Curtain Call Chapter 1
I never thought I’d find myself back in New York City, especially not standing outside the YMCA with a big bag on my back, double-checking an address on my phone.
The honking cars and the smoky roasted nuts from a nearby cart bring it all back.
I pull my hoodie more tightly around me as I walk down Lexington Avenue.
There was a reason I left four years ago.
It only involves, oh, the most painful humiliation of my life.
“Name?” A guy at the front of a line is checking off a list at the well-known East Village warehouse studio.
Behind him, bodies are everywhere—some in tights, some in sweats, most performing hip flexor stretches or standing around with travel mugs in their hands.
The long line is for a coveted workshop with the famous director of one of the country’s best dance companies.
My name isn’t on the list in his hand, and he’s looking at me. Waiting.
My heart pounds against my ribs. What to do? I hadn’t thought it through when I dropped everything for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Every cell in my body said I needed to be here. I look back at the line that’s formed behind me. It’s twice as long now, and everyone is staring at me.
I can’t leave. This is my only chance to dance for the one and only Kent Morgan. The genius never offers workshops outside of his famed company Driven Dance Theater. And I’ve been waiting a lifetime for this.
“Branwen O’Hara,” I mumble, hoping to buy more time.
“Branwen what?”
“O’Hara.” I cough, looking over my shoulder before trying to sneak a glimpse of the list, but it’s no use. The gatekeeper is folding the top of the paper to hide it from view.
I scrub my brow, sweating, as I decide how to play this. “I’m not on the list,” I admit. The truth is always the best option. Who knows? Maybe he’s feeling generous today, but by the look on his face, that’s doubtful.
He frowns and blows out a breath like it’s been the longest day of his life. “You’re here to deliver a package, right?”
“Uh…” My eyes shift in thought. When he studies the big bag on my back, I nod in a knee-jerk reaction, and he points me toward a back room.
“The changeroom is down the hall.”
“Okay.” My voice squeaks, because I have never told a lie in my life.
“One of the great Kent Morgan’s many requests.” He moves on to the next person in line. I have no idea what he’s talking about. Though I may have found a way into one of New York City’s most exclusive workshops—as a package deliverer. I head to the changeroom, trying to appear official.
“Excuse me.” I’m stopped in my tracks by the man himself.
He’s not just any gorgeous man dressed in sleek black clothes.
He’s my idol. Kent Morgan is more beautiful in person than in the magazines.
Beautiful enough to make you ponder life.
He’s tall, lean, and fit, but still more masculine than the male dancers in the room.
His high cheekbones, olive skin, and plush lips would make any model envious—but his eyes follow me like a hawk’s.
Everything they say about him is true. He has a presence that renders you speechless.
Two wide shoulders roll back. “Are those my uniforms?” He studies me with a curiosity that takes my breath. “No shoes in the studio,” he adds, and my focus drops to the floor.
“Uh… Sorry.”
I jerk down to untie my runners and kick them off, and the big bag on my back knocks his mug right out of his hands.
“Oh, my god!” I swing back up, and I almost hit him a second time.
“I’m so sorry!” This damn bag. He leans back in reflex, but it’s no help.
There’s coffee all over his shirt, and he’s angrily pinching his brows.
“Good thing you wore black today,” I joke, trying to make light of the situation, but his intense eyes only scrutinize me.
“Again, I really apologize. I didn’t mean to…
I’m not usually this clumsy. I’m actually quite graceful…
” I stop myself from telling him how enamored I am by him, since I’m supposed to be a delivery person and not a dancer trying to steal an opportunity to work with one of the greatest minds of our time.
He brushes himself off. “Careful with the uniforms.” And he walks away, leaving behind the addictive scent of frankincense, citrus, and leather.
The run-in has me so dizzy I can barely stand up, never mind speak.
My stomach has been in knots since I found out about the opportunity, and all the lying and spilled coffee hasn’t helped the situation.
My face burns. I have no idea what on earth he was talking about, but I know it’s my cue to leave before this gets any worse.
I’ve dug myself into a big enough hole and quite possibly ruined my only chance to work with my dream choreographer.
Smelling like spilt coffee, I turn to the door and dodge my way through a hall of hopeful dancers, dragging my heart across the floor with me.