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

by Brianna Stark

  My shoulders rise as my cheeks flush.

  Patrick watches me, and I look up at him, forcing myself to smile in the face of his success. That’s what is important tonight.

  Vin and Zachary start their own music industry conversation, and Sylene has wandered off to make herself busy.

  Patrick wraps his strong arms around me. The way he smells reminds me of what we did earlier.

  “Love you,” he mouths, and he rests his hands on my hips. I wrap my arms around his wide neck. For a moment it’s only the two of us in a cocoon made of Patrick’s intricate beats.

  “Can we go home now?” he whispers in my ear.

  “We just got here.” I smile, and not because I don’t want to go.

  Another music industry bigwig approaches, and Patrick shakes his hand after introducing me, and shit, I forgot to tell Patrick to stop it with the silly fiancée routine.

  Patrick is deep in a conversation as I take a stroll to a quieter side of the room and check my messages to see if I missed anything at the studio today. There’s another message from Mom, and I decide to call her back while I have a quiet moment.

  “Where are you, darling? It’s noisy.” She sounds like she has just woken from a nap.

  “I’m at Patrick’s release party. It’s incredible. You would love it.” I hold the phone to my face and plug my other ear, smiling. It is a pretty mad party.

  “You mean the guy you were supposed to marry who took off to Los Angeles after your father passed?” Mom sounds concerned.

  “He had an opportunity to launch his career. Anyway, that will never happen again. We’ve both grown.”

  There’s a judgmental silence on the other end. I shouldn’t have told Mom anything. It isn’t any of her business.

  “Look, I gotta run. Later.” I hang up abruptly for the first time in years, and make my way back to see how Patrick is doing.

  “Nice jacket,” a woman coos from behind me, and I turn around, batting my eyelids to the tune of the first compliment on my old design.

  “Thanks,” I chirp in a near instant reaction.

  “Did you finally launch that label of yours?”

  I blink up at the woman in front of me, no longer protected by the dim red lights and soul-shattering music. She is wearing Jess Ballard with stilettos. I recently read an article that referred to Jess Ballard as the next big thing to hit the Manhattan fashion world. It had crossed my mind to look into how Jess Ballard had funded her label. The outfit is pushing up some very full cleavage. Lips: silicone plump. Skin: tight. Smile: carved.

  Elle Vanderhyde.

  Fuck me.

  What to think? What to say? Suddenly, the music from Patrick’s breakup album, which I had just made peace with, is making my ears throb and my innards twist in revolt.

  Burned.

  The red lights flash around us. The music bears down on my chest and thumps in my ears.

  “Did you two get back together? After we…” She doesn’t finish her sentence but instead gives me a knowing look. She lifts a flute of champagne to her lips, making her tongue visible.

  “Uh…”

  “That’s great.” She eyes me with pity, swallowing. And I wonder how long a conversation can continue with only one person doing the speaking.

  “What are you doing here?” Patrick hisses from beside me, staring down Elle while reaching for my hand.

  “Is that any way to treat someone who helped get you where you are?” She smirks, licking her lips.

  Patrick’s jaw ticks as his eyes turn an icy green. “You weren’t invited.”

  “Yes, I was.” Elle bats her lashes. “It’s nice to see you too, by the way.” She winks at him before flashing that tongue as she sips her champagne.

  “You should leave.” Patrick’s jaw tenses.

  “I’m on the list, just ask Sylene. She told me you wanted to see me, actually. Thought maybe you wanted to… rekindle.” She tilts her head before eying me. “But I see you two have worked things out. I’ve always admired a woman who can forgive a man with a wandering eye. I know I couldn’t, unless it was an open relationship.” She cocks a brow, sipping her drink, and Patrick grabs her by the upper arm.

  “You’re lying, Elle. Admit it.” Patrick’s eyes simmer as the muscles in his jaw draw tighter.

  “Why would I lie?” She crosses her arms over her chest with a nervous look on her face.

  “Because that is what you do best. Now I’m not asking you again. Leave,” he barks, and I reach for him to let go of her arm, but it’s too late. There are cameras flashing all around us.

