Black Butterfly (4 page)

The sway of her hips and her leaps through the air seemed effortless. Every step synchronized to the lyrics and the saxophone. Suddenly a commanding drumbeat drove her to a climatic ending.

Before Nolen, stood something unexpected—talent tempered with unshakable determination. It left him transfixed. He knew hunger, desperation, and fear of failure when you were poised to seize it all. The playwright at the end of the row actually clapped, and from the corner of his eye he saw Xenia frown as she sized up her new starlet. But Nolen kept his gaze trained on number thirty-two. He smirked when she lifted her head and flashed a shy smile. She had her victory, and a first victory was always the sweetest.

Xenia brushed her breast against his arm when she leaned into him, but his eyes followed his butterfly.

“Well, Mr. Adams, what do you think?” she purred.

“Hmm, nice,” he said with a sly smile. His eyes returned to Xenia. “Put her in the show, and you can consider me an investor.”

Sydney hurried off the stage where Juan and Bet clapped for her. “Oooh, girl, you were something fierce!” Juan said, cheering her on.

“You did great, Sydney,” Bet added, patting her on the arm.

Breathing hard, she reached for her bag to retrieve a towel. “Thanks! Thanks so much!”

“Honey, none of them have anything on you, I promise you that,” Juan kissed both her cheeks. “I might have to give Mario a hot and nasty treat for bringing you to me!” She grabbed her things and accepted her CD from the audio-tech. “What’s next?”

“The usual. We got your information. Xenia will meet with her production team and that drill sergeant of a choreographer,” Juan said, rolling his eyes. “She'll go over the tapes."

“Tapes?”

“You were on camera,” Juan winked.

Sydney’s stomach soured. “Oh,” she said, thinking that close inspection of her performance might reveal her sore foot.

“Anyway, they’ll call you back for another audition. I’m sure of it.” Juan reached in his pocket and pulled out a pink business card with his picture on it. “That’s my number. You can call me tonight after six, and I’ll give you the bizness! Nothing goes down around here that I don’t know about,” he whispered.

“Thanks so much,” she gushed in a single breath as some of the waiting girls looked on with envious eyes.

She said her goodbyes before rushing off to the bathroom to change.

Several minutes later, with her hair back in a ponytail, Sydney slipped out. She couldn’t wait to tell Portia and Trish her news.

From the back of his chauffeured car, Nolen took a slow drag on his cigar. He exhaled a milky white stream of smoke through the window and into the icy rain. The door to the studio finally pushed open and his starlet appeared. She pulled down her skullcap and zipped her jacket. He watched her maneuver with an imperfect bounce down the crowded sidewalk. Impressed, a secretive smile crossed his lips.

“Sir, is six dozen enough?” Annemarie asked.

“It’ll do,” he answered as he continued to watch Sydney.

His butterfly disappeared down the stairs leading to the subway. He knew only two things about her—

her name was Sydney Allen, and today was her birthday. “Happy birthday, Sydney,” he said before the sleek car peeled away from the curb.

Sydney dipped her chin into the warmth of her raised, zipped collar, thankful the rain had ceased. For the first time in months, her luck was changing. The smoky lyricists crooning from her MP3 player added a bit rhythm to her stride; she flashed warm smiles at New Yorkers, young and old. Everyone should be smiling today.

Two train rides and a lot of walking had reduced her to hobbling on her achy foot. She climbed the front steps to her twelve-story apartment building in the South Bronx, grateful the journey had ended. Sydney could envision the smug I-told-you-so that she’d get as soon as Portia heard the news. But when she saw that the numbers on the door keypad weren’t illuminated, her mood soon soured. Any passing vagrant could discover that the building was unlocked and come in to warm himself. Their slumlord had done nothing about the poor security in their building. It was getting old. Resigned to the reality of the situation, she went inside.

Pulling off her glove with her mouth, she fished in her pocket for the mailbox key. After opening the box, she sighed. Bills that none of them were prepared to pay. Lately tips were low. If Portia didn’t bring in her steady check from washing hair at the beauty salon, they’d be screwed. Trish never had much money to contribute, but she did what she could whenever she sold a painting.

Shaking her head at the pink cutoff notice for the gas, she headed for the elevator, stuffing the mail in the pocket of her tote. Two weeks ago when she had gotten stuck between floors in the elevator for three hours, the girls made a pact to avoid it at all costs. Sydney, however, could barely take another step.

