Ripped Page 7

  “Yes.” I couldn’t escape without Pierre moving for me, and he seemed reluctant to do so. “Excuse me, please.” I edged over. “I need to get out.”

  Finally, he stood. “Of course, I’ll get you another drink while you’re gone.”

  “Oh. My. God!” I squealed to Tiffany. “Help me. What do I do with Pierre?”

  She gave a throaty laugh. “What can you do? He’s the choreographer. He has your career in the palm of his clammy little hands.”

  “Ew. I do not want his clammy little hands on me at all—that’s the problem.”

  The pity in her eyes made me take a step back. “In every show, there is at least one scandal. The choreographer or the producer preying on the weak or inexperienced …” Her hands rested on my shoulders. “You, my friend, are unfortunately the chosen one. You’re a brilliant dancer—hell, it took me a couple of weeks to get over my jealousy at just how good you are—but you’re new to this game. You’re an unknown and will remain an unknown for the rest of your life unless you play the game.”

  “But I have a boyfriend. I can’t.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “Do you really think he cares? If anything, that makes you more of a challenge and eventually, more of a triumph.” She gave me a sad smile. “Just flirt with him a little. As long as you’re never alone with him you’ll be fine, and I’ll make sure I never leave your side.” She slung one arm around me. “Come on, we can’t stay in here all night.”

  I had no choice but to take up my seat at the end of the booth. The other girls and one token guy were doing another shot as we sat down, and Pierre lined up three glasses in front of me on the pretense that I needed to catch up. As the chorus of ‘Drink! Drink! Drink!’ chimed around me, I slammed down two in a row, took a mouthful of water, then downed the third. At least my throat wasn’t burning anymore; it had gone numb somewhere between the third and fifth shot. My head, however, was humming, and I was finding it difficult to concentrate on any of the conversations that were buzzing around me. I wished we’d eaten before the drinking had started. We’d been dancing all day with only short snack breaks in the morning and afternoon. My stomach that had previously been empty was now filling with alcohol.

  “Jasmine, mon cheri, are you all right? Shall we go?” Pierre’s hot breath brushed my neck as he spoke far too closely to my ear. I thought he’d been speaking to me for quite a while, probably half in French, and had finally realized that I wasn’t paying any attention.

  “Mmm, yes, I’m good.” The music that had been playing softly in the background had been turned up, the bass vibrating through my chest and into my head. “I want to dance.” Not waiting for Pierre to move, I clumsily climbed over him, almost knocking him from his chair in the process.

  “Tiff.” I grabbed her arm, interrupting the conversation she was leaning into. “Let’s dance.”

  Tiffany and the girls she’d been speaking to all slid from the booth and to their feet. There was a tiny dance floor in the middle of the bar with a few people already dancing, but as I looked around I realized that most of the dancing took place on a balcony that stretched around the perimeter of the room. On wobbly legs, we scaled the iron staircase to the balcony and found ourselves a place where the four of us could fit. As this was a bar that dancers frequented, there were no timid girls quietly bopping on the spot to the music. People were dancing, really dancing, and it made me giggle. It reminded me of a scene you might see in the musical Fame.

  My giggles wouldn’t stop until they turned into hiccups.

  Giggle, giggle hiccup! Giggle, hiccup!

  “I think I need to vomit,” I said to no one in particular.

  Firm hands grasped my hips from behind as the grinding music made my head thump.

  “I need to …” God, it was hot. Not a dancing-too-much hot—a clammy, sickly hot. “Oh, no.” I took one step forward, about to make a break for the bathroom, when the same firm hands that had attached themselves to my hips spun me around. “Pierre …” A stream of hot liquid erupted, spilling all down Pierre’s lovely Louis Vuitton white shirt. “Oops!” At least his hands were no longer on me as they flew from my body, and he sprung back. “Sorry, I …” Another wave hit me and this time landed on his Valentino loafers.

  My head spun as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “Let’s get you some fresh air.” Tiffany steered me from the balcony and between the three girls, they managed to get me down the staircase without incident. As soon as we stepped through the door and the freezing air hit me, the buzzing in my ears lessened. The cold air helped the fog lift, but I needed to sit, so plonked my butt down on the front step of the bar.

