CHAPTER 2
brIELLE
As I start to wake up, it becomes painfully obvious that I’m no longer in New York City. The noise here is different. The lack of what I’ve spent so many years listening to like a gentle lullaby is staggering. It makes it feel like I don’t have my footing here.
I guess, really, I don’t.
I’ve only been here for a month and there’s a disconnection between my life here in Las Vegas and who I think I am. Or maybe that’s what happens when you have to let a dream die silently with only the fanfare of your broken heart.
It was time.
No matter how many times I remind myself of that truth, it doesn’t help. Because it feels like giving up.
In some ways I suppose I am. As I stretch in bed, which doesn’t feel quite right in a room that feels even stranger, my body aches and reminds me exactly why I needed a change. Even though it cost me. Even though I’ve been doubting who I am now.
I dedicated my life to dance, and it gave back to me. It might not equal success to a lot of people, but I was able to cobble together a career on stages which felt like only a mirage when I was a little girl. They became my reality.
The stages.
The music.
The movement.
The lights.
The emotion.
The applause.
The work.
Every part of it, I soaked up.
It felt like I lived by a simple truth opposite to everyone else—all that glitters is gold. Under those lights it felt like I was all sparkle, and my value wasn’t a question.
But the reality is that, at 36, I was finding myself replaced by younger dancers and the dream was being darkened by self-doubt while all I wanted to do was dance. All I still want to do is dance. I just couldn’t keep doing it in New York while pretending everything was the same.
Now I’m in Vegas hoping to recapture something I fear will elude me. But at least I did find a job dancing.
When I was spending hours sweating in front of mirrors which transformed effort into effortless, I didn’t think I would wind up here. I’m going to make the best of it and keep dancing as long as I’m able to.
I’ll also keep dreaming about a dance studio all my own, and the chance to pass on the obsession I’ve been feeding most of my life. I’m not sure it’ll ever happen, but I still have a sliver of hope.
The studio has always been one of those dreams which always felt like mist because it wasn’t just a matter of my talent and drive.
It’s a matter of capital, which has always been hard to come by, and I never expected a miracle to fall into my lap.
I always knew dance was going to be a grind, but it’s the only way I know how to soar.
As I pad through the small one-bedroom apartment I’ve been in for a month, a small concession I allowed myself because it was cheaper than the efficiency I lived in back in New York, I try and temper some of my excitement about today.
For so many starting a new job, the day you fill out paperwork and get oriented is boring. Not to me and not today.
Today marks a new beginning.
By the time I’m sitting in an office on the fifth floor of Elysium, I’m a jumble of emotions. Holding my hands steady isn’t easy, but I manage it by leaning into the idea of this all being a performance.
Look at me, pretending to be normal.
The woman sitting on the other side of the desk, where her nameplate declares her as HR, gives me a gentle smile when I hand her my temporary license since I’ve already had it switched from my New York issued one along with my social security card.
My completed forms are the next thing I hand over to her while trying to retain the tentative smile on my face.
Can she see how hard it is to hold it all together? Does she know part of me wishes I could run right back to New York?
“I’ll just make a quick copy,” she lets me know before turning slightly and rolling toward the small copy machine behind her. I tuck them away when she hands them back before she nods toward the clipboard in my lap. “The next page is an NDA.”
My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline, and my voice is filled with surprise, “An NDA?”
They aren’t uncommon in the dance world since shows don’t want any details to leak before the curtains rise on opening night.
Then there are choreographers who are secretive and distrustful with just enough pull to cause everyone around them to join in their paranoia.
Still, I didn’t think it would be an issue I needed to worry about here.
Color me surprised.
“Yes,” she kindly explains, “not only does the Steel Sinners want to make sure their secrets remain secrets, but Elysium is very exclusive. We do whatever we need to do to protect the people who pay for the privilege of being members here.”
I nod slowly, my words measured as the reality of what I’m signing up for comes into focus, “I can understand that.”
“Good,” she offers serenely while nodding toward the clipboard in my hand. “I always encourage people to read whatever they’re signing before they do.”
