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

by Brianna Stark

  “Patrick, you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong with you. I know you. I know how you don’t believe in yourself. Some days you do, but some days you listen to that old critical voice of your father’s that tells you to quit your dreams; that says you’re doomed for failure. And you care about me so much, respect me so much, that you wouldn’t dare drag me down with you. But, baby, you can’t drag me down by being everything you were mean to be, and I have to stop being threatened by it. When you are you, you boost me, inspire me, uplift me. I get that your career is important to you, and there will be compromises on both ends. But we have to have faith we can do it together. It’s when we doubt ourselves that we get off track. Am I right?” I caress his strong jaw in my palms and look him fiercely in the eyes.

  The answers are all there.

  “I know you, Patrick.”

  “Like no one else.” He smiles as his gaze pierces mine. “And I know you. How you pretend to be untouchable, so strong and tough, even cold. Damn, you can be cold. But you have your reasons, and I understand why my career scares you. It scares me. And you’re ambitious, baby, like me. But underneath it, your heart is bigger than anyone’s, and our love is larger than any career. I’m sorry about what I said yesterday, and anything else I have ever done to hurt you. It will not happen again. I love you, Londyn. You rock my world.”

  “And you rock mine.” I wrap my arms around his neck, and we smile together as though no one is watching.

  That’s until we hear the applause around us from the dancers ready to hit the wings.

  “Shit.” I jump back, releasing my arms, not wanting anyone to see me being mushy.

  “Get back here, hottie.” Patrick pulls me into him by the hips. “See this, everyone? This is love.” He stares me down as his whole being falls into mine, and we kiss. He runs his teeth over his bottom lip when we stop for air. “I have something to tell you.”

  Luckily, the crowd of performers has dispersed. I arch a brow, unsure if I want to know more. Actually, maybe this time I do want to know. My lashes lift.

  “Kent has plans for a new production, and he wants you on the team. He’s on his way down here to sort out this mess with the company financials. Can you imagine someone stealing money from the company? And I thought we had seen it all.” He shakes his head.

  A year ago, I would have jumped at the opportunity. Kent Morgan was the ultimate choreographer, in my opinion. Now I wonder if a skater from New Jersey, who everyone thought was a joke, might have topped him.

  I tilt my head. “Are you going to be on this… team?”

  “I’d like to be.” He watches me in hesitation.

  “Will there still be time to go on our trip first?” I eye him, and Patrick’s lips curve into a sexy smile.

  “The dates are set, Londyn. I can’t wait, baby.” His smile is a deep and luscious curve that reaches his eyes. “Maybe we can stop in Florida on the way back for a visit with Mom.”

  “Might not be a bad idea.” I press my smiling lips together, looking back to the stage. The show is about to begin.

  Patrick leans in. “I love you, Londyn. Always have. Always will. You say the word, and I’m in. You want to go to Florida for a year, for forever, I’m there with you. There’s never been anyone else, anything else. The rest is background noise. I am sorry for the past. So are you. I will walk to hell and back if that’s what it takes for you to trust me again, to forgive me. But I forgive you, and I know that you were willing to go the distance to help my career. But if not, I would so much rather spend my time making you trust me again, making us whole again. Wherever or however that needs to be.”

  We were so caught up in our conversation that I hadn’t noticed that the dress-run had been paused and re-started. They must have had to fine-tune a light, the musical timing, or another spacing alteration due to Lake’s absence.

  The lights are coming up, officially.

  This is it.

  We hold our breaths.

  Patrick’s gaze follows mine to the stage as I tangle my fingers in his to pull him close.

  “I forgive you Patrick Moss, and I trust you, more than anyone. But I will never go to Florida for a whole season, not even with you.”

  “How does a week sound?”

  “Perfect. Now kiss me again.”

  They say that when the lights dim to black, and you are standing in position, waiting to begin, the shock of the rays shining down on you make blue and green spots float in your vision, while the scent of burned dust swirls in the air. They say that when the stage fades to black before the show begins, it is the darkest moment of all. All your fears surround you like a sticky black cloud. Your heart pounds like it’s on steroids in your ear, and you pray for everything to be okay—that you don’t forget your steps or crap your pants—as your fingers tremble and your mouth turns dry. Then you wait for the music to begin, hoping that the worst is behind you and not still ahead.

  Even in the darkness and the bright lights, when you step into the silence that isn’t very silent at all, you can see it. It’s around you. It’s in your past and your future. It is in your breath and your veins. It’s a fragrance in the air.

  Heartbreak.

  Then, shortly after, comes the scent of success. Because where there is heartbreak, there is also success.

  It comes as a presence in the room that has its own taste and melody. It nudges from the future and pushes from the past. Success is ever-present over the shoulders of those hoping that next season they will finally secure that coveted role. It’s in the echo left after skin creates friction against the marly floor. It’s the feeling of tulle pulled between fingers soaked in perspiration, reaching for something that isn’t there. It is in the muffled sounds of those trying to catch their breaths while hiding in the wings. It’s in the eyes of those who know the future and cannot erase the past. Success is the thing that motivates you and rises back up your throat after you force the champagne bubbles down. It looks you straight in the eye.

