Chapter 24 Bianca
BIANCA
I made it.
I fucking made it.
At least, I’m making it further than I have in ten years in this godforsaken city.
I may have screwed up the dance callback, but clearly my sides and songs won the audition panel over.
Mr. Shippe went back into the room for a few moments after dismissing the bulk of the girls who were invited for the Lisa callback. Now the door swings wide open and the choreographer, director, and pianist exit. They each smile as they pass me, but… Is that sympathy in their eyes?
Mr. Shippe comes out.
“Bianca Montrose?”
I jump to my feet a little too enthusiastically. But fuck it, I’m excited about it. “Yes, Mr. Shippe?”
He gestures inside the audition room. “Would you come in for a moment, dear?”
I wrinkle my forehead. “But the other people on the panel left.”
“They’re grabbing a quick cup of coffee.” He shrugs. “We won’t need them for right now.”
I narrow my eyes. Shouldn’t they be in the room as well?
Then again, Mr. Shippe is the producer. He’s the one making the final decisions. The rest of the people on the casting panel act more as advisors than decision-makers. Maybe he’ll be recording the callback and sharing it with them later.
I walk inside, and Mr. Shippe closes the door behind him. He slowly crosses the room and sits on the audition table, keeping his eyes on me the entire time.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Bianca. The panel loved your audition.”
“Thank you.”
He holds up a hand. “But we both know you screwed up the dance combo.”
My heart sinks. “I’d be happy to do it again. I had it down perfectly. My ankle just gave out. Probably just nerves.”
Mr. Shippe chuckles. “If nerves can affect your audition, they can affect your performance. I’ve watched a lot of dance auditions, sweetheart. I know when a girl needs to fix her technique.”
“I promise you, if I can just do the combo again—”
“I don’t want excuses. Words are meaningless, Bianca. I want to see action.” His voice is smooth but heavy. “Let’s go from the top of the ballet section. And don’t just do the steps. Feel them.”
I nod. I lengthen my spine, feeling the hum of my muscles in my calves and ribcage.
I start the dance combo, sliding into a tombé, falling forward with weight and grace.
I follow it up with a pas de bourrée, knitting the space beneath me—back, side, front—before I make a glissade outward and leap, my jeté slicing the air.
“Good.” Mr. Shippe circles behind me as I land. “But I want to see desperation in that leap. Like you're reaching for something that could save you.”
His voice is gruff, and he’s speaking directly into my ear, even though we’re the only two people in the room.
But I keep my focus ahead, shifting into arabesque, my left leg reaching long behind me, arms stretched.
Then into attitude, bending my body into a question mark shape, my hips level. My shoulder lifts ever so slightly and—
Mr. Shippe touches my ribcage.
“Drop that shoulder,” he murmurs, his hand lingering a second too long. “Keep it clean, not collapsed.”
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek. The correction is valid. The placement of his hands isn’t.
But I soldier on. The next move is a piqué turn—a sharp step onto pointe, my left foot snapping into a passé. I hold it, chest lifted, arms centered. Stillness. Control.
“Yes, yes.” He steps around me. His eyes scan me—not my form—in the mirror. “Hold it just like that… You have beautiful balance.”
I ignore the heat rising up the back of my neck and step into the pas de bourrée again—the one I screwed up during the audition. This time I do it flawlessly. Then sous-sus, legs drawn tight, lifted high. Then a quick échappé—open to second position, close back in. It’s clean. My breath is steady.
“You’ve clearly been trained well,” he says. “But I want to see the…sensuality. Lisa is a raw, earthy woman. Don’t be afraid of the space your body takes up.”
I continue the dance combo, gliding into balancé—side, back, front—and let the rhythm carry me, arms soft but sure. Twice through. I’m trying to keep the artistry, but my focus fractures when Mr. Shippe moves closer again, this time standing directly behind me.
“Feel the waltz in your chest,” he says, pressing two fingers to the base of my sternum. “Here. Let the breath move you from here.”
I shift slightly. “I think I’ve got it.”
He smiles. “Of course you do.”
I go into cha?né turns now, a tight, traveling series across the studio. The mirrors blur as I make each movement. At the last turn, I open into a controlled développé à la seconde, leg high, held. I ground myself. Solid. Not shaken.
I try not to look at Mr. Shippe’s reflection, but I can’t help it. He’s rubbing at his thigh as he watches me. Maybe it’s just a little quirk.
I finish with a smooth soutenu, landing in fifth position. I lift myself up on a relevé and slide into a slow rond de jambe, tracing an arc on the floor.
Finally, I close in fifth, arms in third, chest forward, heart quiet.
Mr. Shippe claps once—sharp and satisfied. “Now that, Bianca, is the kind of movement I’m looking for.”
“Thank you,” I say, my tone polite but cool.
“You know, Bianca…you’ve got something most girls in this business don’t. Discipline and heat. That’s rare.”
“Thank you,” I repeat. What else can I say to that?
He walks behind me now, gliding his fingers up my arm. “I wonder, though, if I can see more of that heat.”
“Mr. Shippe?”
He can’t possibly be insinuating what I think he is. He’s a bit of a creep—that’s par for the course in show business—but he’s not actually propositioning me, is he?
