Page 34 of The Dixon Rule

“I need you to brace yourself.”

“It’s too late! I’m already keeled over in horror.” Anxiety flutters through me. He can’t be bailing on me. He can’t. We’re supposed to film our audition video soon.

“I got a job on a superyacht,” Kenji reveals. “I leave tomorrow for six months.”

“What are you even saying to me right now?”

“I’m going to be working as a private bartender on a superyacht owned by an eccentric billionaire whose name I’m not allowed to divulge because of the nondisclosure agreement I signed, but let’s just say he’s in tech and may or may not be a bigamist.”

I gasp. “Oh my God, you’re working for Constantine Zayn?”

Zayn is the third richest man in the world. It recently came out that the dude is legally married to two women, one in Greece and the other in America, and now both wives are trying to divorce him and coming after half of his considerable fortune.

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Kenji says innocently.

“Okay, first, we will discuss this in detail later. I have faith we can find loopholes in the NDA. Second—how could you!”

He groans loudly in my ear. “I know. I’m sorry. Like, really, really sorry. I know how important this is to you. But…a superyacht, Di.”

“What about school?” He’s about to go into his junior year at Briar. “You can’t just disappear for six months.”

“I’ll come back in January for winter semester, then make up the rest of my courses next summer. This is the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“How did you even land this job?”

“Get this! My mother does the mistress’s hair.”

“This dude has two wives and a mistress? That feels like overkill.”

“So the mistress is sitting in my mom’s salon, complaining how they lost half the yacht’s waitstaff because they were all busted for running a human trafficking ring.”

“I’m sorry. What?” My head is spinning.

“Trust me, this story is a labyrinth that would take years to navigate. So Mom goes, hey, my son tends bar to pay for college, he’d be perfect for this job. Next day? I get a call from Cons—my new unnamed employer,” he corrects quickly. “I spoke to a billionaire, Diana.”

“I’m happy for you. I truly am. But…goddamn it, Kenji. This is NUABC!”

“I know. I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone else, though.”

“Yes, I’ll have my pick of all those ballroom dance enthusiasts wandering the streets of Hastings hoping to compete one day.”

“Post an SOS video on Ride or Dance. See if anyone in the Boston area wants to audition to be your partner.”

“Okay, that’s not a terrible idea. But I’m still mad at you.”

“I’m sorry. I was having fun at rehearsals. But let’s be honest—we’re never going to place.”

“That’s not true,” I protest. “We might make the top ten. That’s like two grand in winnings.”

He snorts loudly. “We both know we’re not winning any money. We came in fifteenth in our category last year. Out of twenty.”

He’s right. It’s unlikely. But I don’t like seeing my dream balloon burst like this. It’s nicer when it’s floating around signifying hope and glory. Like maybe this year we’ll nail the Viennese waltz, and the judges will sit there in awe, weeping from the sheer beauty of our bodies in motion. Maybe all the other competitors will break their legs in a tragic summer skiing accident the night before. I really don’t understand why Kenji is being so pessimistic. The dream balloon is full of endless possibilities!

“Please don’t go. Please?” I make a last-ditch begging effort, but Kenji was lost to me from the word billionaire.

As I change into my waitressing uniform, I’m grumbling under my breath the entire time. I don’t handle disappointment well, especially when it’s due to something that isn’t in my control. It’d be one thing if I backed out myself, but the choice was taken from me, damn it.

I’m officially adding Constantine Zayn to my list of archenemies, under my old gymnastics coach and Shane Lindley.

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