Chapter Four Allegra
Four
Allegra
I go to class the morning after Six Pact, but I’m distracted from the moment I step through the door.
During each break we have throughout the day, I pull out my phone and type a text to Cord Donovan—I changed his name in my phone the second I got home—canceling our meeting for later this afternoon.
Clearly the one drink I had went straight to my head because the whole proposition is ludicrous at best.
But every time I go to send the message, my thumb hovers over the button before moving instead to the backspace, erasing the words I know I should say.
I know I shouldn’t go meet with him, know I am only asking for trouble.
But that doesn’t make it any easier to wipe away the one possibility of seeing him again.
Lucy catches up to me as I’m walking out of the BNY building, planning to head to the gym for my workout. “Everything okay, Hart? You didn’t quite seem yourself in there today.”
I shrug, hoping no one else noticed, though surely if Lucy did, Brianna did as well. Luckily David doesn’t come into the studio on the weekends, so at least he didn’t see me totally in my head. “Thinking about the audition.”
“You going out for the courtesan role?”
“Am I delusional thinking he’ll give me a real shot at it?”
Lucy nudges me with her elbow. “If anyone in this company has earned a real shot at principal, it’s you.”
“That doesn’t mean David is going to give it to me.”
She mutters something under her breath that sounds a lot like “I’d like to give David a kick in the pants.”
For a minute I think about telling her my plan, that in just a couple of hours I’m supposed to be meeting a stripper—sorry, a male entertainer—in the hopes of learning how to convince a man whose advances I rejected that I’m so sexy onstage, he couldn’t possibly give anyone else the role.
But the whole thing sounds so stupid, even in my head, that I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. I know Lucy would be supportive, though I’m sure she would also have opinions about the whole thing, but it’s almost like saying it out loud would make it real, and I don’t think I’m ready for that.
Instead of heading to the gym, I go straight back to my apartment, saying goodbye to Lucy, who lives one block farther up the street.
Her apartment is way bigger than mine, but she shares it with two roommates.
I would happily trade space for peace and quiet, but Lucy is the kind of person who actually likes other people.
I flop onto my bed the moment I walk in the door. Reaching for my phone, I see I have less than an hour to make some kind of decision. But first, I should check on my sister and make sure she’s still alive.
Me: So how badly are you hurting right now?
It takes her a few minutes to respond, which is unlike her.
Bethany: I had to put on my sunglasses before I could unlock my phone and respond to this message.
Bethany: Why did you let me drink so much? You’re supposed to be the responsible one.
Me: I am. I only had one drink and woke up feeling fresh as a daisy.
Not really, since thoughts of a certain someone made it almost impossible to sleep last night.
Me: Was it everything you hoped for and more?
Bethany: Abso-fucking-lutely.
I laugh out loud. I consider, again, telling her about my whole plan for this afternoon.
Bethany always gives me good advice; she’s, objectively speaking, the smartest person I know.
I also know, instinctively, that she would encourage me to keep my appointment with Cord Donovan, if for no other reason than it’s been a really long time since I got laid.
Not that I would sleep with him. Obviously.
Me: Make sure you drink a lot of water today. And eat some protein.
Bethany: Okay, Mom.
Me: Wow. Rude. May your hangover bleed into tomorrow.
Bethany: Hey! That is uncalled for.
Me: Call me tomorrow?
Bethany: You know it.
I send her a pink heart. Indecision is still racking my brain, but the time of my meeting with Cord is rapidly approaching. Chances are he’s already left for the studio, so it would be rude to cancel at this point.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I change into something less sweaty.
I dress in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, slipping into my Uggs even though it’s not cold enough really.
My feet just need a little softness and comfort after a week of rehearsals and classes.
I take my long blond hair out of its bun, but I haven’t washed it, so I end up tying it right back up.
Eying myself in the mirror, I see I have just enough time to throw on some concealer to deal with the dark circles that never seem to fade from under my eyes.
I should have left myself enough time to take the subway, but I’m cutting it close as is, so I jump into another cab I can’t afford. Whatever, it will be worth it if I get the part, and I already need to reach out to Mom and Dad and ask for more money soon anyway.