  “You can’t go home alone. Can you call that cutie-pie of yours?” Tiffany asked.

  I fumbled in my pockets. “My phone’s in my bag,” I mumbled.

  Becca jumped up. “I’ll get it.”

  Why was everyone else perfectly fine when I’d vomited all over Pierre, twice?

  I missed Bax. Sitting here on the cold, hard cement step, all I could think about was how much I wanted to see him. He would know what to do and how to take care of me.

  Becca came back with my bag and handed it to me so I could fish out my phone. I dialed but it went to voicemail. I hung up and tried again, knowing that if he was close by he would have just missed picking up the call.

  “Hello, Jaz?”

  “Hey, Baxey. It’s me, Jazzy.” There was so much noise in the background. Music played and it sounded like people were cheering.

  “Hang on a second,” Bax shouted before the noise in the background was muted. “Sorry, just gone to another room. How are you? Anything wrong?”

  “I’m really, really … really sorry I didn’t come to New York to be with you.”

  “I know, Jaz, and it’s okay.”

  “I just want you to know, you know, ’cause I’m really sorry.” Tears stung my eyes. “You’re my man, Bax, my man, and I let you down. I’m a terrible girlfriend.” Tears ran down my cheeks and I let them fall. “I don’t know why you forgive me. I wouldn’t forgive me. But I’m sorry. Do you forgive me?”

  Tiffany chuckled to herself as she sat beside me. “I think he knows you’re really sorry, Jaz.” She wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “You’re funny when you’re drunk.”

  “I’m not drunk,” I replied indignantly.

  “Have you been drinking, Jaz?” I could hear the laughter in his voice as muted cheers and wolf whistles erupted wherever Bax was.

  “I’ve had a couple, but I’m okay. I may have vomited slightly before, and it may have gone on Pierre’s shirt and then his expensive shoes. But now I’m sitting down and my bottom is numb.”

  Bax laughed, the deep richness warming me to my core. “Where are you?”

  “I’m on the step with Tiff. Tiff is my friend. I have friends now, Bax. Isn’t that wonderful?” I looked down. “Oh, shoot.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s vomit on my favorite sweat pants.” I half-heartedly brushed it off with my hand, then studied my palm. “Now it’s on my hand.” I wiped it back on my pants.

  “Okay, so you’re with your friend Tiff on a step.”

  “Yep, I sure am.” I nodded, confirming that I was indeed on a step with Tiff.

  “And where is that step, Jaz?”

  “At the front of the bar. Oh, Bax, you should see this place.” I sighed, remembering the pointe shoes from Swan Lake on the wall. “They have shoes from famous feet on the wall.”

  A soft laugh echoed over the phone. “Any other clues you’d like to give me? Like a name maybe?”

  “They have ruby slippers, too.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Only they’re not real rubies. Shh, don’t tell anyone.”

  Tiffany took the phone from my hand. “Hi, this is Tiffany. We’re at Pointe; do you know it?” She paused, looked at her watch, then looked at me. “Oh, okay. I’ll call you back if there’s any trouble.”

  My phone was handed b
ack to me. “Where are you, Bax?” I asked, realizing he was supposed to be at work, not in a nightclub.

  “I’m at the bar; it’s a noisy crowd tonight. Hey, listen, I need to stay until my shift finishes in about an hour, but Tiffany is going to get you home safe and sound.” I nodded, resting my head on Tiff’s shoulder. “You’ll miss curfew with the oldies but I’m sure you’re allowed to mess up occasionally. You have a key to let yourself in, so you’ll be fine.”

  I was so tired. I needed to lie down and sleep. My head was spinning again, and the clammy, hot feeling rose from the pit of my stomach. “I need to get home, Bax.”

  His voice was so sweet. “I know, Jaz. I’ll check on you tomorrow. I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Sure, I had a key, but there was a second deadlock on the door that you could bolt from the inside. As I jiggled my key for the umpteenth time in the lock, I had to admit defeat. They had locked me out because it was after midnight.

  “You have got to be shitting me,” Tiffany exclaimed. “What are you supposed to do?” She had asked the cab driver to wait while she saw me inside, but I wasn’t getting inside.

