Chains and Canes (20 page)

“Pretty much. Six a.m. flight. Mr. Parker will arrive with the town car to pick me up at three.” No playtime for him tonight. He and Naya might squeeze in a quickie, and he intended to kiss Remy before he left the club, but that was all for now.

Then he’d be half a world away. Naya and Remy could do whatever they wanted, and he’d have no say. No control.

He’d return from Hong Kong. But would his angels return to him?

Chapter Nineteen

Remy couldn’t stop moving. Luckily he was able to hide it by running through his warm-ups before practice. Lunges, bends, a few kicks. Didn’t matter. He was tense, and Naya still watched him with a concerned expression.

She sat on the hardwood floor, legs spread so far that her toes pointed at opposite walls. “It’ll be okay.”

He kept his voice pitched low so that the dancers assembled in the studio couldn’t hear him. “I could do dirty things to you with your legs spread like that.”

“Down,
mijo
,” she replied, but she was grinning. She held her hands out toward him. “We have work to do. Lots of it.”

He eased to the floor across from her, foot to foot, and clasped her hands. She laced delicate fingers through his. He pulled, adding resistance to her stretch, before she returned the favor. “I know. I can’t help but know. Here’s two dozen dancers milling around, watching us, depending on us for the next few weeks.”

“More than that.” She smiled blissfully. “Maybe the whole next section of their careers.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly. “Such a help. Can we go back to talking dirty?”

“
You
were talking dirty. I was telling you to calm down.”

He popped back up to stand and lifted Naya alongside, though she needed no help. He enjoyed having his hands on her waist, and liked how her thin black pants hugged every curve. “Talking dirty calms me down. Right now I’m thinking about how you’ll look with your T-shirt wrapped around your wrists.”

“Is that my reward after we get done with this?”

“No, it’s mine.”

He leaned against the barre and the bank of mirrors that dominated the front of the room. The studio in the Meatpacking District was larger than he would’ve liked.
Huge.
Fully half the size of a warehouse, the studio was saved from lifelessness by skylights that welcomed an airy feel. The north wall was brick, which made sense since the place was a rehabbed factory. Upstairs housed a bank of offices. At the south end of the block was a series of gentrified retail shops.

None of which meant a good goddamn to Remy. His brain was spinning out and losing track of the point. The mission. Who in their right mind would sink so much cash into leasing this space after he and Naya had been too nervous at Devant to make it perfect? Who in their right mind would hand
him
the reins? At age nine, he’d learned to forge his momma’s signature on her government check. Points for creativity when forced by necessity, but that didn’t make for much financial wherewithal.

Naya nudged closer to his side. “Fine, we’ll play it your way, Sir. Me, on my knees, T-shirt wrapped around my wrists and Daniel holding my head while you fuck my mouth.”

He choked a hard surge of lust. “Fuck, you know how to paint a picture.”

“Just helping you relax.” Her humor was never forced. Just sweet and easy, and never hinting at the depravity she loved.

No, she loved Daniel. Depravity was Remy’s domain. That and their dancing were the only connections he’d ever have with Naya Ortiz, and even those good, good things weren’t for certain.

A singsong voice rose above the general hum of the crowd. Jack Alderton, of course. He was louder and flashier than ten dancers put together. That was saying something. “Aren’t you just the sweetest little thing. Come on. I gotta show you off.”

He wove out from the back of the room with his arm hooked around the waist of a tall brunette. Upon first inspection, she didn’t appear suited to a career in dance. Her height meant finding a suitable partner would always be an issue. She had large breasts and womanly curves. Her frame was solid, rather than typically waiflike, and her chin was almost defiantly bold.

She was exactly what Transit needed. Different. Talented. Ambitious.

“Remy, Naya, this is Tara Jean Folsum.”

“We know,” Remy said.

“Hi, Tara Jean.” Naya greeted the other woman with cheek kisses. “We hired her, after all.”

“Well sure, you saw her dance, and that’s fabulous, but have you heard her talk?” Jack poked the girl in the ribs. “You just gotta, sweetie. Say something.”

Tara Jean’s smile was…handsome. She didn’t simply smile with her lips and teeth. Why limit it when her whole face lit with an innocent sort of happiness? Her features weren’t delicate, but they weren’t easily forgotten either. “Something,” she said obediently.

“You’re no fun. Tell them what you were telling me.”

“I’m sure they don’t care how long I’ve been in town.” She turned that flashing innocence on Remy and Naya. Her voice was syrupy with the south. Alabama, if Remy didn’t mistake the drawl. “They’ve got bigger things on their mind than the likes of me.”

Except they didn’t. Remy had Tara Jean’s life in his hands. If their demonstration performance flopped, their funding would evaporate, Daniel would be out Christ knew how much cash, and the whole crew would be on its ass. Remy would still work at Club Devant, but not every dancer had a steady gig like his. They’d have completed two weeks of muscle-busting, toe-shredding work for a pittance. On a selfish level, he knew this was his best opportunity to branch out, to become something bigger and even braver. He’d finally come to admit that Naya made his choreography better, and made him capable of more.

“Is this your only potential job for the next couple weeks?”

“Gosh, no,” she said on a giggle. “I’m a waitress on the lower east side. Plus I do singing telegrams sometimes.”

“Shut
up
.” Jack laughed. “You do
not.
”

“Do too.” She mimicked a salute and sang, tossing in a kick step. “
This is your singing telegram, I hope it finds you well!
I throw the dancing in for free,” she added, perfectly serious.

A couple other dancers snickered behind their hands, but Tara Jean didn’t seem to notice. Could anyone be that earnest and unaffected in their industry? Remy found it hard to believe, but as with most things of late, he
wanted
to believe.