  Success is just another character in the cast.

  And love is its tricky cousin.

  I love you, Patrick Moss, with all of my heart. And you are worth it. I am worth it. It’s the kind of spell that opening night promises. And luckily the lights are lowered, because my eyes start to swell, really weep, as his mouth closes over mine and the music finally begins.

  Keep reading for a sneak peek of DRESS REHEARSAL, Driven Dance Theater, Book 3, and a friends-to-lovers romance!

  Driven’s notorious prima, Daniela Harrington, is about to have her world turned upside down when City Ballet’s sexiest star makes a guest appearance at Driven.

  Join my VIP list for DRESS REHEARSAL release updates and receive LIGHTS UP for free!

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  Thank you so much for reading Closing Night: Driven Dance Theater Series Book 2!

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  Brianna

  Sneak Peek of DRESS REHEARSAL

  DRIVEN DANCE THEATER SERIES

  BOOK #3

  CHAPTER ONE

  Anyone who thinks it’s fun being a diva has never had to endure a fall from grace. I stare at a pair of chrome-colored Jimmy Choos in my walk-in closet and wonder if I have it in me to get dressed and face the world since mine came crashing down. Like me,
my old favorite shoes have lost their sparkle.

  Thing is, I’ve been living in my Uggs and fuzzy gray robe for two months. I have been hiding out in my Brooklyn apartment, silently watching the murder of my reputation as Driven Dance Theater’s leading principal and a member of New York society’s elite. From half a million Instagram followers to sixty thousand. And all of them alluding to the same question: What the fuck happened to Cory Kidd?

  Follow-up question: Why the hell did Daniela Harrington—that’s me—let him get away with it?

  My agent Leslie Harris has been calling me all morning, but I don’t need her to tell me how badly my reputation has been hurt, or that the dance company my parents personally financed won’t hire me back.

  I’m throwing the shoes back in the closet and deciding to decline an invitation to an event from one of my favorite charities when there’s a buzz at my front door. Leslie? I suppose I can’t avoid her forever. I look through the camera. Yep, it’s her. I buzz her up, even though seeing another human right now feels as pleasant as putting on four-inch heels. The woman has done a lot for me, and she’s been a decent friend. This isn’t the first crisis I have weathered with her, but it is definitely the worst. And though I have a lot of faith in her, not even she can get me out of the mess I’ve made through my own bad choices.

  I open my front door, and she strides in, sporting a black pantsuit and heels. “You’re still in that robe? And those Uggs, Daniela...” She shakes her head and scans the state of my apartment. Her perfume is strong but not unpleasant.

  “Uggs are comfortable.” I grimace. “Why are you here, anyway? I would have called you back.” Eventually.

  “I am your career champion. When things go wrong, my job is to step in and fix them. That’s why you pay me—well. And things are going very wrong.”

  “My parents pay you,” I correct.

  “Technically. Which means we have power over you.” She stops her pacing and assesses me with arched brows. She means business. But this is Leslie. She may be one of the only people on the planet who genuinely likes me. I like her too.

  “Did you get my messages?”

  “Some of them.” I sit down and run my hands through my greasy hair. I stopped listening to her messages after the one about her idea to restructure my contract with Driven. There’s no point. Cory, my ex and Driven’s previous artistic director, bankrupted my beloved dance company, and now its future is uncertain. Besides, am I supposed to grovel to the company that would never have found fame without the generosity of my family?

  “I’ve been trying to get through to you because I have unbelievably good news.”

  I nod, but I’m skeptical that anything good could possibly occur at this point. Since things went down at Driven, everyone has been acting as though I have some kind of infectious disease, as though I had anything to do with the scandal that robbed one of this country’s best dance companies of all its assets.

  “Wait till you hear this.” Leslie blinks in disbelief, shaking her head. “It’s exactly what you’ve been waiting for.” She plants her hands on her hips. “Are you ready?”

  “Should I sit down?” Honestly, she’s making me nervous. Then again, my nerves could be shot. Period.

  “It might be a good idea.” Leslie places the back of her hand against her forehead. “God, is it hot in here, or is it just me?”

  I hadn’t noticed the heat, but now that she mentions it, it is a little stuffy. She walks up to the window and opens it. The traffic noise gets louder, but there’s also the sound of a bird chirping.

  “So, get this: you’ve been invited to perform at the Stars Gala, and Kent Morgan has agreed to direct. Amazing, huh?”

  “Kent Morgan? Really?” I am a little surprised.

  “It gets better. They want you to perform Cory Kidd’s duet. It’s a brilliant idea. Cory was Kent’s protégé, everyone loved that duet, and now that Cory is notorious... This is a really big deal, Daniela.”

  “You mean Simone and Rick’s duet?” I ask with a bitter taste in my mouth. Because even though the duet was originally set on Cory and I, we were demoted to second cast. This was before Cory cut my solo from the same show last season.

