by K. K. Allen
A loud sigh crossed the line. “We’re going to have to work on your punctuality.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s never been a problem before, but this phone call is not helping.” I jolted forward when the crosswalk light started to count down.
“Fine,” she said. “Good luck at your audition. Call me when it’s over. But, Kai—”
I didn’t like the way she said my name, like she needed to deliver bad news and was bracing me for it.
“Be open to all the possibilities today, okay?”
My stomach churned at her ominous warning. “What is that supposed to—”
She’d already hung up.
With a frustrated growl, I clutched my phone and ran the rest of the way across the street. I would have been at Gravity already if I hadn’t taken that phone call. What made it worse, the one rain droplet from minutes before had turned into a full-fledged rain shower while I was on the phone. On any other day, I would’ve questioned any sort of precipitation in LA during the summer months, but not that day. Nothing would surprise me.
A sigh of relief rushed through me when I looked up and saw my destination, its simple structure branded by a red 3-D sign lit by bulbs and spelling Gravity in bold capitals, with a smaller set of letters below reading Dance Complex.
It was Hollywood’s go-to for any dance gig imaginable. Gravity bred the best, was owned by the best, and was taught by the best. I was proud to call myself one of the Lifers, dancers who spent the majority of their time going from class to class, busting ass day and night.
I hopped onto the curb and started at the roar of an approaching engine. My head snapped toward the sound, and my eyes went wide as time seemed to slow.
All I saw was black. From the helmet completely cloaking the rider’s face, to the tattoos wrapped around a rock-hard bicep, to his tank top and black jeans, to the crotch rocket squeezed between his muscular thighs. He was coming too close for comfort, and I was frozen.
I didn’t notice the puddle that had formed in the street just inches from me, not until he took a sharp turn, leaning so far left I was certain he and his bike would scrape the asphalt before he completely bit it. But that wasn’t what happened at all.
He was only inches from the curb—from me—when his tires ran through a puddle, catching the street water in the treads. My mouth fell open as chips of rock, dirt, and rain stained my clothes before he righted himself and screeched to a halt a few feet away.
I looked down to find my white spandex skirt, pink tights, and black sports bra completely destroyed. My bare midriff was caked in dirty water. The tight bun in my hair, which I’d so carefully prepared for today, started to fall apart at the slightest touch. I was a total mess, and the clock was still ticking.
“What the hell?” The scream tore from my mouth faster than I could stop it.
The asshole in black stepped casually off his bike and removed his helmet while peering at me with a sideways smirk. Then he shook out his disheveled hair and rubbed his fingers through it as if he hadn’t just ruined my potentially awesome day.
“Sorry, love.” His eyes lazily dragged over my entire length. “You’ll be right.”
I was speechless as I stared back, and not because he had the kind of hair that was made for dirty sex and a gaze so piercing my heart jolted in my chest. None of that mattered. I was speechless because I couldn’t go to an audition looking like I’d just mud wrestled in a pigpen with an angry hog. What am I going to do now? Rage filled every inch of my insides, and I started to shake.
His cocky grin said he wasn’t sorry in the least. And as if the man couldn’t have been more of an asshole, the prick had to have an Australian accent. My eyes narrowed with disdain, and I tightened my grip on my phone. With as much adrenaline as was coursing through my body, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I crushed it into a million pieces. I’d never hated a man with more conviction.
I stormed away from the curb—from him and his black deathtrap on wheels—and flew up the stairs to Gravity, immediately eyeing the large clock behind the desk of the receptionist, Wendy. I had ten minutes to figure out how to fix the hot mess I’d become.
“Hey, Kai,” Wendy said with excitement lighting up her entire demeanor. She’d worked there almost as long as I’d been dancing there. Her face fell as she took in my disaster of an outfit. “Oh no.”
I passed her in a rush. “I need to get to wardrobe. If you see Wayne, tell him I need him?”
She nodded emphatically, her sympathetic eyes plastered to my waist. “Of course. He’s around here somewhere. I’ll find him.”
I ran the rest of the way down the hall, pushed through door marked Costumes, and flipped on the light. Having spent so much time at Gravity over the years had its benefits, and this was one of them—access to the small wardrobe room that held designer dance outfits, new and old, donated for various reasons. Emergencies like this were one of them.
The room was the size of a master bedroom. So many opportunities passed through Gravity’s front doors, from random celebrity drop-ins to surprise video spotlights for social media, that it wouldn’t be the first time an outfit had to be replaced before an audition or a videotaping. Something here would work for my audition, but I became overwhelmed by the array of possibilities.
I ran my hands through the colorful material, wishing I knew more about the job than what Sheena had already told me. I couldn’t afford to waste time calling her back and begging for more information. I needed to pick an outfit and get my ass out onto the stage, where at least another two dozen auditionees would already be, more prepared than I for the unknown.
When the door to the room swung open, I was overcome by relief. “Oh my God, Wayne, I’m so glad you’re here.”
My best friend took two long strides to me and wrapped me in his arms. “I heard there was an emergency.”
