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

by Brianna Stark

  “Rest.”

  Cory clears his throat. And the room only adjusts slightly. Everyone has been affected by what just occurred.

  Daniela walks down the side of the white studio and swings open the steel door. It’s the first and only noise.

  “We’ll work on your section next.” Cory nods, as if waking from a dream. His voice is meek as he observes the hole in the room Daniela left behind.

  Simone and Rick aren’t talking to each other. They are sitting a foot apart on the floor now that their duet is done. They could be worlds apart. Rick stands up and reaches into the pocket of a hoodie slung over the barre, pulling out his phone.

  “Lake.” Cory nods, and they meet in the corner of the room to talk quietly. Lake clears his throat. He slides into position. Cory cues him. Lake bends his ankles, knees, and hips sequentially, pushing off into his first leap.

  He collapses to the ground and pulls himself back up on two legs.

  Again.

  Cory nods. Then he tries it himself. They go back and forth like this for a while. There will be no private moment to talk to him and ask him if he’s seen Patrick. I press myself out of the chair. I might be the center of a scandal, but thankfully no one here cares. All they care about is the dance, perfection, and the show that is only days away.

  Once I’m out of the studio, I call Terry and give him my answer. I’m on my way to the lounge where Patrick and I first hooked up about a month ago. I am at a loss, and it’s the only place that comes to mind.

  He’s sitting at the bar. Thank god. I have no idea how I knew to come here, but I did.

  “What are you doing here? Sylene’s been calling me. You’re supposed to be on air right now.” I sit beside him.

  Silence.

  “I’m so sorry, Patrick, for what I said last night. Cory just gave me your note. Thank you for thinking of me.” I reach for him, but he pulls away.

  He sucks in a hard breath, tilts his head before he takes a sip of his beer, and stares straight ahead.

  “I quit the label.” His jaw is tense, and the glass beer bottle sits on the counter as he swallows.

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?” My voice comes out steady, even though inside, I’m anything but calm.

  He smirks and shrugs my hand off his shoulder. He places his empty bottle on the counter with a couple of twenties and stands up.

  “I don’t know, Londyn. If I said it was, would you even believe me?”

  I freeze and watch him leave the building as I follow him out.

  He hates me.

  Tears sting my eyes. My heart sinks.

  “They wanted me to call it quits with you, Londyn, to go along with the whole Elle story—to lie. On top of it, they were trying to force me to recreate Burned. I tried, but ever since we’ve been getting on, Burned isn’t me anymore. I was hoping we could have done happy for a change. But, you just can’t let us be happy, Londyn. It would kill you to let go of that chip on your shoulder.”

  Patrick stalks out of the lounge, and I follow him.

  A small crowd of reporters is waiting outside. I am about to retreat back into the building, feeling utterly alone, when Patrick reaches his arm around me.

  I look up at him in surprise. But all he does is shake his head at me. They flash their cameras as he leads us through the crowd.

  He always did have protective instincts.

  “Are you still in love with Elle?” A reporter hovers as the words electrocute me.

  “Get a life,” Patrick hisses at a man with a receding hairline.

  I grip his arm. “Babe. It’s okay.” I give him an apologetic look, but he doesn’t see it.

  He’s so lost. Frustrated. And I am not free of blame.

  “This is the only woman I have ever loved. Her name is Londyn Verona. There is no one else. Period. Get your story straight,” Patrick says through his teeth, over his shoulder, as I unlatch the door and he closes it behind me. He walks to the other side of the car and jumps in.

  “Maybe I should drive,” I cautiously say, even though he seems angry, not drunk.

  “I’ve only had one beer.” He gives me a dirty look and turns the key.

  My hands are resting on my handbag and my eyes are staring straight forward, trying to block out the reporters crowding around the car.

  Patrick slams his fist on the wheel as he revs it down the street.

  “Total bullshit.” He props his elbow against the window and runs his fingers through his hair as we drive to Midtown.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t back you up last night, and I’m sorry for taking my issues out on you.”