She types on her computer while I scan the NDA. It looks pretty standard in comparison to other NDAs I’ve signed before. After I look it over, I sign it and hand it back with a small smile.
“Now that all the boring stuff is done,” she shoots me a warm smile, “how about a tour?”
My shoulders drop slightly with relief. “That would be great.”
Hopefully, knowing where everything is will help with the anxiety filling my gut. It’s been a lot between moving here, auditioning, and now accepting this job. It’s a way to keep dancing, sure, but it feels like failure in a lot of ways.
I push the thought away because it’s not going to do me any good. Going back isn’t a possibility.
For some reason, my mind takes me back, but not to New York. I’m suddenly thrust back to twenty years ago when I was just a girl in love with a boy who had always been there. Whiskey-colored eyes float through my memories.
Everton Connors was the boy of my dreams. He never complained about how much time I spent dancing, and would spend hours watching me go over choreography over and over again.
I always felt like I moved better with his whiskey-colored eyes tracking me.
It was like I was performing just for him every single time.
But then life took us in different directions and time passed.
At first, I ached all the time with missing him.
There were so many times when I thought about leaving the lights of New York behind me to go back to Seneca Falls.
But then I’d tuck my head down and keep grinding and pushing to get closer to my dreams.
At night, when it felt like darkness was creeping in, I would close my eyes and remember.
The way it felt when Everton would cup my face in his large hands and look at me like I was the only thing that mattered.
The way he would track my movements across the wooden floor of the dance studio which was too small for my dreams. The way it felt like everything was possible, before I realized our love wasn’t going to be enough to tether us together.
As time went on, I would think about the boy who kept my heart safe for so long less and less. But there were still times when I would remember little moments we shared or the way my belly would flip whenever I’d catch his eyes across a room.
Today, sitting in Elysium and preparing to embark on this next chapter in my life, I can’t help but remember saying goodbye to Everton.
The day was warm, summer starting to show itself, and we had graduated from high school just a week before. There was so much hope in the air, but it felt like I couldn’t breathe as I stared into his eyes.
“I wish things were different,” I whispered the words while hating the sadness and loss in the eyes of the man I loved.
“I do too, my Tiny Dancer.”
The words caused the ache in my chest to deepen. His nickname for me felt like shards of glass being pressed into my skin. Because I knew it would be the last time I’d hear it.
“I have to figure out what I want in life,” his voice was strained.
The smile on my face was brittle, but I was trying to be strong. “You never wanted to take over Sagebrush,” it was a statement, not a question.
Because I had listened to him talk about how ranching was in his blood, but it didn’t fuel his soul. He would say I was what gave his soul wings, but he could get a glimpse of the same feeling when he was on the back of a horse. It wasn’t enough.
I couldn’t see him staying in Seneca Falls, but I also knew that asking him to go to New York and chase my dreams with me was too selfish and would never make him happy. He had to forge his own path. And I wasn’t going to be able to be a part of it.
It broke something in me, something fundamental, something that still hasn’t been pieced back together.
“No, Sagebrush isn’t my destiny,” he confirmed and all I could do is nod and swallow hard around the lump in my throat.
“Wherever you end up, whatever you end up doing, I hope you’ll find happiness, Everton,” my voice was rough and filled with the tears I was trying to hold back.
A tear escaped and Everton brushed it away with his thumb, his eyes earnest and filled with the love which shaped our time together. It had been there for so long and I was scared of what a life looked like without it.
“I wish I could go with you,” his words were a confession.
“But you can’t,” my voice was broken, but threaded with truth.
Shaking off the memory, one I haven’t allowed myself to indulge in for a long time, I can’t help but wonder why I’m thinking about it now. Maybe it’s the move which bringing back the last time I made such a drastic move and everything I left behind.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve wondered about Everton over the years, but I never allowed myself to seek him out.
If he’s on social media, I wouldn’t know.
Trust me, it was never about self-control.
I was trying to save myself from the pain of seeing the evidence of him moving on, of the life he ended up building.
