” I point to the top right shoulder and the precise place under the armpit. I hope I’ve asked the right people to help me with this. Maybe they’re right and I should have sought out a professional graffiti artist. I did consult with Brad Free—a boarder known for his graffiti art murals and successful T-shirt design company, but this is not going to be complicated. The detailed work is already complete, and it’s okay if it isn’t perfect. We are going for a raw look. Or so I keep reminding myself. Plus, I am doing it with my favorite peeps, who all happen to be sensitive and intelligent artists.
“On the count of three.” Lexi speaks up, and I hold my breath.
“One…” she shouts. “Two…”
Simone eyes me, making sure I am ready.
“Three!” Lexi hollers, and we all aim and shoot. Well, I squint from under my safety glasses. It’s as though the paint landing on the silk may physically hurt. Cringe. Point. And… shoot.
Hisssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.
The white paint hisses out of the aerosol cans, filling the air with fumes. Good thing all of the windows are open, and good thing there are a lot of them in this modern building.
Once we have completed the spray painted lines on all four costumes, I am breathing again, if seriously doubting my mental sanity. We start on the next round of four costumes, I wedge a can of white, clothing-safe paint open with a knife and dip the paintbrushes in. “Think Jackson Pollock,” I cue the group.
This time the costumes are laid out flat on large pieces of white butcher paper taped in squares over the floor.
“Feel free to have a little fun with this, but don’t forget there should be visible lines moving in opposite directions, like so.” I hold up one of the drawings. “And please avoid splattering this area.” I point to detailing on the design.
They are studying the costumes laid out in front of them as though trying to decide where and how to approach their canvas.
“Ready?” The sentiment is more for my own reassurance.
Lexi nods, looking down in concentration. Simone is standing with her legs wide apart and her hands propped on her hips as she looks on. White paint is caught in the fuzzy hairs escaping her ponytail and framing her face. Lexi is sitting cross-legged, pinching her chin between two fingers.
“Go!” I squint while winding back my arm, the narrow paintbrush propped between two fingers, and make the first of several Jackson Pollock–style splatters.
The thick paint smacks the silk, and even though I would have never dreamed of doing something like this to any of my babies in the past, for some reason it feels damn good.
“Take that!” Lexi whips her paintbrush through the air at the garment laid out in front of her.
I sigh under my breath. Okay. It’s going to be okay.
Lexi and Simone have gone, and I am left to admire the creative work that came out of the afternoon.
There is just someone I would really like to share it with. Someone who would coo, “Proud of you, babe.”
It takes me at least an hour to clean up, and when I am wiping down my table and closing up shop, my phone chimes with a text. He didn’t forget. I let out a sigh of relief and reach for my phone.
But there’s no news of Patrick. It’s… Kent?
The costumes, which were left to dry overnight, are hanging all over the wardrobe the next morning. With a double Americano from Fuel in hand and a heavy heart, I admire the expressive forms and how the smooth silky fabric has transformed into a stiffer, more complex texture, but something isn’t sitting right with me. Patrick didn’t show yesterday, and I still haven’t heard from him. I’m also thinking about the conversation I had with Kent last night: his concerns about the company and how I might help. I probably shouldn’t get involved, but I have always been a part of everything Driven. There’s nothing I would not do for the company. Especially if the company is in trouble, as Kent implied.
I run my fingers over the glossy page of the large wall calendar. The Terry Brunette shoot is all set for tomorrow. Right. And then I read the words that are chicken scratched underneath:
Patrick’s launch party.
Great. I promised I would be there. But that heavy pressure on my shoulders and muffled cry of resistance are nagging within me. Patrick and his career will always let me down as long as I allow it. That’s why I have to not allow it.
Then the other issue: could I ever leave Driven? The answer is one fat, resounding no—at least for the time being. This job has been there for me when no one else has.
But first, there’s something I have to do. I walk by the viewing room on the way to reception with the USB port I bought on the way to the studio this morning. I place my sunglasses on top of my head and peer at my peeps below. Kent told me that after his recent visit to New York City and strange meeting with Cory, he was concerned about the company financials. He asked me to get a hold of them. This company was his baby for many years, and he built it from the ground up. It was actually nice to hear his voice on the phone and know that Driven still has a place in his heart, even if it seems like he has forgotten all about us since he fell in love with Branwen O’Hara. Katherine is calling out counts and walking across the front of the room with her toes turned out.
“Eyes forward.”
“Brush into the ground.”
“Tail bone tucked.”
“Daniela, you’re gripping the barre. Again. Can’t you play nice?”
Daniela playfully rolls her eyes, and everyone giggles.
“Was that a smile?” Katherine grins at Lexi, and Lexi’s lips grow wider.