  “So now we are both capable of saying things we don’t mean.” Patrick rolls his shoulders back and stares straight ahead.

  “So you love me, but you’re pissed.”

  “I should have just worked for my dad’s company or gone to school like he wanted me to.” He breathes in through his nose as his shoulders tense.

  “Don’t put the end of your career on me.” I dip my chin.

  “I’m not, babe. You said it yourself: it’s just the way it is in this business, right?”

  “Guess I did.” I squeeze his hand, and it takes a minute before he pulls away. “You aren’t the only one who quit something today. I told Terry I’m not going through with Londyn. He wanted me to pull the costumes from the show. The show is in a few days. Cory surprised us all. The show is killer, and I am not going to sabotage it for my own agenda. I have done enough of that. I won’t turn my back on something true just to get ahead.”

  Patrick’s brow knits together, and he becomes filled with something other than anger, something like compassion. “You sure, babe? It was such a good opportunity.”

  It was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

  He watches me.

  “It was.” I lean back into the leather seat and close my eyes. “But I love my job. I love Driven.”

  I owe it to Driven to stay.

  We weave through traffic. Horns beep. The skyscrapers stand tall around us. It is another perfect, sunny, blue-sky day. It’s also time that I make a confession.

  “God, this is hard.” I shake my head. “I trust you, and… there’s something I need to tell you.” I press my hand through my hair and swallow. Will he understand? “I played more of a part in our breakup than I once liked to believe.”

  Patrick’s eyes hit the road. He doesn’t say a thing.

  “Don’t you want to ask me what I did?” I eye him with a burning pressure, gripping my fingers into my bag and bracing myself for the sheer impact of the truth.

  “I don’t want to know.” The muscles in his jaw jump. “I don’t want to think about this ordeal again. I’m dropping you off, and I am going through with the Ellen show. I’m telling the world I didn’t cheat on you. The rest is personal in nature. End of story.” Patrick’s teeth grit together. “Then I’m leaving town. I need to get away from this place, continue making music the way I have been in a way that’s true to my heart. You are better off without me, Londyn. If there is one thing I learned from this whole ordeal, it’s that you were right all along. I’m not good enough for you, and when I think I might be close enough to be worthy, my actions only ever hurt you. No one should hurt you, babe. Nothing should hurt you like my career has.”

  My heart stops.

  I can’t breathe.

  My mind is stunned into silence.

  It seems like it takes us forever to drive down Fifth Avenue. Designer handbags are everywhere. Dirt-covered gum dots: everywhere. The smell of piss, panhandlers, cheap cologne, and unanswered dreams—it’s all there—but it’s the movement that sticks.

  Fall.

  Catch catch.

  Fall.

  The choreography is in my head as we drive.

  He stops at the corner. Maybe he is right, maybe this whole thing is redundant, and we should never have let our emotions get the best of us again. We should have just focused on our careers.

  “I’m sorry, Pa
trick, that I couldn’t do what you wanted me to and risk everything for you again. I really wanted to, believe me. I just don’t know how.”

  My eyes swell. Heart. Finally, we are in agreement, and the pain is like a crack of thunder cutting me in two. I turn away, reach for the handle, and open the door.

  I am halfway down the block, lost in the sounds of honking and cars breaking, the scent of roasted nuts smoking from a cart and diesel from a nearby truck. My vision clears, and I breathe in through my nose and reach for my phone. The show is in two days, and there’s work to be done.

  Time to toughen up, Londyn. You always knew this would happen. Be cool.

  My phone beeps, and I open it to read a text from Kent as tears warm my cheeks:

  Someone is embezzling money from the company.

  19

  The steps to Driven are empty the next day when I return. It’s early, and the streetlights are shining next to the naked branches of trees. I clip it up the steps with a determined pace, press the elevator button, and head straight to the third floor. The show is tomorrow, and I need to look at my costumes one last time before they are sent off to the theater. Plus, I need to answer Kent’s concerns about the company and find a distraction from my bleeding heart after another smoke. My phone rings. It’s Mom. I haven’t answered her calls in days, and let it ring through.

