Chapter 16
The next morning, Duke picks us up in the black SUV. Shelly isn’t with him. I’m dressed in plain workout clothes, same as Blitz. I have no idea what to expect.
Duke passes Blitz an Egg McMuffin. “Since you skipped the Golden Arches last night.”
Blitz takes it with a grimace. I know how he feels. I don’t want to eat anything greasy or heavy, unsure of what I’ll be put through today, and for how long. At least Blitz knows all the people involved.
Duke is cheerful and feeling chatty. He asks, “So that Giselle chick is still around? What is going on with her? Can’t she take a hint?”
Blitz stares out his side window.
“Come on, as soon as I got that message from you that night, I figured she was toast!” Duke glances in the rearview mirror at us.
This gets Blitz’s attention. “You actually got that picture?”
“Sure,” he says. “I figured you sent it to everybody when it went viral. I sure as hell didn’t show it to anybody. You split town, so we never talked about it.”
“It got posted to Twitter.”
“Yeah, I saw that,” Duke says. “It’s like it went two places at once. Doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Blitz says. “But I checked my phone that day. I’d sent it from my phone, straight to Twitter.”
“How much did you have to drink, compadre?” he asks. “Were you three sheets to the wind?”
“More than usual,” Blitz admits. “I was sick of that girl and booze got me through it.”
I stay quiet through this exchange. I rarely see Blitz drink more than a cocktail or a glass of wine at client meetings. We had a bar in our hotel room for months, and he almost never poured anything from it.
“Something is definitely fishy about that,” Duke says.
“Water under the bridge now,” Blitz says.
We pull up to the giant gates of the studio and are stopped by a guard. Duke flashes him a pass and we’re waved through.
My head feels light and jangly with nerves. I try to focus on my happy memories here. The prop room and the satin bed. The end of the live finale, when we escaped with Bennett and Juliet.
I wish I had brought my blue-sprayed toe shoes. I keep them in a special box, not to be worn since that epic night. They might have brought me luck today.
Duke pulls up to the double doors of the building. “Have fun, lovebirds. Blitz, don’t punch anybody. Livia, if you kiss any girls, send pictures.” He winks at me.
Duke jumps out to open my door. Blitz meets me on the other side.
Blitz waves Duke off, and we enter the familiar hall.
The activity is more than I expected. A man pushes a rack of costumes down the corridor. Two men with headsets chat as they hurry through a door. Three girls in leotards spot Blitz and wave wildly, eyes big.
Blitz takes my hand. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s see where we’re supposed to go.”
We head into the viewing room I first entered when I arrived months ago with Bennett. The place is crowded with people, some in suits, others in dance gear. I quickly spot the three finalists, Mariah, Christy, and Giselle. They are dressed the same as I am, and I let out a sigh that I got that much right.
“Look who decided to show up finally,” Giselle says. “I wondered if we were all going to be competing for a ghost.”
Blitz’s manager Hannah steps forward, as casual as I’ve ever seen her in jeans and a gray sweater. “I know you’re not speaking to me, but legal needs Livia to sign all the documents that allow her on the show.” She points to the same man I saw the night of the finale, when Bennett signed on my behalf. “Right over there.”
I nod and let go of Blitz. I’m not going to even worry about the papers. Whatever they say I have to do, I will do. None of this is about me. It’s about getting to the end of the show and returning to our lives.
I sit in the chair opposite the man. He extends a hand. “Nice to see you again, Livia,” he says. “I’m Liam Reynolds.”
“I remember,” I say. “Where do I need to sign?”
“You want to go over these?” he asks. “They contractually obligate you to do season three of Dance Blitz, five episodes or until you are eliminated from the competition.”
“I know,” I say. “And nothing that happens to me due to the show is part of your liability, et cetera, et cetera.”
He grins at that. “We should review your financial data, when and how you will be paid, residuals, and your points toward sales of subsequent media after the show is over.”
I didn’t realize I would be paid. But of course I would. I’m not married to Blitz. I’m my own person. And I’m working for a show.
“Okay,” I say.