  “It’ll work.” I huffed, thinking that if I did it really quickly, then really slowly it would somehow magically open the door.

  Tiffany sat on the top step, then pulled me down to sit beside her. “You’ll have to call Baxter. He said you had a curfew but this is ridiculous.”

  The cab driver gave a little ‘hurry up’ toot, and Tiffany waved her hand at him.

  “It’s fine, you can go. I’ll call Bax and wait for him to come rescue me.”

  It was half an hour before Bax came jogging up to my front door and found me huddled in my vomit-stained clothes, trying to keep warm. “I look like a homeless person,” I mumbled through a sleepy haze.

  “You smell like a homeless person.” Bax helped me up and supported me the nine blocks to his apartment.

  I should have showered but was so damned tired I could hardly lift my arms to assist Bax in getting my clothes off. My head touched the pillow and sleep began to engulf me.

  “Would now be a good time to reconsider moving in together, Jaz?” Bax whispered. “No more curfew—no getting locked out.”

  “Hmm, sounds wonderful.” I could barely move my lips to speak.

  “Yeah?” His face nearly split in two his smile was so wide. “Seriously? You want to do it?”

  I nodded. His enthusiasm was contagious, and my smile matched his.

  “We could sleep like this every night.” He lay beside me and I snuggled into his side. Soft lips brushed my hair as his hand lazily stroked my arm.

  “Except for the vomit.”

  His chuckle jiggled my head. “Except for the vomit.”

  I MAY have been sitting in the theater while Jaz rehearsed but I wasn’t really paying attention. The routine was simple, basic in parts, and it baffled me how the male lead, Mikhail, was still having trouble picking up the steps. It was one routine, for goodness sake—one that went for ten minutes in a show that would typically last nearly two hours. How the hell was he going to remember half a dozen pieces when he was already struggling?

  He wasn’t the right guy for the job. Jaz knew that; it was written all over her face every time he stuffed up and she had to compensate for his inadequacy. I knew it. I could have danced that part with my eyes closed and one arm behind my back days ago. But what concerned me more was that Pierre should have known it, and he either wasn’t paying attention and hadn’t caught on to what everyone else already knew, or he didn’t care.

  Cringing, I closed my eyes and dropped my head into my hand. It was like watching a train wreck; the guy had no clue. “Stop him,” I muttered under my breath. “Grab the fucker and relegate him to chorus—he’s gonna fuck up the entire show.”

  Shaking my head, I caught Jaz’s gaze and her eyes widened at me. She knew what I was thinking; it was Boston all over again. Give the lead to the favorite who was typically not the best dancer. Jaz had been the best but when we’d met she was still two years from graduation, so was lucky to make chorus. Chantelle had been the class pet although to this day I was not sure why. I suspected she made up for her flawed dancing with some top-shelf blow jobs.

  This had shades of that same bullshit all over it, and I would have settled on that being the reason for Mikhail not being replaced, if not for the fact that Pierre was all over Jaz and therefore not gay. So why then would he allow a jackass with two left feet to be the male lead in his production?

  I couldn’t watch any longer so instead I flicked through the newspaper to the property-for-lease section. Now this was more interesting because this was my life with Jaz, our future that was taking leaps and bounds forward. Although I was furious that the Baileys had locked Jaz out of the house for missing her curfew, it had been a blessing in disguise. She had spent the night in my little apartment and it had helped her make up her mind to spend every night with me, whether it was above the pizzeria or eventually in our own home.

  There were pages of rentals from one-bedroom to studio apartments, to luxury. New York had it all, but what I was also surprised to see was how expensive they were. I’d been living above the pizzeria for close on eight years and compared to these prices that were slapping me in the face, I was sitting on a gold mine. Sure, I had to help out in the restaurant washing dishes until the skin on my hands pruned, but it was easy work to subsidize my rent.

  How many nights had I trotted downstairs when they were close to closing and scrubbed pots and pans, the rich tomato sauce stuck to the bottom like glue? I’d quietly complained under my breath about the work when I should have been grateful. The Giancolis had been doing me a huge favor. I would never have been able to pay the rent without them letting me work some of it off.