  Patrick looks up, covering his eyes from the lights blinding him. I take his hand and he turns to me, blinking.

  “Let’s go, babe.” He wraps an arm around me, escorting us out the door, and holds it open for me to walk ahead.

  “Bitch.” He curses as he starts the Karmann Ghia, and I stare out the window. “She’s lying. She just makes shit up.”

  “I know, Patrick. I believe you.”

  But the facing her again, being humiliated—it was just too much. I think I might puke.

  “You okay, babe? You look green.” Patrick reaches for my hand, and I pull away.

  “Can you take me home? I mean, to my home in Brooklyn, please. Or I can take the subway, no problem.”

  “You’re not taking the subway,” Patrick hisses through his teeth, white-knuckling the clutch.

  It’s starting to rain. Raindrops trickle down the windshield between the sweep of wipers. By the time we get to Brooklyn, it’s full-on pouring. There aren’t any parking spots nearby, so we have to park a street over. When we reach the door, Patrick’s long hair is drenched, just like it was the night Elle first mentioned her ultimatum to him and ruined everything.

  My hair is also soaked, and I’m shivering.

  “Can we talk?” He follows me into my apartment.

  “I just… I need some time to think.” I bite my quivering lip.

  “You’re upset.” He clenches his jaw and rakes his fingers through his hair.

  “No. Or… I don’t know. You didn’t know she was invited… did you?” I tilt my head, wringing my hair out in the kitchen sink.

  “Of course not! I wanted to confront her to get her to admit she stretched the truth, but you asked me not to.” Patrick looks up from pacing. He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Sylene better not have invited her. If she did, our contract will be shredded.”

  I slide the damp, maybe even ruined silk jacket off my shoulders and roll it in a burgundy towel.

  “Did you ever mention Elle to Sylene?”

  My words sound jagged as they come out. I have a hard time saying her name.

  “No.” Patrick looks hurt as he runs his fingers through his damp hair. But they get tangled and don’t make it very far.

  “Take off your jacket. I’ll try and press the moisture out of it, or it will get wrecked.” I reach for it, but he doesn’t hear me. He’s texting, maybe with Sylene. I think about how bad it was for his career to leave his launch party early, and then force myself not to think about the scene, who might have witnessed it, and how big of a deal it is or isn’t.

  I open a kitchen cupboard and locate an old bottle of Jack Daniels that hasn’t been touched for a while. I pour us each a glass. Patrick is still texting and pacing, and I sit down on my hard couch and cross my legs, savoring my drink as my chilled body thaws. I keep hearing the words that came out of Elle’s mouth, like venom branching every which way in my head. Unless it was an open relationship? Or how about, I’ve always admired a woman who can forgive a man with a wandering eye.

  The nerve. Patrick didn’t have a wandering eye, and we didn’t have an open relationship. I look for my purse. Where is my pack? My eyes are stinging. I need a fucking cigarette, now.

  “Londyn?” Patrick pauses before gulping.

  “What is it?” My fingers nervously twitch through my hair as I brace myself for more bad news.

  “It’s not good.” He sh
akes his head. His eyes are filled with remorse.

  I start to tremble. The black cloud is not only under us, it’s around is, inside of us. It’s everywhere I look.

  “There are a few tabloids already.” His breath trembles as he shuts his eyes. He sits down across from me, falling back in defeat.

  “Can I see?” I reach for the phone clamped between his fingers. The large print at the top of the screen reads Patrick Moss has a spat with his fiancée over the woman he cheated on her with at his Lumy Records LP launch party. The woman, Elle Vanderhyde, inspired his new album, Burned.

  The photo is of me tugging at Patrick’s arm as he lunges into Elle, who is licking her tongue in that disgusting way, and Patrick’s face is hidden. It even appears like he’s leaning in for a kiss.

  “They think the album is about Elle?” I shake my head in disbelief.

  “Yes.” Patrick shoots me a gaze that chills to the bone.