  The door swings open behind me, and I jump.

  Biker jacket, black slacks, helmet, and black overnighter hanging off his arm.

  “Howdy.” Lake nods.

  “Hey.” I squint.

  “Rough night?” He cocks a brow.

  “You have no idea.” I butt out my cigarette. “I might need to take you up on that invitation for a drink. I could use some more get-over-your-ex tips.” I half-laugh, trying to play it cool, but by the way he is looking at me, he knows that things aren’t right with me. Maybe he is just the person to talk to.

  “Sorry, hon, but your timing is off. I met someone,” he says.

  “That’s great.” I smile over my raw chest.

  “Crazy shit.” He shakes his head, smoothing back a grin. “A few weeks ago I was about to become the biggest slut in California, and now she’s all I can think about. Hey, would you mind doing me a favor?” He rubs his jaw.

  I am not sure what to say.

  “Would you mind telling Cory I have to go back to California? I have been trying to call him all morning.” He follows me back to wardrobe.

  “You’re not doing the show?” I gasp at what that will mean to everyone.

  “Can’t.” He rubs his hands over his face quickly with a frown and fills his cheeks with hot air. “I messed up big time. The girl… Lindsay. I love her, and believe it or not I have been a dumbass. Her mom is in the hospital. She is going to die any day, and she really needs me. She needs me in San Fran now—yesterday—and Driven’s show is a two-week run. I can’t do it, Londyn.” His eyes widen, and his chin dips.

  “I thought you were in love with your ex.” I unlock the door and scan the room. Everything looks in its place, other than the missing costumes that have left for the theater.

  “She hurt my ego. This is real. Man, Londyn, if you only knew,” he shakes his head as he steps inside, his bag sliding down his arm.

  “I know that love is a land mine, so good luck with that. You do realize you will never be able to show your face in this city again.” I eye him in a way that says this is dead serious, which it is. But I have seen many artists make stupid decisions before.

  “Shit, yeah, but what am I supposed to do? I was up all night thinking about it. My flight is leaving in a few hours, and Cory isn’t answering his phone.” He secures his black leather overnighter bag over his shoulder. His eyes do look tired. Dark. Giddy.

  “Go.” I wave him out of my workplace. “I’ll talk to Cory. Do what you need to do. You can pay me back later.”

  “You’re the best, Londyn, don’t ever forget it.” He smiles brightly, and I imagine him leaping into a yellow cab, looking four times lighter than he did earlier. I suck in a breath, trying to quiet my own ailing heart.

  Time. All it takes is time.

  I look over my worktable one more time as if there should be some kind of clue written there. Then check all the offices for a sign of life—they are all dark and locked up—so I decide to go to the theater to find my answers. I have no idea what to do with the information Kent sent last night, or if I am supposed to do anything at all. I try calling Kent one last time, but it goes straight to voicemail. Branwen’s does too. Maybe they are on their way to New York. I wave down a yellow cab to Lincoln Center.

  When I arrive, the sound of the piano playing during warm-up class is reverberating off the theater doors, as though it’s trying to escape. I make a beeline for backstage. I have to find Cory and tell him about Lake.

  The costumes are there: one good thing.

  It’s the tune for dégagé. Katherine is calling over the music as I search the audience and backstage for Cory.

  “Faster, people!” Katherine belts.

  Robert’s fingers appear to land harder on the keys at the sound of her command.

  I hear Katherine clap. “Other side.”

  I walk to the end of the ladies’ change room and out the hallway. No sign of Cory. Then I hear a voice. The voice gets louder, and it’s coming from a small nearby room. I press my ear to the door.

  “We leave after the first run of the show. No one will expect it then. Don’t be nervous. I have everything sorted out. All you have to do is pack your bags and bring your passport. I love you too. No one will know. We’ll have enough money to last us the rest of our lives.”

  You have got to be kidding me. Did I really hear that right?

  My heart is up in my mouth and pitching fast ones at my ribs.

