Samantha Cocker (Cocker Brothers Book 21)

by Faleena Hopkins

  I give a bored, “Dunno. Don’t care.”

  Her eyes sparkle as she smirks, “Rehearsal just got more interesting. Come on.”

  “Yeah, it’s almost time,” I mutter, like I was ready to go in anyway.

  Sucking on my teeth I grab the door before she can. Her blonde ponytail ticktocks past with an obligatory, “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  He’s waiting by the elevator, which irks me that it didn’t already scoop the jackass up.

  His expression is cool but watchful.

  Oh, he’s going to play it like that, eh?

  Sam and I stand next to him, and face the stainless steel doors, waiting for the car to come. My blood is itching because it’s hard not to notice she’s wondering how to start a conversation.

  She blurts, “You in the show, too?”

  He locks eyes with her. “Yeah, what part do you play?”

  So he’s not background then. The guy wouldn't have asked that loaded question if he were. It implies he has a part.

  I answer, “The brother.”

  Samantha glances to me, knowing I saved her from saying she didn’t have one.

  He nods to me as we all walk on, but he’s interested in her. “I’m playing Donovan, the lead.”

  “Oh wow!” Sam whispers as she begins to understand. “You’re from New York, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. Name’s Asher.”

  “Samantha.”

  I thrust my hand out like a dumbass. “Looks like we’re family for the next three weeks plus performances.”

  We shake, and he returns his curiosity to Sam until she gives him a shrug, “Background dancer.”

  “You should be up front.”

  Her grin is his reward.

  I want to punch the guy.

  I’m not a fighter.

  Or at least, I wasn’t one.

  Put someone in the right situation and they’re capable of anything. I can feel my knuckles twitching as he glances to her ass. Sam’s standing just ahead of us enough with her eyes on the ascending numbers. He and I lock stares and he holds my look, gauging me.

  A cacophony of first-day excitement breaks the tension as doors slide open to over thirty dancers, actors, and singers, gathered in the waiting room.

  Ms. Galloway appears, motioning for us all to join her in the twelve-hundred-square-foot rehearsal space. “Okay, everyone, get a move on.”

  I’ve worked with her on four productions, and she never sits down once rehearsals begin. The woman is powerful, a famous dancer who, when she was younger, traveled the world in company after company. We’re lucky she settled in the south; says she likes the weather here best.

  Galloway motions for the three of us to come to her. We walk over and she dismisses Sam, “Not you Samantha. Go join the dancers.”

  My chest tightens as I watch Sam give a quick smile, “Oh, okay, thank you,” bouncing off like she doesn’t mind. I know better. I’m sure Galloway does, too, but she’s got no time for hurt feelings.

  “Have you met?” He and I nod. “Good. One of the reasons I cast you, Logan, is because I know you.” With a bland wave she explains, “Your ego won’t get in the way. You’re to support Asher and not pull focus. He’s the star.”

  I snort, “Gee, thanks.”

  She cocks an eyebrow, and I lose the sarcasm. She’s right about me if it had been any other guy. But this one checked out my Sam.

  I don’t like him.

  At.

  All.

  “Your dancing is superb, better than any one else who auditioned. But it’s your energy I really wanted. You’re the perfect nice-guy type.”

  Chewing on my cheek I nod, “Awesome.” Glancing over to Sam I see her watching us, eyes on the choreographer who could have changed her life. She idolizes Galloway. We all worship the woman. Every dancer in this city has watched the videos. Nobody danced like Tasha G. back in the day.

  Eyes hardened by experience in a cutthroat business, lock onto Asher. “You’re new to me, so let’s get one thing straight. I want the very best from you. Your all. No attitude like you’re better than anyone here. You might be from New York, and you might be attached to this production already, but we’re just as proud of our city as you are of yours, so don’t fight me because you think you know better. This is my show. You can be replaced.”

  He smirks, “I like your style.”