I sighed and stared longingly at the row of colorful fabric. “It was an unfortunate puddle accident. I need to change, but”—I slapped my sides—“I don’t know where to start.” I turned to him with a pout. “Help me. What should I wear to an audition for a part in a musical I have no chance of getting?”
He couldn’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “Did Sheena tell you more about it, or are you just being dramatic?”
When I growled at him, he laughed then turned me at the waist to face him completely. “Why are you overthinking this? You love musicals. You need a job. And you’re a goddess on that dance floor.” He waved a hand over my attire. “Just replace what you have on and get out there.”
I swallowed, hating that I was letting the universe control my mood so much. This negative self-talk thing was not like me. “You’re right. But will you help me?”
He smiled. “Sit tight. I’ve got this.”
He zoomed around the room, his spiked red hair peeking above the racks of clothes as he pulled items piece by piece from their hangers. When he reached where I was standing again, a huge wolfish grin on his face, I had to smile back.
“Okay, I’m not giving you options. You don’t have time for that. So”—he pulled out a black top similar to the one I already had on but scrunched in the middle between the cups—“this will make your boobs look bigger. Here.”
He thrust it toward me, and I immediately started to change, not taking offense at his comment about my breasts. They weren’t flat by any means, but I never said no to a little pick-me-up.
He handed me black fishnet leggings next to replace the pink ones I was already stripping from my dark olive skin. “Those tights needed to go in the trash anyway, honey. Maybe the universe is doing you a service.”
I snorted, grabbed the replacement pair, and rolled the fabric over my toes. “You might be right.” Next, I tugged on the jean shorts he handed me before strapping my heels back on. “I need to go.” My heart beat fast when I glanced at the clock—less than five minutes. “Thanks, babe.”
“Anytime. Knock ’em dead, Zelda.”
I laughed at the r
idiculous nickname, which I’d earned at our first Comic Mania Convention three years before, when I dressed up as my favorite superhero. Then I fled from the room and down the hallway of Gravity.
Classes were in session, so the halls were mostly quiet until I reached the large double doors of the theater. The check-in line had dwindled, so it only took a minute to grab my badge and hop on stage with the rest of the hopefuls. I found the last open spot at the end of the back row, finally feeling like I could breathe again.
I made it. No one will see me back here, but I made it.
A gray-haired man with a striking baby face, stark blue eyes, and thick sideburns clapped his hands as he looked back at all six rows of us. “Welcome, dancers. My name is Dirk Lane, and I am one of the two creators of the Angst and Grace musical production.” His eyes darted around the room, annoyance flitting subtly across his expression, before settling back on us. “You’ll meet my partner as soon as he arrives. Until then, I want to thank you all for being here, as I know that the publicized details omitted certain information.” He flashed another grin. “Since the show has not been announced to the public, we were forced to keep information at a minimum.”
I looked around at the other dancers, wondering if they were as surprised as I was. Most of the eyes in the room stayed on the man, but I definitely wasn’t the only one shifting in their skin. He’d mentioned Angst and Grace, the failed Broadway production. It had lasted only three months before ending its run, which had never made any sense to me. The reviews I’d seen throughout its duration were stellar.
“For those of you unaware of the story of Angst and Grace,” Dirk went on to explain, “it’s a musical told strictly through dance and music. It’s a love triangle that tells the story of a starving artist, Angst, who meets his muse, Grace, while he’s trapped in a relationship with the wrong woman, Desire. Throughout their friendship, Grace helps Angst see true love, but nothing comes easy for these two. Not when Desire will do anything for the sake of the limelight. Angst has an internal struggle. Is he bad? Is he good? Each woman represents a side of him, and only one side can win in the end.”
As a round of applause burst from everyone onstage, Dirk smiled and took it all in. “Thank you. We’re quite proud of this story. There’s a great message there, and with an original score composed by one of Broadway’s favorite leading men himself, we are eager to get Angst and Grace back on the stage.”
Dirk looked around the room again, turned to a short man with dark curly hair beside him, and whispered something close to his ear. The man shook his head and shrugged. Dirk faced us again, his smile so tight that discomfort settled in my gut.
“Moving on,” he said with a clap of his hands. “While the production is no longer on Broadway, we have a unique opportunity, the details of which will be disclosed upon a job offer. All that we ask of those who wish to audition is that you be free from contractual obligations now and in the near future, as the opportunity we are offering is, at minimum, seven months from the time we start rehearsing.”
His words were met with eager nods.
“Now,” Dirk said, “feel free to leave if you don’t like what you just heard.”
He looked around the room and paused a moment as his eyes caught on something behind me. I couldn’t miss the chill that swept the air around me with that look.
Just as quickly, Dirk’s expression transitioned to a tight smile, and he glanced around the room again. “Okay, then. I’d like to introduce you to my co-producer and the Broadway superstar himself. Put your hands together for the legendary piano man, Sebastian Chase.”
That was the moment all the little clues from my morning suddenly clicked. My insides turned to ice as I swiveled around, where a figure dressed all in black emerged from the backstage shadows. My gut sank as the man who’d almost ruined my entire audition—the asshole on the bike—stepped forward, a naturally smug grin on his face.