The doors closed and the ancient gears on the elevator groaned before lurching upward. Sydney watched the numbers blink one by one. When the elevator doors parted, she darted out into the hall, nearly colliding with Ricky.

“Ouch!” she grunted.

“Whoa. What’s your hurry?”

Sydney looked up into his eyes and smiled. “Me? You were moving fast there yourself, mister.” He towered over her in his worn over, yet beloved leather biker jacket. Ricky’s skin was a deep mocha brown and flawless. He sported well-groomed dreadlocks that hung to the middle of his back under a red, green, and black knitted cap. With a generous mouth, wide nose, and high cheekbones, he was by far the most handsome guy in the building. He told her he was born in Trinidad, but raised in Toronto, which he often spoke of returning to when his band struck a deal. Their shared love of music had led to a very endearing friendship. She knew he was hoping for much more, and she was warming to the idea.

“Happy birthday, love. You ok?” he asked, smiling down at her.

“My fault. It’s my fault. I got a tender foot.”

“Tender foot? Wasn’t your audition today?”

“Un huh, long story,” she said with a sheepish grin.

“So?”

“So what?” she teased, batting her eyes. “Ok, I’ll tell you! I did it! I think they want me!” He lifted her up into the circle of his arms and spun her around to her delight. “I knew it. It was the song, wasn’t it?”

Sydney laughed. “No, dummy, it was my dancing.”

“Yeah, right, the dancing,” he said, grinning. “How bad is it?” he asked, looking down at her foot.

“I just need to get off it for a few. Nothing serious. I made it through the audition, didn’t I?”

“Sydney?”

“Ricky, seriously, I’m fine. You headed out?”

“Yes.” He checked his watch. “Yo, I’ve got something special happening at the club tonight. We can celebrate, so please come.”

Backing away, she nodded. “We’ll be there.” She turned and headed for her apartment.

“Yo, Sydney!”

She looked back over her shoulder.

“I’m proud of you sweetheart,” he called after her.

“Thanks. That means a lot.”

He winked and disappeared inside the elevator.

Balancing her weight on her one good foot, Sydney slipped the key inside the lock, flung open the door, and then froze in the doorway. Large crystal vases filled with the biggest pink roses she’d ever seen were everywhere.

Portia stepped out of the kitchen, holding a phone to her ear. She covered the receiver with her hand and grinned. “Where you been, and what the hell is going on, girl? We’ve got the damn Rose Parade in our living room.” Chuckling, Portia stepped back inside the kitchen.

Sydney closed the door, dumbfounded. Her eyes swept over the six vases of majestic roses all decorated with pink ribbons. The rich aroma of the flowers left her lightheaded.

Portia reappeared. She wiped her hands down the sides of her jean miniskirt and looked around. “You’ve been holding out on me, girl. What you do to get these flowers?” Sydney unzipped her jacket and removed the scarf from around her neck. She headed toward the closest vase. Her fingers traced the crystal carvings that lined it. Memories of the garden in South Carolina where she’d help her mother plant and care for roses surfaced. Her eyes brimmed with tears.

Portia plucked the card off the counter and read it aloud.

“BLACK BUTTERFLY, HAVE DINNER WITH ME. A CAR WILL ARRIVE AROUND EIGHT. HAPPY

BIRTHDAY. NA.”

Now Sydney was confused. “Black Butterfly?” she mumbled.

Portia moved into her face. “That’s right. Now tell me, what did you do to get a birthday present like this? And who is NA?”

Snatching the card, Sydney read it over and over. The only thing she could think of was the audition, but she hadn’t met anyone named NA there. She crumpled the card and frowned at the gifts.

“Girl, it’s some weirdo. Who knows? I sure as hell don’t know any NA.”’

Portia frowned. “Weirdo? Are you nuts? A weirdo doesn’t send you six dozen long-stemmed pink roses.

A man with some real taste did this.”

Shrugging off her jacket, Sydney laughed. “This is New York, Portia. Hell, we don’t even know if it was a man.” She peeled off her turtleneck, revealing the leotard underneath.

“Ok, forget the flowers. Tell me about the audition. What’s the word?” Portia asked.

Sydney put her hands to her hips and gave a coy smirk. Portia nodded. The two of them stood there for a long moment just grinning.