I’m surprised I haven’t heard from my mom today. Usually she likes by-the-minute updates as to how rehearsals and classes are going. I’ll take whatever reprieve I can get from her expectations while I can get it.
I arrive at the address in Hell’s Kitchen one minute before our scheduled meeting.
Eyeing the brick building warily, I pull open the heavy door and make my way up a set of stairs.
The landing opens into a huge dance studio, the windows letting in the waning afternoon light, though it has to fight with the surrounding buildings to make its way in.
The floors are unscuffed and polished, the mirror on the main wall shiny and minus any cracks.
In the far corner of the room, there’s a state-of-the-art sound system.
The corner closest to the entrance holds several couches that don’t look like they came from Craigslist.
It’s the nicest studio I’ve ever been in.
“You made it.”
I jump, spinning around to find Cord has crept up behind me. “Jesus, you scared me.”
He grins and shrugs. “Sorry.”
I turn my attention back to the room because it’s easier than holding eye contact with him. Somehow, I feel like staring down a rabid tiger would be easier than holding eye contact with him. “This is a great space.”
“Thanks. I finished renovations on it about a year ago.”
“You own the floor?” It would be impressive, given the location and the general cost of New York real estate.
“I own the whole building. Our offices are on the next floor up and the top two floors are apartments we rent out to the dancers.” He says it without a hint of ego, like all creatives can afford such things.
My mouth drops open. “Wow. The stripping business pays better than I would have thought.”
He smirks at my description of his career. “Stripping does pay well, of course, though I consider myself more of a dancer and choreographer. But most of my income comes from ticket sales and franchising fees. Six Pact has locations all over the country.”
“So you’re the creator of the show?”
“Creator, director, choreographer, business manager. Now I have a team of people helping me, but for a while it was just me.”
“Impressive,” I say, and I mean it, more than a little envious of the financial security he’s created for himself. Most ballet dancers, even the ones known by name, can’t hope to make the kind of money Cord is raking in.
“Thanks.” He gestures for me to take a seat on one of the cushy-looking chairs. “Shall we get started?”
Suddenly, my stomach spins with nerves. Having the studio space to focus on and talk about has delayed the inevitable—the reason I came here in the first place.
I sit, hovering at the edge of the chair even though it’s so comfortable that I long to sink into it.
I wait for him to speak, but he watches me with an amused smile tugging on his lips, clearly comfortable to do the same.
Finally, I break, the power of his blue eyes too much to handle.
“So, like I said last night, I need help.”
“With your sex appeal.” There’s a gentle teasing to his tone, chiding but not unkind.
Still, it doesn’t stop the flush from spreading over my cheeks. “Yes.” I take a deep breath and force myself to look at him head-on. “I really want this part. I want to prove to my director that I can do this.”
Cord’s head tilts to the side, causing his dark brown hair to fall across his forehead. “Why does his approval mean so much to you?”
“Because I want to be a principal dancer. It’s all I wanted for as long as I can remember. I’m not getting any younger”—I’m only twenty-seven but that’s practically ancient in ballet years—“and I feel like this might be my last chance.”
“What happens if you never make principal?”
I have to pause before I answer the question, because I honestly don’t allow myself to think about it. I don’t allow myself to consider what might happen if the one thing I’ve been working for my whole life never comes to fruition. “I…I don’t know.”
“Will it make you less worthy as a person if it’s a goal you never accomplish?” He’s not patronizing, but it’s a question I can’t help but bristle at.
The flush in my cheeks is no longer from embarrassment, but from anger. “I don’t see what difference that really makes. I didn’t come here for therapy, I came here because I thought you had something to teach me.”
Cord nods, seemingly unaffected by my mini-tirade. “Okay. So that’s your only concern—be sexy enough onstage that you get this part?”
I ponder his words as I inhale a calming breath, thinking he might want me to say something like I want this for myself just as much as for the part, but I don’t know that that’s true.
I mean, sure, it would be nice to feel sexier in my skin and in my body, but the whole concept seems so out of reach and I hate failing.
Getting this part feels tangible, even though I know it’s a long shot.
Anything else would be wishing for too much.
So I nod. “I want this part.”
“Okay.” Cord rubs his hands along his thighs, encased in jeans that are hugging the thick muscles there. He gestures for me to stand. “Show me what you’ve got.”