  Huffing through her nose, “We’ll see about that,” she turns to clap, raising her volume. “Enough chatter! Let’s get organized. I want Donovan’s family to my left. Izzy’s to my right. Marion, take center-front of your group.”

  So Marion got cast as Izzy. I’d guessed, but had no confirmation until now. My eyes lock with Samantha’s as I walk to stand by my new ‘brother.’

  “In the middle I want three sections. Dancers. Chorus. And dancers who also sing.” Soon everyone is in their groups, curiously looking around and memorizing who they’ll be working alongside until this thing moves north.

  “Folks, I want to introduce Asher Gladstone visiting us from New York.” Marion perks up, body shifting to a more graceful posture as she examines him. They’re to play love interests, but she’s clearly enamored with where he hails from.

  Good.

  She’s a beauty.

  Extremely talented.

  Maybe she’ll capture his attention.

  “He’s here because this production will be going to Broadway.”

  Gasps ripple from those who didn’t know.

  Samantha offers me a weak smile as our powerhouse choreographer continues, “This is a preview production. We’ll be performing in Atlanta only two weeks so that’s four for rehearsal, two performance, then some of you will be traveling with the show. Some will be replaced by Broadway talent.” A dramatic pause holds everyone’s suspense. “My advice? Become irreplaceable. Let’s begin!”

  The only ones who don’t jump like someone stuck a firecracker under their butts are me and Asher.

  He’s made. Locked in. Confident.

  I’m wishing it had gone differently for Sam.

  I’ve seen her dance a thousand times. She’s just as good as Marion. But despite being a member of the infamous Cocky Family—as everyone in Atlanta has nicknamed them—she’s the most humble talent in this room.

  Ms. Galloway directs, “It’s Sunday morning, a rural town that would have twenty churches if they had more people. They don’t, so there are only two, built directly across from one another in hopes that if someone switches faiths, they’ll simply cross the street. But what’s happened is a separation between the town, an invisible line drawn center here, where you do not cross. When you leave church, you stare at who is on the other side, as if they are beneath you. Yes, just like that. Dancers and singers, you will fill in the townsfolk. For now, just stay back and watch. Families, as the play opens, you gather, eyeing each other as you converse with your preferred congregations. Marion, you will appear at the very last second. Asher, Logan, until that point, the two of you are joking around with each other. I’ve choreographed some great moves. You’re playing teenagers, as you know. The adults around you aren’t paying attention to you. So when you spot Marion—your Izzy—they will not see it. But we will.”

  He nods, eyes shining like he’s finally getting excited about being here.

  Galloway points, “Singers, stay where you are. You’ll be in the back, and that is where your song will begin. You are angels overlooking the scene. Your song is never heard by anyone but the audience and the dancers who come to life when you sing. Never the actors. They will not interact with you even when their own voices rise to combine.”

  Everyone nods as they learn, shifting their weight, eager to impress.

  “When you’re convening outside, actors and background dancers, I want low conversations, some smiles, mostly forced and watchful. I don’t want overdone theater-acting on my stage. Move now. Show me. Yes, like that. Good work. Love those glances. Pretend to be discreet but the
lingering shows your judgment. Perfect. Marion, don’t be so obvious. I want you facing the audience but not that much. Be a part of the scene, don’t hog it.”

  I glance to Samantha, but she’s engaged with greeting a fictional friend she hasn’t seen in a while in this imaginary world. It puts me back on track and I return to Asher, see him spotting “Izzy” just in time for Ms. Galloway to single me out.

  “That’s right, Logan. Good, you see him. You’re worried. Just like that!”

  I was worried you caught me staring at Sam. Don’t fuck this up, Logan.

  This is your dream.

  Chapter Seven

  LOGAN

  Samantha and I meet by our bags to dig around for snacks and water bottles. “You look great out there, Logan,” she quietly tells me under the echo of conversations. “I don’t think I’ve heard you sing before. Impressed.”

  I run a hand through my hair. “You heard me. We did that play together in grade school.”