“I think I will get a callback!” Sydney screamed.

“Hot damn!” Portia squealed, leaping into her arms. “That’s fantastic! I knew it! I told you this one was it. I just knew it.”

Sydney hugged her tightly, her heart singing with delight. “Girl, I’m kinda in shock, ya know? And . . .

and . . . and Ricky was right about the song, and my singing. I know I fought him on the idea, but he was right. I owe it to you guys, big time,” she gushed in one breath.

Letting her go, Portia shook her head, causing her long curls to cascade around her shoulders. She was a natural beauty, with buttery tanned skin and deep-set eyes under naturally long lashes. Portia could turn heads in an orange prison jumper.

“Nah, girl, if you could see the way you dance, how you make people feel, ya know? This was all you, honey. I’m so proud!”

Sydney’s joy bubbled over in her laugh. She limped away to the sofa.

“What’s with your foot?” Portia asked.

Sydney sat down, but kept her foot raised. Reaching up, she pulled off her boot. “Some fool robbed a store this morning and I got in his way.”

“What the hell?”

“He pushed past me. I’m fine.”

“Damn, girl, don’t tell Trish that shit. All I need is her freaking out again.” Sydney had to agree with her. When it came to protecting Trish, they always agreed. Their friend had been robbed before, and it took them months to get her to ride the subway alone again.

Sydney’s eyes were drawn back to the vase of roses as she massaged her foot. Whoever this NA person was, he knew her address and her birthday. She couldn’t decide if she should call the police or check with Bellevue.

Portia plucked a rose and sauntered over to her. She put her hand on her hip and waved the rose in Sydney’s face. “Only you could get a secret admirer on your birthday,” she said, laughing. “Damn, too bad Trish isn’t home. This is the most excitement we’ve had in weeks.”

Nolen stormed angrily out of the meeting. Annemarie struggled to keep up. “I gave you specific instructions,” he barked. He cut his eyes over to his assistant. “This deal will go through. You get me what I fucking need to convince Hollister to go public!”

“Yes, sir.” She nodded, hurrying along at his side. His car waited for him on the curb. The rain had turned to sleet and frosty wind nipped at his cheeks, but nothing could cool the ambers of fire glowing in his eyes when he looked back once more at the courthouse.

The driver held open the door to the limo. Once inside, the car eased into traffic. The phone in Annemarie’s hand rang. “For you, sir,” she grabbed his sleeve.

“This is Adams.”

“Nolen, where are you?” Xenia asked.

“What is it?” He gave an exasperated sigh.

“A celebratory dinner, of course.”

“I have plans,” he said. Xenia had taken to calling Annemarie in order to get to him. He rarely shared his direct line with anyone, not even business associates. Xenia’s persistence would have to stop. It made him feel trapped.

“All night?”

Nolen held his tongue. Xenia was wise enough not to persist. “Ok . . . well, soon, then. We need to meet with my other investors to discuss the benefits of you being a part of my team.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll call you later this week. Bye.”

Nolen handed Annemarie the phone. “My plans this evening with the dancer, are they set?” Annemarie nodded. “Yes, sir. A driver will pick her up around eight and bring her to you within the hour.”

“The dress?”

“She should have it, sir.”

He settled comfortably in his seat. The day might be salvaged after all.

Chapter 3

The Date?

Sydney dropped her foot into the warm water in the spa tub, cloudy with Epson salt. The healing was instant. Portia was on the opposite side of her, holding a cup of tea and looking at her sheepishly. “I know you want to tell me about the audition. I swear, girl, I want to know every single detail, but aren’t you just dying to know who sent those flowers?”

“Oh, good grief, here’s the thing, Portia––”

“Wait, don’t get upset––”

“I’m not. Listen to me. We’ve been to tons of auditions. You know?” She dropped her head back on the sofa cushion. “Producers, directors, actors, other dancers, and, hell, even the janitor hit on you. My best guess is that this NA person was someone with the production who heard me say that it was my birthday, and thought he could get a piece. He’s probably a jerk who screws dancers, promising them parts, and then tosses them like yesterday’s trash. Whoever he is, I’m not interested.”

Portia nodded. “Got it. Moving on, did I tell you what happened when I met with Mr. Romeo.”

“Who?”

“You know the one who said he could get me an interview with the Ford Agency? He’s a photographer, and—”