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

by Brianna Stark

  “Is something else going on?” Cory arches a brow.

  “Just make sure this is the best fucking show this city has ever seen.” I stand up, though my legs are weak, and rush out the door.

  “I’ll do my best.” He knocks his knuckles on my table and scoots out the steel door.

  “Oh, and Londyn?”

  “Yes, Cory,” I sigh.

  “Patrick left this for you the other day. He said it was important you get it before some paint party?” He cocks a brow. “Sorry, it was such a crazy day, and I forgot to give it to you.”

  My heart stops beating when Cory hands me the envelope. Patrick didn’t forget. It still would have been nice if he had been there or at least called. I tear open the envelope. There’s an electronic itinerary for two weeks at an eco-resort in Cabos San Lucas with both of our names written on it. The card reads, I’m sorry I can’t be here with you tonight due to a last-minute label crisis that I tried to call off, but Vin and Sylene were going to have my head. Hope you understand. Anyway, you got this, babe. I have all the faith in the world in you. P.S. I promise to make it up to you in Mexico.

  Crap. My heart swells with guilt.

  I need to find Patrick.

  My phone rings.

  I answer it in anticipation.

  “Shit, Londyn, I didn’t know. Look, I am really sorry about what you are going through…”

  Terry Brunette. I drop my things. I am never getting out of this place.

  Man, word spreads fast. Thing is, I want to explain to Terry that Patrick technically didn’t cheat on me, but I’m kinda busy, and what am I supposed to say? It is a complicated story, complicated emotions. I scratch my brow. The rumors in the media and on Elle’s made-up blog are not Patrick’s fault. They are fabrications and downright lies. Him ditching me to go to Los Angeles with Elle after I turned down the Paris blackmail offer isn’t completely on him, though he played his role. I was too hard on him last night. But I guess I was more upset about him standing me up than I realized. I needed him to be there for me, and he wasn’t. I had no idea about the note he left.

  I need to find him. I also need to tell him about the white lie I have been holding inside for some time.

  “The media knows how to twist things,” I say, flatly.

  “If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here for you. We might have more in common than you realize.” Terry’s voice is filled with compassion.

  I have heard snippets of dirt about the supermodel that Terry used to be married to, so maybe he’s right.

  “The reason I’m calling…” Terry clears his throat. “I spoke to the investors about launching your label and they absolutely loved the photos and designs. They’re quite thrilled about making Londyn happen.” He chuckles at my stunned silence. “It’s pretty impressive how this is falling into place for you. I think it’s your time to shine, Londyn. I really do, so chin up.”

  He is right. It’s always been my work that’s kept me afloat, so why should now be any different?

  “I don’t know what to say. Of course, this is… God, I needed some good news. Thank you, Terry.”

  “I kind of thought that you might. There’s just one caveat. You can’t use the designs in the dance production. Obviously they think it would ruin the surprise, because it’s going to take at least a few months to release, optimistically speaking. The dance show would take away from the anticipation of the collection launch.”

  “Right.” I hold my breath and scrub my fingers over my forehead. It makes more sense than I want to admit. Things are suddenly so much more complicated. I plop my butt on a stool.

  “That’s not going to be a problem, is it? I am sure that dance company can find something else to wear for the show. Don’t you guys have a wardrobe stacked full of costumes? Besides, it’s dance. It’s not like the costume is the most essential element in a dance production.”

  Suddenly Terry Brunette is falling from grace in my eyes. The costume is everything to a dance show, and it isn’t just dance, anyway. It’s Driven Dance Theater dance—the closest thing to a living, breathing artistic masterpiece.

  “But I already made a commitment.”

  “Did you sign a contract?”

  I have to think about this, and I can hardly breathe, never mind think. “No. Actually, the company has been going through a bit of a changeover and may have overlooked a few details, but there are a lot of people relying on me.”

  There’s silence on the other end. Terry is not impressed. That, or he is waiting to see if I might budge first and volunteer to get out of my contract since it’s not inked.