  Playfully touching my abs she smiles, “Your voice changed a lot since then.”

  Marion’s excitement pulls my attention. “Wow, this show is going to be so fun, right?”

  Samantha looks up from her bag, producing a banana from it. “I love the story!”

  Marion’s glance flicks to the fruit. “Extravagant choice, Sam.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I never eat that much sugar when I’m training. There’s potassium, sure, but the sugars make you crash.”

  “I’m just having one.”

  “And that bar, how much is in that? I’m surprised they even still make that brand and market it to athletes. Who’re they kidding?” Marion rolls her eyes.

  Samantha peels the unbruised, yellow skin and chomps down. “Guess that’s why I didn’t get the lead.”

  I snort, a grin replacing my annoyance. Leave Sam to take care of herself.

  Marion straightens her shoulders. “Guess so. You’ve gotta take this seriously if you want to be the best. Where do the best go?”

  Behind her, Asher walks up. “I don’t know about that. I’ve been on Broadway stages with some mediocre assholes.”

  I like the guy a little more for saying that. And Samantha does, too, which is unfortunate.

  But Marion’s not buying it, even though she’s hiding the fact because she wants his attention. “You know better than I do, obviously. But the stars have to be the best. That’s what makes them watchable.” She touches his arm, not a first since they’ve been playing lovers all week. “Like you out there. You heard the steps once and had them. I’ve never seen anyone pick it up that quickly.”

  Asher reaches over and rips a chunk off Samantha’s banana, as she reacts with a laugh. Shoving the spongy fruit in his mouth, he shrugs, “They’re not hard steps. Excuse me, I’ve gotta make a call.”

  Crossing my arms as the three of us watch the big city boy stroll out the door, I tell Marion, “Guess he doesn’t mind sugar either.”

  She walks away. “It’s just a banana. It’s not like it’s cake.”

  Sam and I stare after her a beat, and exchange a look as I mutter, “My favorite person.”

  “Stop.”

  “She got the part. Why does she have to still try to make you feel small?”

  Samantha cocks an eyebrow. “Still?”

  Flicking a glance to Marion, I remind her, “It’s always been that way ever since we were kids.”

  “She’s really insecure.”

  I snort, “Doesn’t come off that way!”

  “There’s no other reason for her to have made all those little digs.” Samantha pulls her blonde hair down to fix her ponytail. It’s been a long morning. “If she’s that critical of me, she’s just as critical of herself.”

  “She’s jealous.”

  “For what reason? So dumb,” Samantha mutters, staring at the ground while she focuses on getting her hair right. She glances up, and her eyes brighten. I look over to Asher on his phone re-entering the rehearsal space. He winks at her.

  She lowers her voice. “What do you think of him, Logan?”

  Ms. Galloway claps, shouting, “Alright, places everyone.”

  We hastily tuck our water bottles away and return to the center of the room.

  Glad I didn’t get a chance to answer.

  I might have said what I really thought:

  I could make you happier.

  Chapter Eight

  SAMANTHA

  The Day Before Opening Night.

  P ractice has stages.

  First stage—everything is new, and you’re struggling. But you’re so excited to be here you don’t care.

  Second—you’re getting the hang of it, but the nit-picking begins where every out-of-sync leap is berated and repeated until you no longer remember who you are.

  Third—you’ll never get it perfect. A wall is hitting you in the head, not the other way around. Life is awful. You want to give up. Get a desk job. No, not that. Never that. But you groan about longing for an easier life anyway.

  Fourth—breakthroughs. Exhilaration. Exhales. Huge grins.

  Fifth—You get lazy, thinking you’ve got it. Timing deteriorates and you’re back to stage two.

  Sixth—it flows the way it was always meant to, and you rejoice. Brows are mopped while laughing, eyes shine because you really are as good as you hoped you’d be.

  Seventh—dress rehearsal. If it goes well then opening night will be awful. Nobody knows why, but the kiss of death is a good dress rehearsal.

  So far, that’s what we’re having.