“Other side.” Katherine claps her hands in time with Robert’s fingers lifting off the white keys. The dancers flip like a stack of cards being shuffled into an evenly spaced-out deck.
“One, two, three.”
Toes dart into dégagé.
Front, side, back.
Back, side, front.
Flip.
Robert’s fingers lift before all five digits land on the keys. Katherine claps out the tempo faster, a joyful look on her face.
“You’re dancers. You are supposed to be musical.” Her voices rings through the room.<
br />
Sweat dribbles from their foreheads and runs down their arms onto the floor.
Front, side, back.
Back, side, front.
“Again.”
Front, side, back, side, front.
“Faster.” Katherine sadistically grins, and sweat drips from Robert’s brow down to the keys.
“Lake.” Katherine tilts her head, and he rolls the bead on his tongue. “Glad you’re back. But what have you been doing in California? Your technique is looking shoddy.” She smiles, and his lips stretch wide in return as he keeps moving and shakes his head.
He looks up and catches me staring. He winks, and I wave.
I round the corner to the admin offices, where Renee looks up from her keyboard. I trusted Kent, believed in him, and still do. When he was director, he never once steered me, or this company, wrong.
“What a nice surprise, seeing you here.” Renee smiles.
“What can I say? This place keeps me busy.” My voice sounds nervous, and I hope it doesn’t register.
“I hear ya.” She doesn’t seem to notice.
“Um, do you know when Richard gets in?” I ask for Driven’s comptroller and head accountant, trying to keep a straight face, digging for a smoke in my bag, anticipating that he hasn’t arrived yet, which means I will be bolting to the steps any minute. On the off chance he already is here, I will need something to twiddle in my fingers.
“He just went downstairs and should be back in a minute.” Renee rolls her chair backward, looking over her shoulder into a far office window. “Is there something I can help you with?” She blinks back at me.
“Nah.” The muscles in my neck and jaw are pulling around the bone tightly. “Do you mind if I wait for him? I need to talk to him about something. It will just take a second.”
“Sure.” Renee looks up from entering something else into the computer when the phone rings. “Just a minute.”
She answers, “Driven Dance Theater.”
I turn away, clutching my hands over my chest, the cigarette propped between my fingers. What the hell am I getting myself into? I swallow, looking out the window. Through the far corner, you can see into a studio below, not the main one with its own viewing room, but another one. Cory is rehearsing Lake’s solo. Cory, too, is an incredible dancer.
Jab, slice, pow—haaaaaaaaaa.
His muscles flex as he takes off in high leaps and follows through with precarious extensions in a black turtleneck and black pants.
Jab, slice, Pow—haaaaaaaaaa.
You can feel the wind under his limbs and coursing through his chest.
He falls to the ground in exhaustion and then peels himself off the floor. Without pause, he winds his arms to take off again.
He propels himself, as his arms and legs lift off the ground, flailing and swinging.
“Londyn?” Renee says.
“Yes, doll.”
“I’ll take you back now. Thanks for waiting.” She smiles.
I follow her to Richard’s office down the hall, and she holds open the door.
“He shouldn’t be long.”
“No probs.” I take a seat on the other side of his desk.
Once the door falls shut, and I hear her heels clicking back down the hall, I jump out of my seat and round the desk to Richard’s work area, where I wiggle the mouse to his computer between my fingers.
The screen flashes grey, and the scroll in the middle indicates it is booting.
Come on, come on, come on.
I tap my finger on the mouse.
The desktop screen blinks open. Everything is there—and no password?
Brilliant.
I scroll through Finder for the files while sliding the USB port in, and then drag the folder labeled Driven financials 2020 over to the icon.
But a small white box blinks in the center of the screen with a warning beep, asking me to enter a password.
Shit, shit, shit. I knew it was all going too smoothly. Maybe this is the sign that I need to back out. What am I doing? This has to be wrong on so many levels. But what if Kent is on to something and Cory has been avoiding him and putting off the board meetings for the reason Kent suspects? If I don’t look out for the vision, who will? Cory? He might be coming into his own as an artist, but he has no idea what the hell he is doing when it comes to being an artistic director.
I look at the door. My heart is hammering against my ribs. Okay. My fingers grip the mouse. What the hell could it be? I try something way too easy: Driven, then DDT. Both are rejected. I look at the door again, and at the clock on the wall. Renee said he would be back any minute. Push The Limit, rejected. Top secret. Wrong. I give up.
The clapping that indicates class is over is echoing through the walls. Pugly. I type his dog’s name in, and it lets me in. Yes.
I drag the file across to the icon for the USB port, and a large scroll runs across the screen.