  “Can I call you back?” I bite down on my bottom lip, feeling restless to find Patrick.

  “Okay, but don’t take too long.” He sighs.

  Simone barges in. She doesn’t say anything. She just crumples her brow and walks up to me, throwing her arms around me.

  “I’m so sorry. Patrick is such a fucking prick. I didn’t know. I feel so bad. It was so insensitive of me to come in here and dump all that shit on you about Rick and I.” Her shoulders slump as she leans into my table. “Who knew Patrick was such a manwhore?”

  “I’m sorry, Simone, I can’t talk right now. I need to find Patrick.” I collect my bag and head to the first place I think of.

  18

  Truth is, there’s more to the story than I let on.

  The day after Patrick told me about Elle’s proposition, another rejection letter came in about a grant Patrick had applied for to publish his single. He was so excited about that single. We talked about it like it was the child we were expecting. He would say, “This is it, Londyn. This is the one. Soon I’m going to be buying you designer clothes.” But I liked the threads I found at the flea. Sometimes I think I like them more than the expensive clothes I wear now. I should have told him. There are days I scan my closet for something that looks like one of the rare vintage finds, but I always come up short.

  I knew the rejection letter would crush him, and the fact that he was meeting his dad for lunch to talk about going back to school made it a deadly combination. His dad was proud of the business he’d built as a plumber, but he always wanted more of a formal education for himself. The fact that Patrick wanted to be an artist was just something he couldn’t understand. Patrick was brought up on a strong dose of tough love. Showing emotion and creativity was a sign of weakness to his dad.

  I crumpled up the rejection letter and threw it in the garbage. It felt like Patrick was gone forever that noon hour he went for lunch with his father. I stared at the clock, waiting for him to return, hoping he would say, Man that was such a bad idea. I don’t know what I was thinking.

  Instead, he walked through the door with his shoulders slumped, chucking his messenger bag—where he kept all of his compositions—on the floor.

  “Tea?” I asked, but he fell back onto the couch and stared straight up at the ceiling.

  “Sure.” He laughed this kind of wild laugh as he stared. “Everyone told me I was crazy to try to make a living as an artist.” He ran his fingers tensely through his hair. “Were they ever right.”

  The kettle whistled. I filled a teapot and placed it on our secondhand coffee table along with two cups.

  “Thanks.” He held up his cup. “To the future.” He squinted hard, as though it was whisky in the cup and not green tea.

  He told me his dad would lend him part of the money for his education if he worked part-time at his plumbing business. He would take out a student loan for the rest.

  “The decision is made. I won’t have any time to listen to music, never mind make it.” He pressed his lips together. “I shouldn’t have spent every cent I made on trying to be something I would never be. I’m sorry, Londyn. It wasn’t fair to you. But that’s all about to change.”

  “Maybe there’s another way.” His artistry was one of the things I loved the most about him, and nothing could replace that bond. Starving or not, we were artists. I liked it that way, and I stil
l can’t imagine it any other.

  But when he looked at me, I could tell he couldn’t see another way when I wasn’t making any money either. I practically worked for free, making intricate costumes for struggling downtown dance companies, where the paycheck barely covered the expense of the material. But somehow I knew something would eventually give. Patrick didn’t. He couldn’t see what didn’t exist yet. Like everyone else, he couldn’t see what Driven would become, and that we would be a part of that bubble.

  He finished his tea, lifted our empty cups from the table, and placed them in the kitchen sink. He paused.

  Then I heard him reaching into the wastebasket and pulling apart the crumpled piece of paper, and I stopped breathing. I’d forgotten to cover it with something. I wasn’t expecting him to go dumpster diving either.

  “Just beautiful,” he said under his breath, and I could hear the heartbreak in his voice. “I’m going for a walk.” He resurfaced from the kitchen a few minutes later. He often went for walks around the city, listening to music and recording different sounds. I thought it would be the last time he would ever do such a thing. The last time he would be the man I knew, because without hope, without dreams, I could not imagine there being a Patrick Moss at all.