  Logan steals a look at me from the Alliance stage where our final run-through is taking place. For the last week we’ve been here, with tape on the floor to mark where we must land at key moments. He’s standing where his argument with ‘Donovan’ happens, and Asher is backing onto his mark like he’s supposed to. He doesn’t know that his brother is waiting, and has been spying.

  They argue, and the lights become blue and gold for dawn. Us dancers who are playing ‘chaos’ behind the quarrel tear over each other. In the play we are lost, the brothers’ rift tearing us apart. As it grows louder, singers form a choir that matches us, heightens the tension, and creates suspense I feel in my pulse.

  It doesn’t matter how many times we’ve done this. When it’s performed as it was meant to be, magic takes over—a symbiosis that blends us all as one being. We live for this feeling. But we were hoping for it on opening night. It’s arrived early.

  Logan leaves in disgust, and Asher darts a worried look around the stage, wondering if the love of his life will show. Just when he thinks she won’t, Marion appears and leaps to let him know it.

  Their duet I performed in the failed audition, is beautiful. Two talents bringing an elevation to the art. I can picture her in Cats, Les Miserables, The Phantom of the Opera. And unlike me, she can sing.

  What am I doing here?

  Am I destined to be background for the rest of my life? Always coming in second, is that how I want to live? What is the purpose?

  All of these years of hard work?

  Marion screams and, from my position, I whip my head to see why? She’s grotesquely sprawled on the floor, a bone from her leg jutting out of broken skin. A collective gasp joins mine, and she screams in agony at what an injury like this means. For her place in this show. Maybe for her own life.

  We rush to see what can be done. My heart has stopped. Galloway jumps onto the stage like a cheetah caught up with its prey. She lands gracefully by her female lead, scanning the damage as an agonized waterfall flows from Marion’s tragic eyes.

  “Stu, call an ambulance!”

  From the darkness of the audience, he says, “On it.” Even now he shows little emotion. What is wrong with that man? Has he no feelings?

  “My leg! What am I going to do! My leg!”

  Logan crosses to me, standing at my left side. Asher is on my right as he bends and touches Marion’s face. “You’re going to be okay,” he lies.


  All she can see in him is Broadway. Sobbing, she covers her eyes to block out his, gasping for breath against the pain.

  I whisper to Logan, “How did this happen?” as the circle echoes the same question. We were all engaged in our roles at the time of the fall.

  From a far away place, Asher murmurs, “She didn’t hit her mark.”

  Galloway stands up. “Samantha, you’re playing Izzy.”

  My eyes fly open.

  Everyone gasps.

  Marion cries louder.

  Asher touches my right elbow as Logan grabs my left hand. We stare at the broken bone, broken spirit, that gave me my big break.

  Chapter Nine

  LOGAN

  Opening night.

  A tornado of activity is backstage as technicians battle cables, props, curtains, and lights, while dancers, singers, and cast fend off family members sneaking a peek of the action and wishing us good luck.

  Two words you never say to a performer are good luck.

  Never ever ever.

  It means its opposite.

  We always say break a leg.

  Nobody will be saying that tonight.

  “No, Mom, don’t say it!” I keep hearing as I make my way to Sam’s dressing room.

  From sharing one with twelve other girls to having her own, is amazing. But oh, what a price.

  Her voice is muffled as she asks, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Logan.”

  “I can’t talk right now. I’ll see you out there.”

  Blinking at the wood, I mutter, “Okay, sure, I’ll let you focus.”

  Glancing to movement in my peripheral left, I see Jason and Sarah Cocker hurrying up, an enormous bouquet for their daughter in his hands. “Hey Logan, this her room?”

  “Yeah, but she said she can’t—”

  “—Hogwash,” Sarah mutters, turning the knob. Nobody stops Samantha’s mom from doing something when her face is like that.

  Inside, Asher steps back from kissing Samantha. She blushes, glancing from her parents to me and back to him as she nervously licks her lips. “Mom, Dad!”