10%—15%—20%—
Come on, come on, come on.
I hear his footsteps walking down the hall.
The computer dings. 100%.
Yes!
I press eject and pull the USB port out. Richard opens the door, as I land in my seat.
“Londyn?” He looks at me with surprise.
“Hey.” I try to act cool and calm my racing breath.
He hangs up his long black coat behind the door and walks over to his seat behind the desk, giving me a funny look. “My computer’s on.”
He wiggles the mouse, and his fingers fidget over the keys as my heart thuds in my chest.
He pauses and looks up at me. “Did you…” his thick brow wrinkles.
I press my lips together. widen my eyes, and cross my arms over my chest, ready for confrontation.
He clears his throat. “I must have forgotten to turn my computer off last night.” He backs off and looks down. Phew.
“So what can I do for you?” His nostrils flare as he looks back up and leans over the desk.
I sigh and scrape at my hair. “I need a favor.”
“Oh?” He leans back into his chair and crosses his legs.
I let out a heavy sigh. “Do you think you might be able to put a good word in for me with Cory? I have been working around the clock…” I bite down on my lip. “I hate to ask…”
“You want a raise. Well, if anyone deserves one it’s you, Londyn. Do you ever go home? What time were you here till last night?”
I roll my eyes up to the ceiling. “Gosh, ten o’clock? It was an early night. Had a phone call I had to make.”
He shakes his head admiringly. “I’ll talk to Cory. I am sure he will agree. For a company this size there should be at least three to four more on salary in the wardrobe department.” He’s right, but I have always been a one-woman show, and that’s how I like it.
I stand up and walk to the steel door. “Thanks, Rich.”
“No problem. Oh, and Londyn?”
“Yes, doll.”
“Maybe don’t mention anything to Cory yet. Let me take care of it.”
“Sure thing.” I look at him with hesitation before I push open the door. I hold my breath on my way out before I nearly collapse on the other side, thumbing the USB in my pocket to make sure it is really there. Holy shit, that was close! I clutch my chest. Okay. What’s next on the agenda?
The five best costumes are packaged and shipped off to Terry’s photo studio. One of the costumes is lying on my bed in case I decide to go to Patrick’s launch party tonight after he stood me up yesterday, though I am still hoping he has a good excuse. The top is a black silk cropped bodice with spaghetti straps and intricate stitching. The bottom half is a hip-hugging tulle skirt with graffiti inspired markings that hits just below the knee. Beside it is a lace blouse by Vargis, my Genetic Denim leather skinny pants, and black high-heeled ankle boots.
There should be time to stop home between the shoot and the party to change. Hopefully. I pull a pair of Isabel Marant trousers over my hips and step into a gorgeous pair
of Gianvito Rossi leather mid-calf-slash-ankle boots.
I stop in front of the mirror on my way out the door. “Chin up. This could be your day, Londyn.” Because who knows where a shoot with a photographer like Terry Brunette could lead, and I just have this feeling about my new collection of designs, whether they are being featured in a dance show or not. They have that thang.
Terry Brunette is talking on his phone and holding a paper coffee cup in his hand when I arrive. He looks up and waves before resuming his conversation. The studio is much quieter than the last time. There’s some leftover mess, probably from a shoot that lasted until all hours the night before. There are bits of material, the odd sequin and sparkle, littered on the floor, and an open box of pizza on a table near the refreshment stand.
A woman carrying a large case walks through the door looking flustered.
“Where’s Terry?” she asks and, when I point to the seating area around the corner, she nods before setting up her makeup case on the stand.
Then a nervous girl walks in, her eyes shifting over the space as she clings to the straps of the knapsack hanging off her shoulders. She isn’t wearing any makeup, looks about sixteen, and is much taller than Daniela, the tallest female at Driven. Two nearly as tall and youthful girls walk in behind her, slightly more confident in their bodies. They throw their coats over the only couch in the studio as they giggle.
“Terry, yoo hoo!” a redhead calls out, winking at me as though I know her.
“I love your boots.” The other girl tosses her long, wavy hair over one shoulder. They both walk over to where the woman cleaning makeup brushes is setting up, like they’ve done this many times before.
The shy girl hovers over the refreshment stand, tears open a packaged teabag, and bites on an old-looking piece of celery, glancing over her shoulder.
I decide to introduce myself to the makeup artist, since she seems to be slightly less flustered now.
I hold out my hand and she looks up at me.
“I’m Londyn. I designed the pieces we are shooting today.” I try to say it as modestly as possible, but one would think it a good idea she knows who I am. She doesn’t take my hand. She just keeps wiping off the palettes in her kit.
CLOSING NIGHT: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series, Book 2 (Standalone) Page 18