  It’s quiet, but not very quiet at all.

  I back away, trying not to make a sound. Fricking heels. I skulk on the balls of my feet backward. My heart is racing.

  What the hell is going on?

  Faster, faster, faster. The piano notes pick up speed.

  Against the music coming from the stage, there are pacing footsteps just down the hall from me. At first it seems they might be coming my way, but then it’s obvious they aren’t. Or maybe they are coming my way. I dash back to the ladies’ change room on the balls of my feet.

  Faster, faster, faster.

  I speed through the ladies’ room, past my costumes, through the backstage. Everywhere is black except the lights shining down over the stage. Dust motes are floating through the air. You can smell it: sweat, roses, honey, and burned coffee. I run my fingers over a red velvet curtain before peeling it back. My eyes scan the barre from one dancer to the next. Simone, happily smiling. Rick biting his lip.

  “Does that lip taste good, Rick?” Sergeant Katherine’s voice is all play. Lexi. No Lake. Lake. What the hell are we going to do now? My guts rumble. Every single dancer, apprentice, corps, soloist, and principal is present. Daniela’s skinny brow furrows in concentration.

  Daniela. The room stops. He wasn’t talking to her. She’s right here.

  I love you. No one will know. We will have enough money for the rest of our lives.

  My heart stops. I release the curtain and walk backstage to get my handbag. My phone is inside. I need to call Patrick. It’s right where I left it. I could kiss you, Mansur Gavriel. I dig around for my phone, but I can’t find it.

  “Londyn.” Cory rounds the corner in a black suit. I eye him up. “You’re here early.” There’s something grim about him.

  I look at him, and he looks at me. He knows I know and what I just heard. But why?

  Cory, embezzling money from the company? No.

  He wouldn’t dare.

  “Just got here.” I cover up so he doesn’t think I heard his phone call earlier, and he tilts his head with a nod. Thinking. He presses his lips together. His hands land on my shoulders, and I jump when Daniela scurries through the ladies’ change room in he
r tight black suit.

  “Have to pee!”

  She gives Cory a look, and I take this as my opportunity to excuse myself for a smoke. I light up outside of the theater.

  It’s a pretty amazing theater, and that should not be taken for granted. I call Kent again: no answer.

  I wish I could call Patrick. My heart thuds. Man, I miss him already. My fingers are trembling. Maybe I should just talk to Cory. But if he’s the one doing the actual stealing… shit. God, I wish things were different.

  We will have enough money for the rest of our lives.

  I sit my butt down on a bench, inhale the cigarette propped between my fingers, and cross my legs. My ankle is rolling so fast my foot might come loose from the joint.

  This is stupid. I should just talk to Cory. I butt out my cigarette, brush off my ass, and stand up.

  Warm-up class is over. I can hear the room lift in applause when I enter the theater. Dancers in black suits are dispersing. Cory is nowhere to be seen. I round the corner.

  Where the hell are you, Cory?

  For some reason, I’m trembling. I blow hot air onto my cold fingers as I walk through the foyer. It could be the start of show-day nerves.

  “Americano?”

  A voice comes from behind, and I turn around. Cory is holding two cups in his hands, grinning. “Don’t worry, this isn’t gofering. You just looked like you could use one.”

  There’s an unreadable expression on his face. I think of the fateful closing night a year ago, before he officially became director. The night Patrick and I went home together, even if it didn’t end well.

  “Thanks.” I take the hot cup in my fingers. Smells good. I am about to take a sip, but stop myself.

  “You didn’t poison this, did you?” I tease, and he almost chokes.

  “Poison you, Londyn? I mean, those costumes…” He lifts a hand to high-five. I slap his flat hand meekly, and he grips my fingers in his fingers. “You killed them!” He squeezes my hand tightly, and his eyes tense.

  “Thanks.” I cough and then inhale deeply. “Wow.” I look around the room. “I can’t believe it’s show time!” I try to make my voice sing. Cory watches me. He is sipping on his own coffee in his long black coat.