-7-
Tara
I’d never danced on the stage at the Pritzker Pavilion, so today’s dress rehearsal would be the first time. The outdoor theatre was in the center of Millennium Park, just steps away from the Cloud Gate sculpture we Chicagoans always referred to as “The Bean.”
The walls framing the covered stage were stunning. Rolling waves of shining metal bending toward the skyline behind it, as if someone had used a massive can opener to peel them back. Red seating filled the slope leading toward the front of the stage, and the area behind the seating was a long, grassy lawn. If the seats were full, there was plenty of room to take in the show from a blanket or lawn chair.
Hopefully, people would. The showcase tomorrow night was free, and the weather forecast couldn’t have been better. September in the city was usually great, but with an outdoor amphitheater, we’d still lucked out on dodging rain.
As I made my way down the concrete walkway that led to the backstage area, I glanced at the ChiComm logo being projected on the stage backdrop. It was the city’s first year doing a showcase from the performance community. There’d be everything . . . sketch comedy, dance, live music, all for charity.
The orchestra area in front of the stage was bustling with people who were arranging music on stands and warming their instruments. All our practices had been with recordings, and I couldn’t wait to hear the orchestra in person tonight. Live music pushed me to take my dancing to a new level.
It was just as busy in the wings backstage, and I couldn’t find Elena. I checked the time on my phone, making sure I wasn’t late. My friend’s email had said six, and it was ten till right now.
“Tara,” she called out, weaving her way through the crowd of people exiting the stage. “They want to move our spot in the schedule. Any chance you’re warmed up?”
Being a dancer meant things were fluid. You had to be ready for anything, like learning a new eight-count of choreography minutes before performing it. I spotted an empty place just beside the stage and hurried to drop my bag there. “I walked fast from the CTA station, but I still need to stretch.”
When she nodded, her rich, dark hair gleamed in the stage lights. Like me, she’d pulled her hair up into a top-knot, but wayward strands were curling at the nape of her neck.
My best friend was two years older than I was. She was super cute, with an infectious smile, and deep, expressive eyes you could see all the way from the back of the theater. We’d met during my audition to be a dance major at Indiana University, and after I’d been accepted, she’d become my unofficial mentor.
We were quite a pair. I was a tall, white girl with a long neck and the perfect frame for ballet. She was a compact Latina with great boobs, a four-pack stomach, and a sexy round ass. Even though we wore the same outfit—a black crop top with long, lacy sleeves and matching black bike shorts—it looked completely different on us.
I lunged down into a kneel and began to stretch my hip flexors, looking beyond her to the rest of our group already on stage. Elena had cobbled together all the guest instructors she’d had at her studio over the last three years, wrangling us into performing for publicity. She didn’t need help keeping the lights on at her business, but she tried to offer dance scholarships and reduced-cost lessons to the kids who couldn’t afford it.
I’d been lucky growing up. My affluent parents back in Iowa didn’t understand why I liked dancing, but they picked up the bill. Dance classes and costumes and travel for competitions added up fast, and that shit was expensive. They griped and whined, but I never gave it up, and eventually we all just accepted I was the black sheep of the family.
“I still can’t believe Nadine’s here,” I said. “She’s so awesome.”
Elena grinned. “What, her? That bitch was thrilled to come out of retirement.”
Nadine was easily the biggest star in the last two decades to have come out of the program at Indiana, and she’d danced with the Pacific Northwest Ballet until last year. The girl didn’t draw a single bad line with her body, and her turns were to die for.
I envied her. I got amazing lift on my jumps and could make complicated leaps look effortless. But turns were my weak spot. My execution of pirouettes caused directors to sigh and stick me in the back of the group.
It kept me from landing a spot in the corps of the Chicago Ballet Company, which had been my dream since the first time I’d laced up my pointe shoes.
Negative thinking helps no one, an old coach’s voice echoed in my mind. I shook my head as if I could rattle the thought away, and it seemed to work.
I probably didn’t stretch as much as I should, but everyone was waiting on me, and as soon as I felt good enough, I pulled off my sneakers and hustled onto the stage, tossing quick hellos to the rest of our group. Elena was at the edge of the stage, bent over to chat with the orchestra conductor, and as I took my place, she straightened.
“He’s going to give us a four count in before they’ll start,” she said, hurrying to her spot opposite me. She settled and went motionless.
“One,” the conductor started, “two, three, four . . .”
Off we went.
Elena had asked me to choreograph the piece, and I’d done my best to play to our strengths. There were six of us, coming from a range of dance styles, but I’d tried to creatively combine the fluidity of contemporary and hip hop with the precision of tap and ballet. Nadine was the star of the piece, but we each got our own moment to shine. Mine was a soaring leap where the group caught me mid-air.
Some sections of the music, we were each doing our own thing, complimenting each other, but as the music swelled, we came together as a unit in perfect synchronicity. As I performed, a thin sheen of sweat coated my skin and my pulse quickened to match the intensity of the orchestra.
My moment was coming up, and I was amped.
Our circle rotated, and I spun out upstage, which would give me room for a running start. As I made my approach, Elena turned her back, took a knee, and put her fist on the stage, becoming my ramp.
We’d practiced this all week. We’d done it until we felt comfortable enough we could execute it in our sleep. Elena was a powerhouse of muscle, and I knew I wouldn’t hurt her using her as my springboard. The group was downstage, waiting for me, confidence in their eyes. They wouldn’t let me fall.
The orchestra built to a crescendo, fueling my run, and I put one foot flat on her shoulder blade, vaulting up to the sky. I wanted jaws to drop tomorrow night when I did this. I wanted to fucking fly.