  When I had met them, answering an ad like many of the ones I was reading now, I had instantly felt a connection. They had hugged me and greeted me like I was a long-lost relative. There was barely an interview, and no reference checks which was just as well, because I didn’t have any. They had judged my suitability on gut instinct alone. I’d moved from Boston Conservatory where I’d stayed in the dorms, to a cheap and nasty hotel. The hotel had been the first I’d come across as I’d ascended to the street from the subway. It had looked cheery enough and was close to Times Square, which was where I had wanted to be. From my window, if I strained my neck in a forty-five-degree angle, I’d been able to see the lights of Broadway and that had filled me with so much hope. So much love for my chosen career, my passion as a dancer.

  But that was then. I soon discovered that I was sharing my hotel room with cockroaches the size of cats, and that the lights of Broadway from a crummy window was as close to working there as I was ever going to get.

  Not Jaz, though. She could make it, and make it big. She was a star who shone brighter than any other dancer on that stage. Her talent was only surpassed by an inner beauty; when she danced, you couldn’t take your eyes off her. Magical was a word I would use to describe her without any fear of exaggeration. She could take you on a journey to another place and time. Make you forget all the shittiness that life had to offer. For a few hours while she danced, you believed the world was a wondrous place and that anything was possible.

  “Hey, whatcha doing, Bax?”

  I’d been so engrossed in looking through the advertisements that I’d missed the call for lunch, and now Jaz stood before me, hands on slender hips, head cocked to the side.

  “I’m looking for our love-nest. Do you have any preference for the area you’d like to live in?” I was hoping she was going to choose somewhere cheap because to be honest, we would struggle to make rent on anything near the theater.

  Jaz plonked herself on my lap, and I quickly dumped the newspaper on the seat beside me. “To be honest, anywhere we live will feel like home because we’ll be together.” She pressed her lips to mine in a chaste kiss. “Is there anything worth checking out in the paper?”


  She indicated the crumpled pages beside me with a nod, and I grabbed the listings back up and found the page I’d been searching through.

  With a deep sigh, I ran my finger down the first column. “We may have to become bank robbers to afford anything,” I said, only half joking.

  “Or you could sell your body.” She chuckled. “We could live in a Manhattan apartment with what you’d earn as a male escort.”

  “Hey, great idea. Maybe I’ll look into that.”

  She slapped my chest with the back of her hand. “Don’t you dare. I was only joking.” She rubbed my chest affectionately. “This is for me to see and touch, no one else. Understand, Mister?”

  Chuckling, I replied, “I understand.”

  Jaz studied the paper, reading over the overpriced accommodation I’d already reviewed. There was nothing there.

  “What about this one?” She tapped her finger on an ad right down the bottom of the page. It was only three lines. A cheap ad for a cheap apartment. In my mind, that equaled more roaches and noisy neighbors, but sure, we could look at it.

  I read over it. A studio apartment in Greenwich Village. The perfect location for Jaz and me to set up home. She beamed at me, watching me read the tiny ad.

  “Well? What do you think?” she asked, gnawing on her bottom lip.

  “We can take a look. The money seems reasonable.” It was only eighteen hundred a month, which was dirt cheap for the area.

  “It’ll go quickly. Maybe you could …” She allowed the sentence to trail off, but she didn’t need to finish it.

  “Okay, I’ll go take a look now.”

  Slender arms were flung around my neck. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

  Chuckling, I squeezed her tight to my chest. “No problem. I want this to work, Jazzy. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  The apartment was only ten minutes on the subway and a brisk two-or three-minute walk from the theater district, and as I waited on the platform for my train, I phoned the number in the ad. A woman answered and informed me that I could pick up the keys from her; she lived in the apartment next door to the vacant one for rent and owned them both. Great, so we’d be living next door to the owner, which could go either way. It may turn out to be beneficial to have the landlord on hand if things went wrong—but of course she would also know our comings and goings, and we would have to be on our best behavior at all times. As I neared the apartment block, I was less and less keen. I didn’t want to have to tippy-toe around for fear of a stern knock on the door. I wanted to be able to play music, to laugh, and God willing, have noisy sex if we wanted to.