Page 71 of Endless Love

THIRTY-THREE

Ryan

There was no way I was going to miss Willow dance. Let me rephrase: there was no way fucking way I was going to leave Willow alone with that douchebag, Gustave Fontaine. After recovering from my hangover earlier in the day, I’d Googled him. Everything I read about him set off an alarm.

The guy was more than a douche. Or a prick. Or an asshole. He was a monster. According to Wikipedia, he was born in Paris, the bastard child of a destitute prostitute. In his youth, he pimped for his mother, only to be physically abused by one of her lovers. After his mother died from syphilis, her best friend, a former ballerina, took him in, teaching him how do dance. A long story short, he was very talented and won a full scholarship to the Paris Opera Ballet School, one of the most prestigious dance academies in the world. Upon graduating, he joined the city’s top ballet company. He had an affair with one of the principal dancers, but she accused of him of rape. Forcing her to have sex with him without consent. The dancer’s enraged husband bashed Gustave’s leg and pressed charges but ultimately dropped them on the condition Gustave leave the country. Agreeing to the deal, Gustave moved to Latvia…with a cane. That cane that became his signature, though he didn’t really need it, as he formed his own company and conquered the dance world—one beautiful ballerina—and patron at a time. With his dashing looks and partying ways, he became the bad boy darling of the dance world. L’enfant terrible. He fucked, he snorted, he shot up. And he conquered.

Thank fucking God, I hadn’t thrown out the tickets to the gala that my mother had sent me months ago. I just had to remember where the hell I’d put them. Madly, I scavenged my loft, tearing it apart until I found the envelope in a pile of unopened fundraiser invitations. Inside was the invite and two tickets—shit, it was black tie. Eschewing my mother’s events, I hadn’t worn my tux in years. In fact, not since my wedding to Allee. Fingers crossed it wasn’t eaten by moths or in need of major dry cleaning.

Showered and groomed with a bath towel wrapped around my waist, I tore through my closet in search of my tux. I found it tucked away among a bunch of suits I hadn’t worn in ages. It was neatly hung in a garment bag along with my tux shirt, bowtie, and dress shoes. I unzipped the bag. Everything looked to be in good shape. Fingers crossed the suit still fit me. Since the last time I wore it, I’d grown buffer and broader from working out.

Slipping off the towel, I laid the ensemble on my bed and decided to go commando. I hastily slipped on the suit, beginning with the pants. They fit, but I had to say they were a little tight in the crotch. Next, the shirt and jacket, then finally the bowtie. As I knotted the tie in front of my mirrored armoire, I studied myself. I looked good to go. Grabbing my overcoat, I hurried out of my loft. I had less than an hour to make it to Lincoln Center.

Damn the fricking Saturday night traffic. Why was everyone in the world going uptown? Even if I had my car, which was in the shop for a tune-up, I’d be fucked in the butt. Any kind of car service was booked until eight p.m., including Uber, and not one taxi that shot by was vacant. Fuck. According to the program, the ballet portion of the gala started at 7pm following cocktails at six. I didn’t give a shit about the cocktails, but I didn’t want to miss one second of Willow’s performance. I wanted to be there for her. And selfishly, I wanted to be there for me.

Anxiously, I glanced down at my watch as another cab whooshed by me. It was six fifteen. I had less than forty-five minutes to get myself uptown. I weighed my options. I could run uptown. I was a runner, having run the New York marathon in excellent time. I did the calculations in my head. If I sprinted, averaging a six-minute mile, I could be at Lincoln Center in about twenty-five minutes. That’s if I could do a six-minute mile. While I was fit, I wasn’t in marathon shape, and I was wearing my dress shoes, which wouldn’t help. It was cutting things too short. The subway? With the way I looked, I’d probably get mugged. I had no other choice…

Five minutes later, I was on my Harley racing up Broadway, weaving in and out of the insane traffic. The bike was my first major purchase after Allee’s passing. Dr. Goodman said it symbolized a death wish on my part. Maybe it did. But when I took it on trips out of the city, zooming down the Jersey Turnpike or a deserted rural road at some hell-bent speed, the roar of the motor soothed my soul. Numbed my pain.

I hadn’t ridden it since the summer. With time of the essence, thank God, it was running smoothly. Stupidly, I wasn’t wearing a helmet. In my strung out state, I just didn’t bother. Fingers crossed I’d make it to Lincoln Center alive. And in time. If people were looking at some out-of-his mind madman running lights and cursing at vehicles in his way, I had no clue and didn’t give a flying fuck. Several times I almost struck pedestrians, and more than once, ignoring all traffic signals, a cab almost hit me. I deserved every angry honk and curse I heard, but they meant nothing to me.

At 6:45, I made it to Lincoln Center. I desperately needed to find a place to park. Zipping around the block two times, I finally found one…a small space between two cars parked on Sixty-Third Street, but just big enough for my bike. I angled my Harley into it and jumped off. 6:55. I had five minutes to spare.

Lincoln Center was across the street. With all the muscle power I had, I sprinted across Columbus Avenue and raced up the ramp that led directly to the Koch Theater where the gala was taking place. A guard was standing outside the entrance.

“I’m here for the gala,” I panted out.

The burly guard narrowed his eyes at me with suspicion. “The doors are closed. I was given strict instructions not to let anyone in after six forty-five.”

Jesus fucking Christ. I glanced down at my watch again. 6:58. The ballet was starting in two minutes.

“But the ballet doesn’t start until seven,” I pleaded. “And I have a ticket.” I pulled out the ticket from my breast pocket and showed it to him.

He glanced down at the ticket and then met my desperate gaze. “Sorry. No entry. Strict orders.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What was I going to have to do to take him down? Much bigger than me, he looked like he was straight out of the World Wrestling Federation and could knock me out in a single blow. Time to rethink.

“My mother, Eleanor Madewell, is the Chairwoman of the event.”

With his brawny arms folded across his broad chest, the built like a brick shit house guard looked at me stoically. “Sorry, no exceptions.”

Frantically, I dug my cell phone out from my coat pocket and speed-dialed my mother. The phone rang three times and then went to her voicemail. Shit. She must have it turned off.

Regardless, I left a message, my voice rushed and panicked. “Mother, it’s me. I’m here. Come to the entrance of the theater and let me in.”

The staunch, macho guard rolled his eyes at me, and I could feel him silently laughing at me. Ha, ha, what a mama’s boy; he’s calling Mommy. Jesus, what was it going to take for him to let me in? I had only a minute to get to my seat. Then, like a pinging light bulb, it came to me. What it always takes…

I reached back into my pocket and pulled out my money clip. Thank fucking God I always carried a wad of cash with me. I yanked out a crisp one-hundred dollar bill and dangled it in front of the asshole.

“Will this do it?” I gritted.

His eyes lit up as he snagged the bill out of my hand.

Yes!

Expecting him to unlock the door, my stomach twisted as he stood staunchly in front me, not budging an inch. A sly smile slid across his face as he lifted his index and middle fingers, forming a V.

“Make it two.”

---