Because I’m sure he’s out there, somewhere, and happy. At least, I hope with everything in me that he is.
“The floors above us are the private floors for the Steel Sinners and are off limits.”
I have to blink a few times to chase away the last of the ghosts reaching for me and smile at the woman while hoping I look understanding. With a nod, I pretend like I wasn’t almost lost to memories best kept in the past.
“Two floors below us here are hotel rooms which are only used by elite members. On the second floor is the casino and the restaurant,” she informs me, her tone professional.
“I saw the club and bar on the ground floor, is that all there is there?”
She gives me a look like she’s surprised I was even that observant and I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. It never feels good to be underestimated.
When she stands, I mirror her. “And some staff areas,” she answers my question. “We’ll start with the third floor so you can see how the rooms are laid out, but you shouldn’t have a reason to spend time there normally.”
I nod and try not to wince at the way my back aches slightly.
It’s one of the perils of getting older, one I’ve been devastated by more than once.
My body isn’t what it used to be. I’m sure the years of physical strain I’ve put on myself, which included practicing for far too long or pushing far too hard when I’ve been injured, didn’t help.
But now I’m here. In Las Vegas. To dance.
New York wasn’t interested in an aging dancer when younger ones kept arriving every day with stars in their eyes. Shows wanted their fire and innocence. I lost a little of both along the way.
I’m only half listening during the tour. I really try to soak everything in, but part of me is still lost in the memories. Of New York. Of Seneca Falls.
“This is one of the staff hallways,” I’m told as the HR woman reaches for the handle and pulls it open before ushering me inside, “there’s a small room the dancers have taken over as a makeshift studio.”
I’m looking over my shoulder at her slightly as I walk through the door and I step out into what I expect to be a hallway. But it’s not. It’s a wall.
A wall?
Wait, that can’t be right. It would make no sense for a door to open right into a wall.
Hands grip my shoulders and electricity shoots through my body. It’s a sensation I used to feel all the time, but that was years ago. In what feels like another lifetime now.
I tilt my head back and look up into whiskey-colored eyes and everything stills.
No.
No way.
No fucking way.
“Everton?” The name slips from my lips, a question and a plea in one breath.
His mouth falls open and there is surprise written all over his face.
He masks it quickly, but I saw it. When one side of his mouth tips up into the same lazy smile that sent my heart racing years ago, it takes all my will power not to throw myself into his arms until he has no choice but to hold me. I desperately want his arms around me.
Everton Connors’s arms.
The arms of only boy I’ve ever loved.
I shake my head and my eyes slide closed. Pain and regret hit me right in the middle of my chest. I’m sure when I open my eyes again, it won’t be him. It’ll be another man with whiskey-colored eyes. I’ll have to live with how I just made a fool of myself.
“Oh,” the woman chirps brightly behind me, “hi, Cowboy. Nice to see you. I was just giving our new dancer a tour.”
My eyes snap open and I have to bite my lip to not turn around and snap at the woman whose tone is far too casual and familiar for my liking. I’m aware I don’t have the right to feel that way, not anymore, but I’m still tempted to claw her eyes out just the same.
Wait. Cowboy?
I blink up at the man still holding my shoulders, his grip firm and grounding. His face comes into focus and I know it’s him. Here. In Las Vegas.
As I take in more of him, I realize he’s wearing a leather cut and the name on the chest says ‘Cowboy’. Okay then.
He looks different; grown up. But there are still so many similarities. His eyes. The strength in his jawline. The scar right above his eyebrow which he got when a horse bucked him off.
While my heart is pounding in my chest, he still hasn’t said a word. My mouth is so damn dry, and a lump has formed in my throat which has nothing to do with faded memories and everything to do with the man in front of me.
The man. Not the boy he used to be.
“Hi, Tiny Dancer,” his voice is a low rumble.
It’s different than I remember, but the effect is the same. My nipples pebble and I have to clench my thighs together as desire rushes through me.
His eyes darken slightly as they sweep down my body and then back up. My mouth opens to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.
Could this be the real reason I came to Vegas? Is fate not done with us yet?