-16-
Tara
Elena’s studio was a converted warehouse, and she’d kept the industrial feel but softened it up with cornflower blue paint and warm white pine floors. I loved the space. It was enormous, but the windows let in tons of natural light, which bounced off the mirrored wall. The dark colored ceiling was lit by strands of hanging globe lights, and their reflections glowed on the gloss of the highly-polished floor.
She’d scheduled me for an hour at three p.m., fitting us in before an after-school hip hop class. I’d have the entire dance floor to myself—other than the chair I’d set up over to one side for Grant.
Elena had retreated to her office, and the studio was silent.
I went to the ballet barre on the far wall and stepped through another warmup routine to keep my muscles loose, ignoring the clock over the mirrors. It was already ten after three, and wasted time was rushing by. I needed to prepare myself for idea that Grant, my “friend,” had flaked on me.
The only time a guy told me he just wanted to be friends was after we’d fucked. He’d gotten what he wanted, and the friend status was delivered so he could make a quick exit.
But I hadn’t slept with Grant.
Not yet, but I was pretty sure he’d hop into bed with me if I offered. It was all very confusing. Dinner with him had gone better than I’d expected, but also worse. I had no idea where we stood.
I glanced up at the clock. 3:12. Well, that told me enough, didn’t it? I sighed and walked across the dance floor to retrieve my bag. I could hook my phone up to the speaker system via Bluetooth and start choreography with—
The front door whooshed open, and there was a loud bang as the side of Grant’s cello case cracked against the doorframe. “Sorry,” he said, although there was no one at the front desk.
Had he just apologized to the door?
His dark hair was tousled, either from the wind or his nervous hand running through it, and his shoulders lifted on his rapid breath. Had he run here? Carrying his big-ass cello case?
Looking at him made me as out of breath as he was. Goddamn, he was fine. He had on jeans, a dark gray hooded sweatshirt, and a look of anxiety as he peered around the front room, searching for something. Probably me.
“Hey, there,” I yelled. “Did you get lost?”
“My Uber driver was bloody awful and dropped me off on the wrong block. Sorry I’m late.” He strode down the open hallway and onto the dance floor, lugging the cello like it weighed nothing. For being such a big guy, he could move fast. It probably came in handy when he played rugby.
“It’s okay.” I gestured to the folding chair I’d set out for him. “Do you need to warm up?”
He marched over to his spot, set down the case, and popped open the latches. “I only need a minute.”
“Okay, cool.” I could stretch some more while waiting. “Also, hi.”
He stopped for a moment to give me his full attention and a genuine smile. “Yes. Hi.”
I stared at him, gawking like a lovestruck teenager. Wasn’t I supposed to be doing something? Oh, right—stretching. I went back to the barre and rested my hand lightly on it, while lifting my working leg.
I snuck glances at him while he fiddled with the cello and made adjustments. Which looked great—I couldn’t tell it had been broken or repaired. The wood was smooth and a deep honey brown.
I continued my stretch, extending my leg up, pushing energy out all the way through my pointed toe. He played a few notes, and I sighed deeply at the haunting sound.
“All right,” he said. “I’m read—”
I turned my head toward him, curious what had made him stop mid-sentence, and a thrill coursed down my body when I realized it was me. I stood straight, one leg planted on the floor and the other lifted to the sky, creating a perfect vertical line. Was he admiring my flexibility? His eyes were lidded, heavy with desire.
Friends, my ass. Friends didn’t give each other looks that said they wanted to bend them over the ballet barre and fuck them senseless.
Grant cleared his throat and adjusted. “Uh, I’m ready.”
I moved to the center of the floor. “I only need the first two minutes of the song.”
His bow dipped down as he looked surprised. “Why?”
“Because the judges never need more than two minutes to make a decision.” I’d worked with some directors who only needed thirty seconds.
Less if there was a pirouette in the routine.
I shoved the thought away. Time was precious, and I wasn’t going to waste it on negative shit.
“Hit it, maestro,” I joked.
His phone was laying on top of his cello case, and he leaned over, tapping the screen. Piano music tinkled from the speakers.
“What—”
“When I did it for the wedding,” he said over the song, “it was a duet. I have a recording of the piano I practiced with.”
The intro was beautiful, but it didn’t hold a candle to when he began to play. His cello created the melody, the piano the perfect accompaniment. The rich sound flooded the studio, blanketing everything from the floor to the rafters.
My eyes wanted to watch him play, to follow the gentle seesaw of his bow over the strings, but my heart and body needed to dance. I turned away from the mirror so I wouldn’t watch or judge my movements, and let his music carry me through the steps as if they had already been written.
Before this session, I’d created a general guide to work from. I knew what leaps I wanted to perform and where to place them. I had several ideas for level changes, but listening to the music helped me transition from one phrase to the next.
Grant played the same two minutes over again, and each time he started anew, I was in awe. It sounded better than the last. He didn’t tire of playing it or ask me if I wanted to do it again. He just knew. I danced until I was breathless, my heart racing and soaring.