His lips curl into a grin. “I think you know that a million girls would kill for this role, Bianca.” He places a hand on my upper thigh, leaving no further room for interpretation. “What are you willing to do?”
And to my horror, I think it over.
I’ve been clawing my way into a career in New York for the better part of a decade. I’ve been go-go dancing, waiting tables, doing catering gigs, nannying for spoiled Upper East Side brats to keep myself afloat. And now, my Broadway debut is finally in my grasp.
And all I have to do is sleep with this guy.
I don’t love the idea, of course. But in the process of preparing for this callback, I’ve fallen in love with Lisa. With Reflections. It’s a fantastic show, and I know I’d be great in this role. I know I could make a difference, touch hearts, inspire others to lead better lives, by playing her.
I’d hardly be the first starlet to sleep with an executive. It happens all the time. And no one would need to know.
This show could lead to a real career. One where I’m performing full time, where I no longer have to starve myself for a week to pay for headshots.
It’s all right there, with only one small caveat.
Fuck it.
I’ll do it.
* * *
I hate when I think about Mr. Shippe.
I can never take back what I did. All the showers in the world can’t wash his stink off me.
Every time I perform, I bring a small part of him with me.
Even when I’m singing a set at Aces, a gig I didn’t sleep with a man to get…
He’s with me.
Always.
His half-limp dick, his sweaty and bloated body, his bad breath…
I got through it.
God, what a whore I was.
Still am, when I think about it.
From that day, I was desensitized to the act of selling my body.
I started doing it at Aces. I didn’t need the money—Rouge pays me pretty well—but men were willing to pay top dollar. I’d already done it before, so I figured it made very little difference.
Sometimes I hate myself.
Most of the time I just feel numb about it.
I was so ready to sell myself for the chance of a role of a lifetime.
Just for it all to crash and burn.
Come to think of it, I did the same thing with Harrison.
The second anyone gives me attention—the smallest kernel of it—I give myself to him.
Harrison turned out to be a decent man, but if he hadn’t… It wouldn’t have been the first time.
I’d have brushed myself off and moved on to the next one. And the next.
Next.
Next.
It’s like I’m Mr. Shippe, hearing one auditioner after another for a part none of them will ever play.
Part of that is being an artist. I sell my services as a singer, a performer, an actress.
As a singer, I sell my throat to hundreds of patrons every night at Aces.
Is selling my pussy all that different?
I sigh.
One thing is for certain. I’m going to see this thing with Harrison—whatever it is—through to the end.
I need to see if it has any legs.
I may have fucked him the first time we met, but that doesn’t mean I can’t pursue something real with him.
I feel something real with him. Something I’ve never felt before.
It can’t be love already. That’s fairy tale nonsense. In the real world, it takes two people months to fall in love.
We’ve been on a single date.
We’ve fucked twice, and I stifle a laugh as I realize. We’ve never had sex in one of our actual beds. First we were in the grand suite bed, and then we were in the Brassica Rex courtyard.
But we’re going out again tomorrow. Checking out some of my sister’s other clubs.
It’s a date with a purpose behind it, but it’s still a date. He didn’t have to ask me to join him.
Maybe I’ll try to abstain from anything physical. Get to know Harrison outside of his prowess in the bedroom.
I don’t know if I’ll be able to resist him if he makes a move.
But if I do have sex with him a third time, it’ll be because he’s a man that I see a future with.
The kind of future involving two and a half kids with a white picket fence.
It won’t be because I want my existence as a woman to be validated.
I’ve finally finished my makeup, and it’s time for my set. I open the door to my dressing room and am about to walk toward the stage when I’m waylaid by Rouge.
I blink. “Yes?”
She points at the piece of paper I’m holding in my gloved right hand. “Your set. Let me see it.”
I bite my lip. “I promise there won’t be any unauthorized pieces tonight.”
“I already assumed that to be the case. Still, let me see it.”
“Of course.” I hand her the piece of paper.
She reaches into her bosom and pulls out a red ballpoint pen. She scans the list and crosses a few pieces off before handing me the piece of paper back. “There’s the approved list for tonight.”
I raise an eyebrow as I look at the rejected songs on the list. “But why’d you cross these pieces off? I’ve sung each of them a hundred times before, to great acclaim.”
Rouge’s eyelids twitch slightly. “All those pieces I crossed out showcase the percussionist. And I’m afraid that Mr. Pons won’t be able to join you this evening.”
I cock my head. “Is he sick?”
“He didn’t say. But rest assured that the rest of the songs on the list will be fine without a drummer.” She purses her lips. “The show must go on, as they say.”
A fist closes on my heart. Something isn’t right about this.
In all my years of performing, I’ve never had a member of my band call in sick.
Sometimes one of them will take a leave of absence for a vacation or to attend to a family emergency, but the musicians have never dropped out at the last minute before.
Last Christmas we all had a nasty flu, yet we still took shots of DayQuil and went on for the show, collapsing in a heap on the couch in my dressing room between sets.
But Pierce is the newest member of the band. He’s only played with us for a year or so. Maybe he doesn’t realize how big a deal this is. He’s also working full-time as an attorney, so he might have other things to attend to.
Still… I feel the familiar twitch in my eyebrow that tells me that things aren’t lining up the way they should be.
There’s something my sister isn’t telling me.
And I’m going to find out what it is.