  The door fell shut followed by the sound of him sliding his key in the lock. His phone was left sitting on the table. And I took a few long moments to contemplate doing what I did next. I opened it, flipped through his contacts to look up her number, wrote it down on a piece of paper, and tucked it in a side pocket of my purse.

  We met at a coffee shop not too far away.

  The woman said she was shopping a few neighborhoods over. She had multiple packages hanging off her arms. She ordered a latte, and I had a glass of ice water.

  “What a surprise, hearing from you,” Elle said, eyeing me with delight. Though I could see through the friendly expression that I was probably one of her least favorite people.

  “Patrick said he thought you could help, that you were well connected. But you want me out of the picture.” I went straight for the heart of the matter, hoping to get the conversation over with quickly.

  “So you’re interested in the job in Paris?” She answered right away, sipping on her foamy drink. She was attractive in a fake way, and she smelled clean, like the salon.

  “It’s not that I want the job. Paris is a great city, but Patrick is the love of my life. I am doing this for him.”

  “Well, I know all the big players in the music industry, and you know my family has a fund that is practically devoted to supporting upcoming talent. Patrick’s already been approved for funding. I just have to pull the trigger. I’m glad to hear that you are on board.”

  I thought about what she meant by that. It crossed my mind to ask her, but my mouth felt frozen shut. I didn’t want to know the answer. I couldn’t help but wonder if Patrick wanted this more than he let on.

  “I hear you have your own ambitions. I am sure Paris will be your answer. I will do my best to help you along as well.” She crossed her legs.

  I cleared my throat. “I suppose Patrick told you that my dream is to have my own fashion label one day, but I can manage that on my own. I am more concerned about Patrick’s career. He is thinking of giving it up to work in the family business and go back to school. He has a difficult relationship with his father. You know how much he loves his music. It’s everything to him.”

  She ran her manicured nails over her cup, lifting it to her lips and listening as though she was waiting for me to say more.

  I sucked in a deep breath and tried to sip on my water, but I could let in only enough to wet my mouth. One or two dribbles rolled down the back of my dry throat with a cough.

  “You promise that you will fund his album and do everything you can to make it successful if I move to Paris?” I looked her straight in the eye.

  Her gaze shaded with ambition. “Honey, my family is worth ten billion, I know everyone in this town, my blog has an unheard of number of followers. Everything I touch turns to gold.” She leaned back in her chair and twirled a piece of hair between her fingers, watching me.

  “Then I will go.” I swallowed.

  “You are going to love Paris.” She stood up and collected her bags off the floor. “Expect to hear direct from the fashion house soon.”

  I tap my finger, waiting for the elevator. To think I was having ‘invasion of the offspring’ dreams not too long ago.

  Even if I am the last person on the planet to make little bald creatures filled with endless demands. But man, that melt-in-your-mouth smile reproduced would be something.

  But where could that smile be?

  “Londyn.” Cory waves at me when I poke my head into a full company rehearsal. I want to ask him if he knows where Patrick is rehearsing these days or if he’s heard from him. “Come. We are just about to do a run.” He walks toward the stereo system. I look at my phone. Patrick hasn’t returned any of my texts or calls. Maybe this will be a quick run. Then I can quiz Cory about Patrick’s whereabouts.

  The air is so thick you could take both ends of the room and tear it in half. Daniela is sitting by herself in the corner, stretching her hips and staring at the floor. Lexi is standing over top of her with one hand on the barre. Simone and Rick are in the center. Lake takes a sip from his water bottle and lets out a refreshed sigh. The corps dancers are stepping into formations on the floor in tandem. Daniela is rubbing her thumbs furiously over her arches . Lexi sits down beside her and combs her fingers through Daniela’s hair. The dancers on the floor are in position.

  The room stops.

  White and black everywhere.

  They could be Michelangelo sculptures.