As much as I’d love to say that look wasn’t pointed at me, I couldn’t make any promises, especially since his twinkling eyes were filled with amusement… and staring right back into mine.
Chapter 2
Sebastian
My lip twitched as I stifled a full-on laugh. I was walking by the familiar woman in the back row—the one from the street, with the uptight bun in her hair and the pink ballet tights beneath the extra prissy skirt wrapping her trim waist. Earlier, she’d looked like she had arrived for a Nutcracker audition rather than a modern jukebox show. But, damn, she could scrub up well.
The look she had now, with her hair falling in waves around her shoulders, knockers pushed into her small top, black fishnets pulled up to her trim waist, and cheeky jean shorts wrapping her naughty hips—much better. I’d done her a favor by forcing her into a wardrobe change, but I was sure she would never see it that way.
This version of her I wouldn’t have missed on that curb. I might have even avoided that puddle.
Okay, I would never have splashed her on purpose. As funny as that was, I wasn’t the type of bloke who would go out of his way to Shamu a woman for attention.
In my defense, I hadn’t seen her standing on the curb when I took that corner far too wide. Like her, I was running late. Not until the damage was done, her outfit was soaked, and I was parking my bike did I see her in all her pissed-off glory.
Shit, was she pissed off. And the fact that she stood there expecting an apology from me told me not to give her one—not a real one, anyway. Why should I? It was an accident. Pink Tights could manage.
I strolled by her, purposely walking a little too close so that I could speak quietly enough for only her to hear—wouldn’t want any of the others getting jealous. “Nice outfit, love.”
My gaze held hers as she squirmed. Her eyes narrowed and her posture became as stiff as I’d gotten a minute before when I thought about how wet and angry she’d gotten earlier. Then she flipped her long dark hair to exaggerate her disgust for me, and a watermelon-bubblegum scent caught in my nose. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck rose to attention.
A chuckle erupted in my gut, but I waited until my back was to her to release it. She reminded me of sweet innocence, the kind I wanted to root—fuck—just to teach her a few lessons in what the world was really like. It wasn’t all bubblegum and ballerinas, which she clearly had yet to find out. But she would, and unfortunately, it wouldn’t be with me.
Fucking some wannabe actress-slash-dancer was not something I’d ever do. But fucking with her? That would be my pleasure. It was already proving to be my entertainment while I prepared to suffer through a full day of bullshit auditions.
Auditions were the mind-numbing process where Broadway hopefuls appeared in front of a panel of judges who had already seen it all and tried to outshine everyone in the room. That day was no different. I was just the piano man they brought in to make the possibility of a shitty job on a shitty musical more appealing.
The hook? They would have the opportunity to work with some of Broadway’s greatest. Like me.
The only reason I showed up to take part in this eye-rolling process was because Dirk refused to use the background track I’d created ages ago. He wanted a live band during auditions, and I didn’t trust anyone else to sing my songs. No way—my music, my show. I didn’t need some twerp pianist coming in to replace me.
So there I was, at Gravity, in our rented rehearsal space, strolling to the front of the room without rewarding Dirk with so much as a glance. I was late, which wasn’t something I made a habit of, but the complex was much bigger than I’d imagined. Finding my way through the maze of narrow hallways had turned out to be a feat of its own. I sat on the bench of a grand piano that looked inward toward the stage—the size was a joke compared to the venue we had rented in New York City—and waited.
“Nice of you to finally join us,” Dirk muttered dryly upon approaching. “I was about to bring in your backup.”
My lip twitched at the corner, my chest prickling with contempt for a ma
n I hated more than I was ever allowed to admit. “No need. We can begin now.” I circled a hand through the air as I bowed in a gesture for him to continue with the auditions, a move intended to rile him up the way he’d tried to rile me.
His eyes narrowed. “Nothing’s changed, has it, Bash?” He kept his voice low enough so that only I could pick up his words. “Four years, and you’re still living in the past.”
As he leaned in, I swore if so much as his breath touched my skin, I would swing.
“There’s still time for you to run home to New York,” Dirk said, testing me again. “I’m sure you’ve got better things—er, people—to do.”
“And you’re still trying to call the shots without me.” I adjusted my eyes down to my fingers as I tested some chords. “When are you going to learn? This show happens with me, or it doesn’t happen at all.”
His hand curled around the top of the piano. “There he is. The punk who didn’t deserve Broadway, showing his true colors.”
Heat crept up my back as I rested my fingers on the keys. “You know what they say, Dick. You can take the bad boy off Broadway, but he’ll only adapt to his surroundings. The show must go on, and like it or not, it’s not going anywhere without me.”
I met his eyes with a challenge, cocking my lip up to let him know this was only the beginning. He might have started the war, but I was determined to finish it—and I’d do it my way.
Chapter 3
Kai
One thing I loved about studying dance at Gravity was the diversity that traversed the halls and studios. The talent was immense, and with dancers from all over the world finding their second home there, just like I had, it made for a small familial community that challenged me at every step. While the lot of us were highly competitive, with tunnel vision leading directly toward our dreams, we also had great respect for our fellow dancers and wanted them to succeed too.