Page 8 of Close Match
Four hours later,I’m gasping to catch my breath. I may not ever get to record the album because I might be dead, I think ruefully. I feel like that character inMonty Python and the Holy Grailwhose arms and legs have been cut off. It was supposed to be an advanced class in stiletto heels—it wasn’t supposed to feel like I’d just run the Marine Corp Marathon in Louboutins.
My calves feel like they’re on fire. My ankles are so shaky they’re about to give out at any moment. I’m seriously debating whether or not I want to call an Uber to get me the mile back to my home and on the way, call my personal masseuse and demand he meet me at my condo in the two hours I imagine it will take the car to navigate the city’s traffic at this time of the day.
I let out a small whimper and pray no one hears as I slide down the wall. My ass lands on my heels before I can reach my hand down far enough to touch the oak floors. If I could find the strength and an object sharp enough, I’d gladly slide it into Madame Veronica Solomone’s heartless body on behalf of the other students heaped in a similar fashion around the room.
“You all are woefully out of shape,” she declares, twirling around on the ball of her foot. I wait for some brave soul to stick out their leg and trip her. They’d have fifteen witnesses swearing it was an accident.
Some naive woman speaks up. I think she’s inThe Lion King, but right now, I’m not even sure of my name. I may have to look at my driver’s license for my address. “I am in excellent shape. You, Madame, have unrealistic expectations.”
Well, that was a mistake. Never,neverchallenge Madame on her routines.
Madame Solomone strides around the room on heels so high I feel amateurish in the four-and-a half-inch shoes I’m wearing. Contorting my body left and right, I begin loosening the joints in my hips and knees. I tune out the angry words. It isn’t until I hear a snapped “Brogan!” that I straighten. Madame is standing in front of me, impatiently. Sliding my sore legs back under me, I stand up wordlessly.
“Front and center. Start at the beginning.” She bites off the words. “Stefano, you will partner her.” She nods at her assistant, who begins the music from the beginning as her male choreographer joins me on the dance floor to my back left.
The rest of the class scrambles on tired, aching legs to get a seat for the show. Selena Gomez starts playing. Slow hip roll, knee lift into a ball change. Stefano’s hands slide between mine as I go up on the balls of my feet in first position, then plié, and his hands hold my thighs out wide. Shoving him back, I spin out, one hand sliding between my sweat-soaked sports bra, the other covering my face coquettishly. With a toss of my hair and a devilish smile that hides the aches, I sway my hips back and forth, grand plié, and jump all while in heels about as high as I wear to the Tony’s. Twisting, Stefano comes up behind me as I thrust my hips backward, the hipsters I’m wearing accenting the way he grabs my hips before dragging my body upward until my arms circle around his neck. My back is to his front, adding additional force when he spins me out for a series of chaines turns. They’re made even harder in the stilettos I’m wearing. I have to rise even higher on the balls of my feet to give the impression of lift and to prevent twisting my ankle.
Stefano strides to meet me at the end of my turns, wrapping me in his strong arms. I want to shove his gross sweaty body away, and I think,Why not?As long as I sell it…With a smirk, I push a hand into his chest. His eyes narrow down at me as I turn what’s supposed to be a duet into a solo. Double pumping my arms as I drop into another grand plié, I lunge left and drag my fingers up my leg before I spin in a full circle to the hoots and hollers of my classmates. My arm flies into the air as I step back—ball change—and come face-to-face with an angry choreographer. Mentally shrugging, I throw myself back into the routine, two full body waves before dragging my thumb up down between my breasts, over my bared stomach, and across my center, before grabbing Stefano’s hand.
“Think you can manage the fouettés?” he hisses. “You were off before.”
Bastard. He lifts me, letting me slide against his muscled body. Hitting the note right on, I begin to pirouette. The class cheers as Stefano assumes an arrogant pose near me. My leg flies out. I’m grateful I wore the shoes with the ankle straps so my shoes don’t take out a random gawking passerby. One, two, three, four, I tuck my leg in and twirl on both feet to get my bearings right before I stop and pose.
I did it. I have no idea if it looked good or not, but I managed to get through that sadistic routine without breaking something.
Stefano gets in my face. “If you change my routine again, I will have you barred from this class.”
I sneer, “The way I danced it is what I felt. This isn’t the stage.”
He puffs up. “It’s my stage.”
I roll my eyes. He goes to open his mouth when Madame interrupts him. “It is good, is it not, when the students become passionate about what we do, my pet?” She smooths a hand down his sweaty shoulder. “Isn’t that true?”
I must be a better actress than I thought because my face doesn’t move a muscle knowing Veronica and Stefano are lovers. I still stand there waiting.
“Dancing isn’t your true passion, Evangeline.” I acknowledge her truth with a nod, because why deny it. Dancing is simply another way of expressing myself on the stage. “But that was a joy to watch, nonetheless.”
“Thank you, Madame.”
The barest smile crosses her mouth. “Now you may go collapse against the wall. The rest of you…” Her voice pitches higher. “Rise. Until you can dance, you will at least stand.”
The combined groans and muffled sounds of pain soften my own as I slide down against the wall. I’m slipping the strap from around my ankle when I feel something cold tap against my shoulder. The plastic water bottle touching my overly warm skin feels wonderful. I follow the line of it to meet Stefano’s dark eyes. “She’s overly critical. While I was right”—arrogant ass, I think with humor—“you danced perfectly. You could dance anywhere, Evangeline. Even now. They”—he nods out to the dance floor—“don’t have the heart you do. Don’t lose it.”
Reaching up, I tug the water from his hands. “Thanks, Stef.” Knowing the pride he takes in his craft, I offer up my version of an apology. “The music just took me over.”
He grins before tousling my hair. “You were out to shove the dance down our throats for making you move from your comfy wall.”
Too true. “Did it work?” I bat my long eyelashes at him. He laughs before offering me a hand to my feet.
“Go home and soak. Otherwise, Wagner will call and yell that you are useless tomorrow night.” Wagner is the choreographer forMiss Me.
“Trust me, that’s one direction you don’t have to give me twice,” I grumble. Lifting my other foot, I quickly slip out of the heel before padding barefoot toward the door leading to the women’s locker room.
“See you next week?” Veronica calls out.
“If you’re teaching it, I’ll be there,” I call back. And it’s true. Whether she’s teaching a conditioning class, Theater Jazz, or this psychotic stiletto dance, I wouldn’t miss the chance to work with my godmother. Or, apparently, her newest love interest.
Grinning, I wonder what my mother will think of this little tidbit of gossip considering Veronica has been her best friend for the last forty years. And considering Stefano is younger than me, I want to give her a standing O. Then again, she might be getting enough of those.