  But Leslie is always right. She’s one of the best agents in New York, and as a dancer I was lucky to get her. Then again, Driven Dance Theater is famous as far as dance companies go, and I am—or was—their number one diva. I come from money, and I’m an Instagram influencer and a public figure. A hotshot agent made sense, I guess. Most dancers in the city have some kind of representation, but Leslie is a level up from “most.”

  But I am not doing Cory’s duet.

  “You said the C-word.”

  “Yeah, him,” Leslie mutters. She knows how sensitive I am on the subject of Cory. Since I’ve slumped into this depression, people don’t know how to act around me. Fair enough. I don’t know who I am or how to act either.

  “You know how hard that duet was for me. The C-word purposely made it that way, highlighting every one of my weaknesses.”

  There are jumps in that duet. Lots of them. I suck at jumps. Extensions are more my thing. Point being, I hated that duet from the moment of its conception, and way before everything else happened.

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, but your career is in rough shape, girl. It was hard enough recovering after you backstabbed your best friend by humiliating her on YouTube. It was a slow build. And then the Cory scandal?” She shakes her head in disbelief.

  I’ll admit: none of it is ideal.

  “At least that video of Branwen went viral,” I say. It’s all I can say in my defense. Truly, though, I still hate myself for what I did. I really owe Branwen a better apology, but she moved on to brighter pastures anyway when she married the Kent Morgan.

  Thinking of Branwen ultimately reminds me of Leslie’s news.

  “Kent Morgan? Really?” The name gives my spirits the smallest lift. Kent Morgan is an icon. The day he left the Manhattan dance world was a sad one. There are blogs dedicated to encouraging his return. Though from what I’ve heard, he was pretty happy to get out of New York. That he has agreed to return is unexpected.

  “Yes, really. And it’s the Stars Gala, Daniela. It would be the biggest performance of your life. You wanted a career saver, and this could not have come at a better time.” Her eyebrow steeples. She is absolutely right. But how can I perform when I can barely get dressed? Recent events have knocked the wind out of me. Keeping up a daily workout is my limit.

  “I can’t do that duet, Leslie.” I am not being difficult. There is just no way I could pull it off, being the mess that I am, and there is no point in pretending otherwise.

  “Jonas Knight said he would return from London to partner with you.” She delivers the news cautiously while plucking something out from under her long fingernail.

  My heart pirouettes.

  “What?” I look at her with wide eyes. There’s a jolt of life happening behind my ribs, and I haven’t felt it in forever.

  She squints up at me. “Jonas Knight. He’s some star dancer with Ballet Royal. Kent thought that would be of interest to you, so I looked him up. He is big right now.”

  I am completely speechless. The blood stops moving to my head and limbs and pools in my chest instead. Of course I know who Jonas Knight is.

  His name alone takes my breath. It’s haunted me for years. It could swallow me whole in a second. My heart stops beating, and my mind starts reeling. How many times have I wondered what happened to the man who stole my heart? (And what is it with the men in my life vanishing?)

  And now Jonas is flying in from London to dance with me? It can’t be.

  It makes no sense. He’s a ballet dancer. I am a contemporary dancer. Ballet trained, sure. But I am no ballet ballet dancer.

  Plus, there’s… Well, there’s everything.

  “Did you tell my parents that Jonas is dancing with me? Willing, I mean. He’s willing to dance with me.” I add the last part quick
ly and scrub my hand down my face.

  “Yeah, I did. Your mom wasn’t crazy about the idea. What’s up with that?” Leslie sits back, crosses her legs on my velvet chair, and starts stabbing at her phone.

  “Not sure… His mom worked for our family, though. He’s basically the reason I started to actually like dance after Mother forced me to take classes for years. You’d think she’d love him for it.”

  It’s all I can think to say as I tug my robe tighter around me and stare out the window. I’m stunned. Jonas Knight returning to New York to dance with me.

  There is also no way I am up for the challenge.

  “Seriously, Daniela, get dressed and out of that thing. I’m taking you for lunch across the bridge. Somewhere Instagram-worthy.” Leslie looks up from her phone, and my solar plexus fills with dread. It’s been months since I’ve visited Manhattan.

  “I haven’t posted in a month.” I’m referring to Instagram. “And I’d rather just go somewhere in Brooklyn.” My voice is so quiet I can barely hear it.

  “We’re going to the city. I know just the place. It will be good for you to eat something other than potato chips, and have your photo taken in civilization. The weather’s beautiful. And you’re looking pale. What do you say?” She slips her phone into her purse.

  “You know about the chips?” I bite my lip, embarrassed.

  “You’d be surprised what I know. Now go get changed. Or do you need me to pick out some clothes for you?” Leslie stands up and crosses her arms over her chest.

  “Nah, I’m good.” She’d probably convince me to wear heels. I round the corner to my bedroom, tie up my hair, and stare into my closet. Nothing suits me anymore. I don’t have a clue what’s in style this summer. The hot-pink, balloon-sleeved dress I reach for is too minimal. It’s warm out, but I am always cold. I pull out a pair of stonewashed denims and python-print wedge heels, looking longingly at my Uggs. “I won’t be long,” I reassure them as I slip my arms into a black tank and light cotton blazer.