Chapter Twenty-Two Allegra
Twenty-Two
Allegra
It takes another two weeks after my conversation with Lucy before I make up my mind.
It’s two more weeks of rehearsals where I feel more like Ballerina Barbie than I do like an accomplished and trained dancer.
Two more weeks of missing the way Cord asked for my thoughts and opinions, the way he always made sure I was comfortable.
Two more weeks of just plain missing him, really.
The loneliness may have abated somewhat, but I fear that, without Cord in my life, it might not ever fully dissipate.
I borrow a short-sleeved black wrap dress from Lucy and wear some of the lingerie from my photo shoot underneath.
Not because I’m planning for things to go like that, but because part of the dance Cord and I choreographed requires me to strip down to my undies and no one needs to see my faded cotton granny panties.
When I get to Six Pact, there’s about an hour before the next show starts. I greet Warren with a timid smile.
“Haven’t seen you around in a while.” He smiles but crosses his arms over his chest in case I had any notion of getting past him and backstage without his permission.
“I’ve had a lot going on.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask how Cord is doing, but I don’t want to put Warren in that spot. Instead, I hand him a folded piece of paper. “Could you give this to Noah?”
“Noah?”
I nod, biting my tongue so I don’t spill the whole plan. The fewer people who know, the better.
Warren takes the paper from me. I thank him and head down the block to a nearby coffee shop. Fifteen minutes later, my phone vibrates.
Noah: Are you sure about this?
Me: I am.
Me: Unless you think I’m making a huge mistake?
Noah: Look, I have no idea how Cord is going to react, but I do know he’s been a miserable little shit lately so it can’t hurt.
Me: I appreciate your help.
Noah: See you soon.
Noah: And good luck.
I blow out a breath and check the time. I don’t want to get to the theater any earlier than absolutely necessary, don’t want there to be any chance he sees me before I’m ready.
I wait until I know the show has started, then give it a few extra minutes so I miss Cord’s opening act.
The woman working at the front of the club marks off the fake name I used to make a reservation and shows me to the last open table in the theater, all the way in the back corner. Perfectly out of sight.
I’m tempted to order a drink because, god knows, I need it, but I also don’t want there to be anything sloshing around in my stomach when the time comes. So I ask for a water, flashing the server an apologetic look and vowing to leave as generous a tip as I can afford.
It’s impossible to focus on the show, the screams and the abs all a blur around me. I’m sure I look completely out of place, sitting here by myself and not participating, but no one seems to pay me much attention, which is what I need.
When the firefighter act comes out onstage, I take a deep breath. Noah is the lead in this one, and when it’s over, he’s going to give me the cue. The music fades out and Noah helps his audience participant down the stairs of the stage. He gestures to the DJ, who hands him a microphone.
Noah’s voice booms through the speakers, deeper and slower than his normal conversational tone. “How’s everybody doing tonight?”
The room erupts in a deafening roar.
“Well, your night is about to get even better. Because we have something special in store for you tonight. I’m going to need my main man Cord Donovan out here on the stage, please.”
The shrieks increase at the sound of Cord’s name, and they don’t die down in the sixty seconds it takes for him to be shoved out onto the stage. He’s wearing a black button-down shirt and black pants and he’s never looked more beautiful.
He also looks confused—and more than a little annoyed.
Noah claps him on the back and I stand, making my way slowly through the crowd to the front of the stage. When Noah sees me, he hands the mic back to the DJ and whispers something to him. A second later, the opening notes of our song chime through the sound system.
Cord’s face falls as he recognizes the song, and the closer I get to the stage, the clearer I can see the dark circles under his eyes. It’s impossible for him to look terrible, but he certainly doesn’t look happy.
He crosses to the DJ booth, giving the universal sign for “Cut the music,” but the DJ lets the song keep playing.
I reach the stairs and fight back the urge to puke. I’ve never once had stage fright before, not even when I was a kid. I was raised on the stage, but it takes a mini pep talk to convince my feet to move.
Cord turns to exit the stage, clearly frustrated and upset, which is of course when he spots me.