And I did.
I soared as if I’d been shot from a cannon, giving me more than enough time to do a grand jeté before turning mid-air to land safely on my back in my group’s awaiting arms. I heard the gasps of people watching from the side of the stage as I fell into the net of arms, and a smile peeled back my lips—
Only for it to freeze. I’d been caught, but I had too much energy. I’d come in so hot, that when I landed . . . I bounced.
I rebounded right out of their hold, and was falling again, only this time it was off the end of the stage. There weren’t practiced dancers to catch me now, just the back row of the orchestra pit.
Shit, shit, shit!
I pinched my eyes closed, bracing myself for the pain I wouldn’t be able to avoid.
Only instead of landing on cold, unforgiving ground, I hit something fleshy and warm. There was a thunderous crash. Music stands went flying, people gasped and scattered, but the pain I was certain was coming . . . didn’t.
Arms cradled my body, saving me.
The music petered to a stop, some orchestra members ahead of others.
My eyes flew open. All around, there were panicked faces and people shouting.
“Are you okay?” someone said.
I couldn’t answer them, because the only thing I could do was stare at the man whose lap I’d crash landed in.
He was devastatingly and utterly gorgeous.
His silver eyes focused on me, his sensual mouth quirked, and his dark eyebrows were pulled together with concern. I was pressed against his chest, and he didn’t seem to be breathing, which was interesting. I wasn’t breathing either—I’d forgotten how. The sight of him was that distracting.
It was chaos around us, but I ignored it.
There was a short, dark beard along his jaw. It accentuated the long curves of his cheekbones, and I thought about running my fingers over the grit of his whiskers. It was probably a side effect of the adrenaline, but I wanted to nibble on his sensual, full lips.
Instead, I gripped fistfuls of his shirt to pull myself upright, and Jesus fuck, the guy was ripped. His chest was a plate of muscle. Was he security? How the hell had he made it into the orchestra pit so fast?
“Are you all right?” His voice sounded strange. It had a lilt to it I couldn’t place.
“Yes,” I whispered. And no. When I tried to escape, he only tightened his hold, and the submissive in me melted. How long could I stay in his lap before it became weird?
He wasn’t convinced and gave me a skeptical look. “You sure?”
“I’m okay,” I said. “You?”
The corners of his mouth hinted at a smile. “You might have given me a startle.”
“She’s all right,” the conductor repeated, loud enough for everyone to hear. There were sighs of relief from the crowd that had gathered, and my dance troupe on stage.
I tore my gaze away from the stranger who was still holding me and surveyed the carnage around us. Folding chairs had been overturned and music stands knocked sideways in the crush to escape. A large string instrument lay on its side, its neck bent at an unnatural angle and wood splintered around it.
My voice was filled with dread. “Whose cello is that?”
The man followed my gaze and drew in a long, sobering breath. “It’s mine.”
For a second, I couldn’t accept it. The major disconnect in my brain said there was no way this sexy beast of a man played a delicate, refined instrument like the cello. He looked far more likely to crush skulls than hang with Yo-Yo Ma. It wasn’t the bow he still gripped in his hand that convinced me, but the way he stared at the broken instrument like it was a dead lover.
Oh, no.
In order to save me, he’d sacrificed the carefully crafted instrument of wood and strings that probably cost a small fortune. I scrambled out of his lap, flooded with guilt. “I’m so sorry,” I blurted out. “I’ll pay to fix it.”
He peered up at me with a strange look, almost as if he were sadder I was out of his arms than about the broken cello at his feet. “What?”
“Your cello. It was my fault, I shouldn’t have . . .”
The words died in my throat as he stood from his chair. He was even more impressive now, towering over me. The guy was like a tree. Thick and sturdy, and something I’d be happy to climb all over.
“It was an accident,” he said. “I’m right glad you didn’t get hurt.”
I wasn’t imagining it, there definitely was an accent there. New Zealand? Something vaguely British. Like he needed anything else to make him more appealing.
“Grant!” A man nearby reached for the cello but stopped as if he realized just in time it was infected with the plague. His tone was consolatory. “Oh, no.”
The mountain of man who’d been referred to as Grant slid his gaze back to me. I’d just destroyed his precious cello, not to mention his night. He should have been upset or even angry. Instead, he simply stared at me. It was like I was a puzzle he was trying to decipher.
Around us, the orchestra members put back the chairs and stands my stage dive had disrupted. The conductor came down off his platform and scurried over to us. Well, more to Grant.
“Fredrick and Sons string shop,” he announced. “Over in Streeterville. He’ll give you a loaner while he repairs.” He checked his watch. “And I think he’s open until eight.”
“I’ll go with you,” I said instantly.
Both men looked dubious, but Grant gave a sad smile. “That’s really not necessary.”
“It’s the least I can do.” It was clear he’d need more convincing. “Please, I feel awful about it. Let me help.”
“That’s a nice offer,” the conductor interrupted, “but just so you know, a repair like that isn’t going to come cheap.”
“It’s not a problem.” I gazed up at Grant with pleading eyes. It was foolish to basically write a blank check, but this enormous cello-playing man with an unplaceable accent was fascinating. Now that he’d caught me, I was sure I didn’t want to get away. “Grant, is it? I’m Tara. Give me a few minutes to finish up, and we can talk about it on the way to the shop. Deal?”
There was hesitation, but he finally spoke. “All right.”
Blood roared in my ears. I was imagining it. Seeing things that weren’t there, because I was all hyped up on adrenaline. That wasn’t desire in his eyes . . . was it?
“Okay, good.” A thrill zipped through me. “Can you help me back onto the stage?”