  And though I never believed I was attached to the idea of being the girl Patrick’s album was written about, it feels like every wall is closing down on me.

  “I think you should go.” I swallow. My words come out in chokes.

  “What?” The look on Patrick’s face kills me.

  “There is a reason I didn’t want to get back together with you, Patrick Moss, because being with someone like you only ends up in hurt. This little run-in with Elle is just the tip of the iceberg. You didn’t show up last night for me when you promised you would be there. You knew how much it meant to me to have your moral support. I didn’t say anything because today was supposed to be about you. But you stood me up, you didn’t call, you didn’t even have an explanation. You just left me hanging while you were off doing interviews. Maybe that’s okay for somebody who hasn’t been hurt by your career before and doesn’t have a Dad that left her behind once he found success elsewhere, but not me. I can’t do this again. The Elles, the label, the tours… I am sorry for leading you on, Patrick, but this just isn’t for me.”

  17

  On the subway ride from Brooklyn to the studio, I get lost in my head, thinking back.

  It’s graduation day. Dad is supposed to be here. As always, he’s out of town, but he calls the week before and tells me he wouldn’t miss this day for the world. It’s a super-hot day in June, I am baking under my gown, and my hair is a frizzy mess. I keep scanning the crowd for him.

  Mom is here. She is my rock, but I’m still looking for Dad. She’s smiling and waving. Every time I shrug at her, she knows I’m wondering where Dad is, and she just waves again and makes her smile wider.

  I’m about to give my speech. But all I can think about is Dad. He promised. He has to be here, but where?

  Everyone is staring at me. Waiting. I want to wait for him. I want him to hear my speech about my first day of kindergarten when he told me I could do anything on my own. I’m going to announce my acceptance into the Fashion Institute on a partial scholarship. I was saving the news for this moment.

  Everyone is whispering now. They think I’ve forgotten my words, but I haven’t. I’m given a warning. The ceremony is to move on. I clear my throat and force a sly smile. I tell the jokes I had prepared, and the crowd laughs. But I edit out the parts that were meant for Dad. The parts reminding him how he made me strong in his own way, even if he wasn’t always around.

  I get a loud round of applause, followed by a few hoots and hollers. The rest of the ceremony drags on. I’m somewhere else and can’t wait for it to be over.

  After, mom finds me. I don’t tell her why I am upset, but she knows. She reaches out for me.

  “I’m so sorry, honey.”

  Days later she tells me Dad overleveraged the car dealership chain business they both worked so hard on. They might have to dip into my college fund to pay the business mortgage. I had made it into the prestigious Fashion Institute and had been saving my money for years, working at a retail store in the mall. I put my whole heart into the designs for my application. I received a quarter scholarship, but the remainder of the tuition was still going to be costly.

  “Honey, you are just going to have to defer. I’m sorry. You have so many years ahead of you. You can go next year. It’s going to be okay, I promise.”

  I didn’t speak to mom for months. Half a year later, Dad left Mom for his assistant. Shortly after, we discovered he had lied about the trouble with the business and was worth a large fortune.

  I never did go to the Fashion Institute, but I still did okay without anyone’s help. And I never spoke to Dad again.

  With the potential spillover from the news stories, I decide to head to the studio early. But when I arrive, reporters start circling me from out of nowhere.

  “Did you know your fiancé was having an affair?”

  “What do you think of the album? What is implied by the title?”

  “How long have Patrick Moss and Elle Vanderhyde been seeing each other? How many times?”

  “Are you going to leave him?”

  “Already did.” I push through the small crowd and slam the steel doors to Driven shut behind me.

  In the wardrobe I light up and take a seat on the stool, going through the memos on my worktable. My wardrobe is still my safe haven. Driven Dance Theater is my haven. Here, I am granted artistic free rein. I am respected and loved. I am needed.