And every time I caught his gaze in the mirror, he was fixated on me.
“What’s this piece for?” a female voice rang out when the music ceased. I glanced over at Elena, who must have come out of her office at some point to watch.
I wiped the beads of sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. “Uh . . . so, I was thinking about auditioning for Dance Dreams.”
Her lips parted in surprise, but she didn’t say anything.
“Do you think it’s a bad idea?” I asked. God, was I being stupid?
“No, no, not at all.” Her eyebrows pulled together, making her look deep in thought. “But tell me about Hot Cello Guy.”
Grant smirked, amused.
“I was going to audition with live music.”
She’d been looking at him, but her focus snapped to me. “Will they let you do that?”
I shrugged indifferently, but it was an act. I didn’t know for certain if they’d let Grant up on stage. “There’s nothing about it in the rules.”
He looked less amused now. “You don’t know if live music is allowed?”
Her attention yo-yoed back to him and his accent. “Where are you from?”
“New Jersey,” I said, refusing to shrink under his withering stare. “I told you it was a long shot. What’s the worst that could happen? They say no, and I dance with recorded music.”
“And I’ve wasted my day.”
“That might happen, yeah.” My voice was soft. “But I’ll pay for your time, and even just having you there in support would be a huge help.” After so many failed auditions, I’d begun to struggle with pre-performance anxiety. “I think they’ll say yes, though. Who wouldn’t to Hot Cello Guy?” I flashed a hopeful smile. “If they do say no, you could always go rogue and play it from the auditorium seats.”
He considered my suggestion for a moment, and then his shoulders relaxed. “Guerrilla style cello.”
I laughed. “Yes.”
Elena folded her arms over her chest. “Assuming they let him perform with you, you’ve got another problem, then. Hot Cello Guy is distracting. I’m thinking about it from a judge’s perspective. They spend all day watching dance solos, and suddenly there’s this gorgeous motherfucker with his cello. Their eyes are going to that.”
“If I haven’t mentioned it,” Grant piped up, “your friend seems cool.”
Ever the director, Elena was too focused on the issue to respond to him. “He’s going to upstage you, Tara. You’ll have to put him behind the curtain, off the stage.”
She made an excellent point, but I didn’t want to hide him. “What if . . .” I started. The idea blossomed in my head and took shape.
Whatever expression I had, it filled him with visible unease. “What if, what?”
“What if I made him part of it? We put him center stage.” The words sped out of me as I grew more excited. “He’s static while I’m moving around him. I could even play off of him with the choreography.”
“Yas, girl.” Elena grinned. “It’ll make you travel more too. That was going to be my next suggestion.” She grabbed the back of Grant’s chair and tried to move it, but he was still sitting there with a dubious expression. “Front and center, Hot Cello Guy.”
He humored us, carrying his bow in one hand and the neck of his instrument in the other, while she dragged the chair to the center of the room.
“If I put my hands on you while you’re playing,” I asked him, “will it mess you up?”
“I guess it depends on where you put your hands.” He’d said it with a straight face, but his eyes dripped with innuendo.
I was absolutely capable of putting my hands somewhere to make him lose control, but . . . I couldn’t, could I? My body went tight at the thought.
“Uh, your shoulders.”
He considered it. “As long as it doesn’t affect my posture, that should be fine.”
“Okay, let’s try it.”
Elena helped him sync his phone to the sound system as I walked through a few steps, plotting out my new routine. When we were good to go, I moved behind his chair and set my hands on his broad shoulders, my fingers splayed down his chest.
At the contact, he took in a sharp breath, like this simple connection was shocking. The crazy thing was I felt it too. I nodded to Elena to start the music. At the first notes of the piano, I began to move, trailing my hands across his body, separating from him just as he readied to play.
When his music started, I came alive. Every sound he produced was echoed in my body. I became his bow. I fluttered around him, trying to be the visual representation of the song.
He wasn’t just directing me with his music, he made me his willing slave.
It was the shortest and longest two minutes of my life, and when he stopped playing, I ached for more. But Elena turned off the recording, and her expression wasn’t at all what I expected or hoped for. She looked . . . dissatisfied.
“What’s wrong?” I wanted to cry it at her but managed to keep a handle on it.
“Nothing. It’s beautiful.”
I wasn’t buying it. “Then why are you looking at us like that?”
Her sigh was full of reluctance. “I have a suggestion, and I don’t think you’re going to like it.” She glanced up at the clock, then back to me. “Never mind. It’s not important.”
I charged at her. “Oh, no, you don’t. Spit it out.”
“The song. It’s so . . . safe. I mean, he plays it beautifully, and your technique, your choreography—it’s all on point. But you’re dancing classical ballet to a song that has a classical sound.”
I was filled with dread. “It’s a snooze-fest.”
“No, I wouldn’t say that. It’s that the song is, like, serious.” She dropped the pretense. “It’s somber as fuck, and it’s so not you.”
Holy shit. She was absolutely right.
The front door opened, and a group of kids came in, chatting noisily as they hung their backpacks on the hooks in the waiting area.