Liam flips through to the last pages. “This is the amount you will make per episode. Here are subsidiary properties, such as media sales, promotional spots, and endorsements related to the franchise. Merchandising is separate, if your likeness is used on things such as lunch boxes or dolls.” His pen touches several charts.
I feel like I can’t be seeing this right. No wonder the finalists fought for this. I wouldn’t make this much money in years and years, no matter what I was qualified to do. I could pay for college.
I could buy my own car. My own house.
I’m too shocked to speak.
“I take it these numbers are adequate for you,” Liam says. “We should get you an agent. I think Bennett has had someone make sure you were part of the appropriate guilds and unions to work. I’ll double-check on that, as we can’t pay you until all that is square.”
“Thank you,” I say and pick up the pen.
“Don’t thank me,” Liam says. “You need someone in your corner looking out for your interests. This is a short-term contract with standard rates and no add-on clauses. Bennett saw to that. But whatever you do next will need an experienced hand.”
I scrawl my name and initial in all the spots he indicates.
“The things I’m doing next won’t require any expertise,” I say. “I’ll teach little ballerinas and keep Blitz out of trouble.”
“That’s a big job for sure,” Liam says. He shakes my hand again. “Now I believe that young woman over there needs you.”
I turn and see the choreographer who was none too pleased to see me at the live finale of the show. She’s willowy, like a dancer, her brown hair pulled up in a tight bun. Her eyebrows are dramatic arches, and one lifts higher than the other as she sees me approaching.
“I’m Amara,” she says. “And you’re still here. That’s something.”
“Hello,” I say uncertainly.
“Blitz is on the set with Mariah right now,” she says. “We’ll do a warm-up in another room, and then I’ll watch the two of you together. I hope you’ve been dancing since the December finale. We need you to be competition ready in three weeks.”
I’m not sure I could be competition ready in a year, but I follow her out of the viewing room and down the hall. We stop a few doors down, past the dressing room. Everything is unlocked today, and Amara leads us into a studio with a mirrored wall. Mats are stacked along the side.
Two other girls are here, chorus dancers, by the looks of them. Their eyes cut at me as we enter, then they return to their stretches.
“Follow my lead,” Amara says. She takes me through a thorough set of warm-ups, enough to make me feel a little fatigued by the time a half hour has passed. Partway through, the other girls leave.
“I won’t be doing this for you every day,” Amara says. “But I’m here now to ensure that you understand the rigor of what you are about to do and to be adequately prepared for each day’s dancing. While you and Blitz are filming your parts of the first show, we’ll also be rehearsing numbers for the live episodes.”
“What if I’m sent home after the first one?” I ask.
“Confident, aren’t you?” Amara’s voice is cutting. “We focus on the next dance, and just prepare the basics for the future. But we have to be ready, as time will fly once all this begins.”
I snatch up my bag as she hurries out of the room. I assume I’m supposed to follow her. This woman doesn’t do anything at a normal pace.
The door bangs my elbow as I simultaneously try to go through it and pull a water bottle out of my bag. Amara turns at the clang and says, “Don’t get injured. We have no protocol for what to do with a hurt finalist.”
I rub my elbow as we head toward the stage doors. They’re propped open today, and I can hear voices and music inside.
Unlike the night of the finale, the backstage area is brightly lit. Quite a lot of people stand around.
“Jessie, you’re on Livia,” Amara says. “Keep her hydrated and do what she asks.”
A young girl with wispy blond hair, barely sixteen, hurries over with the easy grace of a dancer. She wears all black, like the crew did the night of the show, which I assume means she is backstage help.
“Hello, Livia,” she says, her voice a squeak. “I’ll hold on to your bag.” She takes it from me. “I’ll be your gopher. If you need something to eat, or to get a prop or dance shoes or anything, I’m the one who does it for you.”
“Thank you, Jessie,” I say. “Are you a dancer?”
“I want to be,” she says. “I was about to start in the corps at a ballet company until this happened.” She points at her ankle, which is wrapped in a bandage. “I got this job so I can at least do something until I’m cleared to dance again.”
“Does it hurt?” I can’t imagine losing my dream to an injury.