  An arm arches overhead. Two long legs relax into the ground. A torso leans into its ribs. A face tilts to the side. An angular chin is shadowed. Lips part. Focus down and to the side. Two dancers are attached at the hips, looking into each other’s eyes. Two are back to back with their hands clasped behind them. One is sitting on the ground, her neck arched to look up as the top of her head leans into a muscular shin. The air smells like roses.

  Cory presses play.

  The first strings of violin zing through the air.

  “Now.” Cory gives the cue. A few eyes dart his way with a subtle nod. The room all at once flips in unison to an alternate position.

  An arm wraps across the front of someone shoulders tightly. One leg slices through the space as far away as possible from the other. Head dipped. Back arching for dear life. Focus straight to the side. Up and out.

  Shhhhhh.

  Cory whispers into the near silence.

  The room isn’t very silent at all.

  Daniela stands up on the sidelines. She pulls the sole of her foot to her rear from behind to stretch her quad. Cory’s eyes move in her direction and then back to the floor. She isn’t looking.

  Cory lets out a hiss between his teeth. The music retracts from the tension. It breaks out into the room.

  The black bodies move into extension in unison, but all in different formations.

  Ha. Slash. Hold. Push. Fall. Catch. Catch. Fall. Slice.

  Shhhhhh.

  Weaving. Palm to sole. Armpits kiss. Fingers slap. Butts sway and cheeks clench. Limbs. Everywhere limbs. Down to the ground. Tossed to the sky. In places you never thought they could go.

  Lake curses under his breath. I can’t see the mistake. Biceps pucker. Thighs clench and shake. A jaw ticks. An arm slices. Two hands nearly knock. Cory is nodding to the music. Okay. I focus my eyes back on the black bodies making geometry over the floor.

  Fall.

  Catch catch.

  Fall.

  The music struggles to keep up. The dancers struggle to keep up.

  Victory. Heartbreak. Victory. Heartbreak.

  It’s all so beautiful and confusing.

  Breaths are racing.

  Hahahahahaha—struggling to keep up.

  The bodies clear the space. The room stops. Everywhe
re you can see is white, until you look closer. You can smell it.

  Simone and Rick are the only ones left. A bubble is forming around them. The music fills with longing: slow synthesizers, achy voices, and violin.

  Rick reaches a hand. Simone takes it. With one tug he pulls her up and off the ground, lifting her under the butt. Her long limbs wrap around his waist in desperation.

  You can see the stars in her eyes. Spinning. Dizzy. She blinks. He is still. His lips are curving. Goof, Simone had called him. Their noses move closer together, movements made of honey. Closer. Closer. Closer.

  Their eyelids fall closed in unison. Their lips are millimeters apart.

  Zing. The violin electrocutes the moment, forcing them apart.

  Her head falls back.

  We hold our breaths.

  Zing.

  Her back bends in two. Her legs are clamped around Rick’s waist, heels digging into his back. The top of her head stops an inch from the ground. Eyelids shut, refusing to look. I adjust in my seat and let out a slice of bounded breath. It comes out hoarse.

  The beats build in tempo. Rick’s knees slightly bend and then shake underneath him. His hips are thrust in a counterbalance. His fingers twitch. They look slippery. He slides the center of his body underneath her, as his palm lands on the back of her head under her bun.

  Fuzzy damp hairs frame her face like a halo. The sinewy muscles in his arm pull her toward him. She rolls through her spine: ribs, collarbone, nape of the neck, chin, nose, and cheeks. Her eyes are the last to find him. Their focuses lock.

  There are shivers scattered in every direction. I shake them off by wiggling my shoulders and neck and taking a deep breath. Cory nods. His eyes are planted on the floor, squinting in thought.

  Rick slowly lowers Simone to the ground. Her shins roll out from under her, and she slides onto her butt, rolling through her spine. He hovers above her. I bite my lip. Cory rubs the back of his neck. It’s so intimate that it’s uncomfortable to look at. Daniela, Lexi, Lake, and the corps on the sidelines are all looking away. Lake and I catch glances. He white-knuckles the bar behind him before folding over into a hamstring stretch. I roll my neck.