Chapter 2 #2
He released his grip on my hand, and I almost did fall into him—literally. His blue eyes widened for a second before a tall guy with a drumstick in his hand threw a balled-up wad of paper at the back of Conor’s head.
“Hey, Con. You wanna run through the list?” He jabbed a drumstick at the stage. “We’re not gonna have those dancers prancing around the stage during your set, are we?”
Conor jerked his head toward the stage where Ashley was waving her arms and yelling out directions. “Naw, we’re good, mate. This is Noelle Martine. She’s running PR for the tour. Noelle, Rhys Bevan, our replacement drummer.”
I waved at Rhys, silently thanking him for interrupting my awkward moment with Conor. How many awkward moments were we going to have before I felt settled?
“Hey, Noelle.” Rhys pointed his drumstick at a picnic table. “Over here, then?”
I asked, “Does Rhys just use his drumsticks in lieu of his fingers for pointing and gesturing?”
“Pretty much.”
Conor gave me a weird salute before joining Rhys at the table. Had he joined the military since the last time I saw him?
The ruckus on the stage drew my attention back to my job, and I climbed the steps to watch the rehearsal with Ashley and her dancers.
The set consisted of a slightly raised throne surrounded by columns and mirrors in gilded frames.
Some of the dancers clutched over-sized fans as they practiced intricate moves, crisscrossing the stage.
My eyes bugged out, and my jaw dropped-simultaneously.
As a PR professional I really should have more control over my facial expressions.
Ashley had kicked off the bunny slippers and now strutted from mark to mark in stiletto heels as random dancers swooped in occasionally to lift her off her feet by her arms.
It didn’t look sexy so much as an aging Vegas showgirl getting carried around the stage—not that anyone would ever hear those words from my lips.
“Again, from the top!” the choreographer shouted.
Onstage, the dancers snapped into formation around Ashley, who hit her mark perfectly, of course. She always did. Ashley knew what she wanted—and apparently she wanted Conor.
I exhaled slowly. If I could just get through today without—
A sharp yelp cut through the music, and everything screeched to a halt. One of the backup dancers had crumpled, clutching her ankle and wailing.
“Oh no, no, no—” Ashley rushed toward the fallen dancer, concern marring the perfect makeup. She did have a heart. “We don’t have time for this, sweetheart. Can you get up? Remember, everyone’s replaceable.”
The male dancers, who had been doing the lifting and carrying for Ashley, surrounded the dancer and tried to help her to her feet.
“Owww.”
I nudged a stagehand. “Get the first aid kit. There should be ice packs in there.”
Ashley twirled around, her arms spread wide. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Jacques?”
The choreographer swore under his breath and wiped his brow. “We can’t reset spacing without her.”
“It’s one rehearsal,” I said quickly, climbing up the stage steps. “We’ll adjust—”
Ashley’s gaze slid to me. Slow. Assessing. Dangerous.
I folded my arms over my chest and hunched my shoulders.
“No.” Ashley snapped her fingers. “We won’t adjust. We’ll substitute.”
I blinked, twisting my head over my shoulder. “Right. Great. I’ll grab—”
“You.”
I froze. “I’m sorry, what?”
Ashley smiled. It was the kind of smile that sold out stadiums, brought boybanders to their knees, and terrified assistants. “You know the blocking, don’t you? You must’ve seen the setup before today, and you’ve been standing there watching.”
“That is observational knowledge,” I said carefully. “Not...participatory.”
“You’ll be fine.” Ashley turned, already repositioning herself. “Places, everyone!”
“Wait—no, I won’t—” I looked around wildly for support. Nobody noticed. A few other dancers helped the injured woman to the side of the stage, her face twisted in agony. The stagehand I’d sent to get ice pressed a pack against the dancer’s ankle.
Jacques clapped. “We’re burning daylight. Get in there, sub.”
The other dancers got back to work, hustling me into place. Somehow, my place was center stage with a giant fan in my hand next to the throne.
“Okay,” Jacques said, softer now, like he was trying not to scare a nervous animal. “You’re just hitting marks. Follow Sasha here. Mirror the counts. Easy.”
Easy? Did Jacques realize I flubbed our class modern dance performance in high school? That I’d failed to make freshman cheerleader? That people avoided me at the club for fear of getting taken out?
The fan trembled in my hand as I nodded. I was head of PR here. The show must go on. We had deadlines to make. Stars to coddle.
The music started again. For three miraculous seconds I thought I might survive this.
Step. Step. Turn. Hip thrust. Bootie shake. Okay. Okay, I had this.
Ashley spun toward me on her way to the throne, sharp and precise. I panicked. I tried to follow Sasha, but she was on the other side of the throne, and her steps mirrored mine, which made me move in the wrong direction—into the throne.
My heel caught on something—maybe a cable, maybe a snake. A snake? As I careened into the throne, I started windmilling my arms in a desperate attempt to stay upright. It didn’t work.
My flailing arm hit a golden panel. It wobbled. Paused. And then as if in slow motion, it pitched forward.
Someone gasped. Was that me?
The panel went down. Into another. Which knocked into a lighting rig. Which jerked a suspended frame just enough that it swung, clipping the corner of the throne.
The entire set seemed to shudder, and I froze in horror as the world I was professionally responsible for maintaining...collapsed like a very expensive row of dominoes.
“Cut!” Jacques shouted, but it was too late.
Something metallic groaned above me, and my head snapped up to see a section of the rigging come loose. I was gonna die on stage as a backup dancer, holding a fan.