  My phone rings. Ever since the false tabloids about Patrick and I went viral, I’ve been getting all sorts of messages. But the upset last night has me licking my wounds. I knew that getting involved with Patrick again would bring nothing but heartache to my life. I’ve worked hard at building my persona as Driven’s tough and trendy wardrobe master. I’m supposed to be the one listening to other people’s heartaches, not the one doing the falling. My days of picking bits of my heart up off the floor are supposed to be over, and I have allowed myself to be vulnerable again. Big mistake.

  “Hello,” I answer nonchalantly.

  “Londyn?” Sylene says with surprise. “You left the party so early last night. It was just getting started.” Her voice is chirpy yet filled with hesitation. She’s probably wondering if Patrick told me about the story.

  “You didn’t invite Elle, did you? Did Patrick tell you about her?” It comes out before I can stop myself from saying it. My heart is pounding from Americanos and lack of sleep. Even if it sounds like an accusation, I’ve run over the various scenarios in my mind and nothing else makes sense.

  “Uh…” Sylene pauses. “He did… yes.”

  “And what did he tell you?” Unsure if I really want to know, my grip tightens around the phone.

  “Londyn, I can only imagine how bad you feel about this coming to light.” She sighs.

  “This?” The tension gathers around my eyes.

  “Patrick’s affair.” She clears her throat.

  “Patrick didn’t have an affair.”

  “That’s not what I understand, and… Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, but the whole saga is great for his career. His album is selling like you wouldn’t believe. The phone is practically ringing off the hook with magazines and networks wanting to interview him. Elle has quite the following herself, as you know, so on a positive note… We just had a request from The Don Nillo Show. No one suspected this kind of success. We took him on as a trial. He fell under the ‘risk’ category at best. There’s one or two of them every year, but they usually don’t go anywhere. They are our write-offs, our excuses when the public asks why we don’t invest in new talent. But Patrick… He’s a pleasant surprise.”

  How nice. “So basically, you set the tone because it’s good for business?” My voice is tight yet weak.

  “I like you Londyn. You know how to dress, you have a good sense of humor, and you’re smart. If you are as smart as I think you are, you’ll go along with this, because the more fame Patrick achieves, the better it is for all of us in the long run.”

  I’m not so sure about that, but at least I know what happened.

  I am about to ha
ng up on Sylene when she says, “But that’s not why I’m calling.”

  My body tenses. Can this conversation possibly get worse?

  “I’m wondering if you know where Patrick is. He’s missed two interviews today, and he hasn’t returned one of my calls. Now he’s late for an appearance on Ellen. Do you know how hard it was to get him these opportunities? How many favors Lumy had to use up? He has a lot of nerve, embarrassing the record label that took the huge risk to have him discovered. This is the kind of thing that ruins careers before they even begin. So if you know where he is, tell me.”

  My heart sinks. Do I know where he is? No. I hang up the phone. I don’t answer to Sylene. I reach for my jacket and purse. This isn’t my problem anymore, is it? But the USB in my jacket is. Before I forget, I plug it into my computer, drag it into my drop box, and press send.

  Cory barges into the wardrobe, out of breath with an envelope in his hand, and I freeze as the cursor on my computer goes round in a circle until it’s gone.

  “Did you talk to him?” He eyes me before looking back over his shoulder, as if someone else could possibly hear him.

  I wrinkle my brow, still jittery.

  “You’re white as a ghost, Londyn. Everything okay?” He obviously hasn’t heard the rumors buzzing around about Patrick’s ‘affair,’ and he’s still breathing heavily, as though he’s been running up the stairs.

  “Yes. Now what do you want?” My lashes flutter.

  “Kent?” He cues me with impatience.

  “Taken care of.” I straighten my fingers.

  “So it’s safe to go ahead with… the…” He coughs. “Choreography as planned? If I take out Daniela’s solos and tell Simone and Rick to stick to the duet Daniela insisted I cut, they aren’t going to handcuff me at the board meeting this afternoon, or turf me as Artistic Director?”

  It seems like a long time since I’ve thought about the dance and our mission at Driven. A lot has happened in my personal life.

  “I don’t think so.” I shake my head, wondering what was in the files I sent Kent. I am not one for deciphering financial spreadsheets.