“Not really. It’s just not up to the dance work I need to do to stay in the company. They won’t risk it. I’m not worth the risk.” She says this very matter-of-factly, as if it is just part of life.
“I’m really sorry, Jessie.”
“This is fun. I’m lucky.” She waves to the stage. “They are still working.”
The music has stopped. When I look beyond the stage wings, I see Blitz lowering Mariah out of a lift. She has on a wispy skirt now. Amara is shaking her head.
“I should have been out here,” she says. “That was completely wrong.”
Conflicting feelings of relief that someone besides me has displeased her, and chagrin that her time with me was a burden that made her angry, rise up in me. “Is she always this harsh?” I ask Jessie.
She shrugs. “I’m new. She was pretty tough yesterday, though, with the other girls.”
I feel pressure on my shoulder and turn to see Giselle hanging on me, her pale red hair twisted up in a knot. “We’re about to see what the ballerina has to show us,” she says.
My face feels hot. I sincerely regret not spending every waking hour at the academy working on my ballet skills. But there was the DVD trip, and the craziness of the fans wanting a rematch. Valentine’s. And before that, all the trouble with Denham.
Excuses. All of them. I should have been dancing. Now it was going to get me. That producer would be right. I’m not up for this.
I sincerely want to turn and leave, but Amara motions me out onstage. “Come on, Livia. And Giselle, back off her. We have to assemble a show here.”
Blitz turns and fires an angry glare at Giselle. She blows him a kiss and turns away. “Come on, Mariah. Let’s eat something.”
Mariah doesn’t appear to want to seem chummy with Giselle, but they both head back to the hall, followed by two girls in black, their assistants.
I walk out onstage. Blitz holds out his arms. I fold myself into him and he kisses my head. “How are you holding up, Princess?” he asks.
I can’t even answer. I just want to stay right here, away from this pressure, the expectations, and the competition.
But sharp hand claps make me pull away.
It’s Amara. “Okay, yes, we see who the love affair is. We still have to put on a dance show.”
Devon saunters over. He’s the director, dressed in jeans and a dark turtleneck much like the night I met him during the finale. He hugs an iPad to his chest, completing the picture that he looks like Steve Jobs, and frowns. “This star-crossed love worked great for the surprise appearance, but it’s not going to sit well with the audience who wants a competition.”
Blitz pulls me back against him. “I couldn’t care less about your competition. And you know damn well all the fans want to see me with Livia.”
“I don’t know that,” Devon says. “The rematch fury was pretty intense. It’s my job to figure out how to spin this into a workable format.”
“He’s not going to be able to hide how he feels,” Amara says. “He’s not an actor.”
Devon shakes his head. “I don’t believe that either. We all saw him buying that diamond ring for nobody. That was good television.” He walks in a circle around us. “We have to drive a wedge between the couple.”
He tucks the iPad beneath his arm and holds out his arms in a V shape. “This allows a chance for the other girls. Only to snap shut,” he claps his hands together, “when true love is threatened.”
Amara steps forward. “All right. You work your drama. It’s my job to create a dance number. She’s not as strong as the others. We can work with that. Make him disappointed.”
“No,” Blitz says. “I will not have a negative thing to say about Livia’s dancing.”
“Honey, you won’t have to,” Amara says. “Her hesitation and inexperience are going to be evident.” She looks out into the seats where a man sits behind a huge soundboard. “Ricky, give us a waltz.”
After a few seconds of silence, the music begins.
“Just dance for a moment,” Amara says. “Let’s see where you are.”
Blitz takes me in his arms. I try to forget everyone else and just follow him. I did it the night of the finale, tuned out the studio audience, the angry finalists, everything but him.
But it’s harder this time. I’m not coming in for a surprise. There are expectations. Stakes. Blitz tries to turn us and I stumble, losing the rhythm.
He leans in close. “It’s all right,” he says softly in my ear. “We have nothing to prove. It’s just a few months of our lives, five episodes, then we’re done.”
I settle in and let the music work its magic. I don’t look at Amara as we pass, nor Devon. I follow Blitz’s lead in the waltz, sweeping and turning with him, until finally, my nerves start to calm.