I freeze when his eyes meet mine. I’m pretty sure the audience is completely losing their minds, but at that moment, all I can see is him. All I can hear is Alicia singing about how sad life is without you.
Cord looks at me, then looks at the audience. I’ve put him in a terrible position, made it impossible for him to ignore me. He gives me a nod and I finish climbing the stairs.
I look down at my feet, realizing I still have my plain black heels on. I toe them off, leaving them at the edge of the stage.
Cord stalks toward me and I meet him in the middle. His hand finds its place on my neck. “What are you doing here, Slippers?” The words are low, inaudible to anyone but me.
“I missed dancing with you,” I breathe.
His grip on me tightens, but he doesn’t respond.
We fall effortlessly into the choreography, even though we haven’t practiced these steps in weeks.
Everything from my time with Cord is permanently engraved on my brain.
Every sense of him is engraved on my body.
And when he wraps me in his embrace, I know that no matter what happens next, I was meant to come here.
We were meant to dance this dance, at least one more time.
We reach a point in the steps we never actually practiced, when our “characters” undress each other.
Cord easily finds the tie of my dress, tugging it loose.
I let the fabric slip from my shoulders, tossing the dress offstage.
My hands move to the buttons of his shirt and while my fingers work, his fingers unfasten his pants, unzipping so that when I’ve pushed his shirt to the floor, all he has to do is drop his pants.
We’re both stripped down to our undergarments, but I don’t even have time to appreciate the carved lines of him before I’m swept back in his arms.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but the feel of his bare skin against mine is potent, heady. My fingers brush his stomach and his stroke my lower back, like we need the reassurance that we’re here and this is happening.
I don’t ever want this to end. I want this dance with Cord to last forever. I need this excuse to keep touching him, to keep his hands on my body.
But as with all good things, it must come to an end.
I leap and he catches me. My legs wrap around his waist, his hands support me, latched onto my upper thighs. His fingers brush the edge of my panties and my arms wind around his neck.
The music fades and we’re face-to-face, locked in our intimate embrace.
There is still so much to say and discuss, but the power of his gaze takes my breath away, leaving me speechless.
The room explodes once again, this time in applause like nothing I’ve heard before. But none of that matters, I can barely bring myself to acknowledge it.
I wait for Cord to set me down, but instead he keeps me wrapped in his arms and carries me offstage, never breaking my gaze.
There’s so much hidden in the depths of those blue eyes, but I can’t make any sense of it.
Can’t make any sense of anything other than the feeling of being in his arms. The feeling of being safe, and cherished.
We reach the wings, out of view of the audience. I vaguely hear the sound of the next act starting, and the accompanying shrieks.
Cord still doesn’t let me go. “Come home with me?”
I nod, still unable to form silly things like words.
Only once I’ve agreed does he set me on my feet. A stagehand who must have been lurking nearby hands him our clothes, including my shoes. He helps me slip into my dress. I tie it and step into my heels while he quickly dresses. Then he takes my hand in his and tugs me toward the exit.
“Don’t you need to wait for the end of the show?” I whisper.
“Fuck the show.”
We walk down a long hallway of dressing rooms and when I catch Noah’s eye, he flashes me a wink and a smile. It helps calm some of the nerves, because Cord hasn’t looked back at me once since pulling me away from the wings.
The walk to Cord’s apartment is only two blocks from the theater, and they’re silent.
It would freak me out beyond the usual, except he keeps a tight hold on my hand, our fingers laced together.
Every few seconds, he squeezes, like he’s worried I might disappear while he isn’t looking.
And he doesn’t look at me, not once the entire walk.
Not until we enter his apartment building and travel up to the top floor.
I’m not sure what I’m expecting his place to look like, but somehow it fits the exact vision I have for him.
It’s bigger than my studio, of course, but still a modest size, two bedrooms if the doors down the hallway are any indication.
The walls in the living room are painted a deep navy blue, but the city lights through the huge windows brighten up the space, as does the large cream-colored sofa that looks cushy enough to sink into.
Beautiful photographs hang on the walls, most of them city landscapes, not just from New York, but from all over the world.
It’s gorgeous.