Jack squeezed her shoulders. “Of course you do. I swear, I want to just fold you up and stick you in my pocket, bubbles.”

Tara Jean laughed. “Baby, I’m way too big for your pocket.”

She had a good four inches on Jack, though his carefully spiky hair almost hid the discrepancy. Mousy brown hair trailed down around her shoulders. Barefoot, she’d paired hot pink legwarmers with tiny orange shorts and layers of tank tops over a sports bra—all bright colors as if her wardrobe had been chosen by a seven-year-old girl.

“Don’t care,” Jack cooed. “I’m stealing you. You’re my new best friend forever.”

Although Remy would’ve laid bets against it being possible, Tara Jean’s grin got even wider. Her nose wrinkled under all that guileless happy. “I’m not gonna object. I’ve been here six months and I’m just tryin’ to keep my head above water. I’d love to have a friend. I miss my girls back home, but Shelby Kate got pregnant by Billy, so she couldn’t move with me like we’d planned.”

Eyes wide, Jack stared with his mouth slightly agape. He blinked out of his daze. “You’re fucking presh.”

Remy chuckled. “Did you just say presh? Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Precious,” Jack said with a sniff. “The definition of which you’d know if you deigned to come out with me for more than a five-second coffee. Or if you paid more attention to me other than a few quick kisses after rehearsal.”

“You still stuck on me, Jackie? Maybe you’re not going out as much as you brag.”

Jack laughed. “You did
not
just say that. But seriously, Remy. You’ve lived and breathed Devant for a year at least.” He directed his gaze at Naya. “I don’t know what sort of magic you’ve worked on him, honey, but keep it up.”

Naya shrugged. “Who says he isn’t the one with the magic? I’ve been in a chorus for what feels like forever.”

“Shh.” Jack put a finger over his lips. “Don’t let that get too wide. You’ll have half this company thinking they can run the show.”

“They’re not the ones with the money.” Naya tossed her dark ponytail over her shoulder. “This is our space. They can play along or get out.”

Remy folded his arms over his chest. “And speaking of, it’s time to get this show on the road.”

Giant faker said what?

How in the name of the saints could Daniel and Naya put so much trust in him? None of this made sense, except for the need to wrap his hand in Naya’s hair and yank. Or a kiss for luck. But everyone knew she was engaged.

Not to him.

He took a deep breath, tried to push away all the extra crap. The stuff he didn’t need. He’d run right out of Louisiana, and away from his mother’s fists and his nasty uncle. New York had been his goal. And after years of shitty-ass hard knocks, he’d forged a nice life.

Anything else was just icing on the cake.

He shouldn’t need this dance company. He shouldn’t need
Daniel and Naya—neither of them, much less both. He wasn’t going to say all this was more than he deserved, because that would be too poor-little-Remy. He’d learned a long time ago that self-pity achieved nothing. Moving on was what had always saved him.

Clapping his hands, he drew the attention of their fledgling company. For hours, he and Naya had pored over headshots and auditions before selecting a killer crew.

“We’ve had long enough to warm up,” he called. “Let’s do this.”

“Welcome to Transit, boys and girls.” Naya threw her arms wide. “The performance in three weeks is a guarantee. Space rented, lights paid for, costumer hired. All the goodies.”

Jack grinned. “Now that’s the kind of company worth trying for.”

“Then don’t screw it up,” Remy said with a dry bit of humor. “Try keeping your mouth shut when the chorey’s talking.”

As if cooling himself, Jack waved his fingertips beneath his chin. “I love a man who knows how to keep order,” he faux whispered to Tara Jean.

Remy managed to not laugh, but really, he was thankful for his friends. Combined with that last image Naya had planted in his mind, he was set. More than set.

He and Naya ran that damn practice as if they’d been working together for years. It was the only reason he thought this might succeed, the only thing that had convinced him they had half a chance. Not even Daniel’s bizarre faith and monstrous loads of cash filled him with as much confidence.

Naya led the first portion of the rehearsal, demonstrating steps to dancers who absorbed every move as if it was their life’s blood. They were consummate pros. Even Tara Jean, who did singing telegrams and Jack, who worked at a coffee shop to make rent. They’d do anything to make it back on stage and earn a living doing what they loved. Remy knew the feeling.

Naya was brilliant, and when she led those dancers with her blend of patience and authority, she made Remy brilliant by association.

“These guys here,” she said to Remy an hour later. She had positioned two males in front of her and two girls. The men and women looked like matched pairs—dark hair on both guys, medium height, wide shoulders. The girls were compact blondes, the types that might get chunky if they stopped dancing for a minute, but who were fabulously curved in their prime. “I want to do a sequence with them. Two lifts, with a trade between. A waterfall as the theme, if that makes sense.”

“So it blends.” Remy considered the pairs. “The audience will lose track of who’s moving where.”

“
Si
,” Naya said with relish. “The movement will win out over the dancers.”

Remy echoed her in his own language, unconsciously. “
Oui. C’est parfait.
”

Fuck, he could kiss her. He wanted to dance with her, wanted to capture this moment in movement. Couldn’t though. Couldn’t touch her. He was still on the outside.

Maybe that was why he’d gathered the balls to take advantage of what Daniel and Naya offered. This was what he
could
take. There’d be no permanent trio of Daniel, Naya and Remy. Who brought a scummy kid like him into their fancy life? Bringing him along to dance and fuck was enough.

So Remy and Naya would make Transit the hottest dance company in the city if it took every scrap of his skill and all of his energy.

Naya and Daniel didn’t deserve to back a company that was anything less than beautiful, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he had people to look after other than himself. Scary as fuck. But…good.

“Okay,
mes amis
,” he said over the dancers’ prattle and flashes of hummed music. “Take ten, then the real work begins.”

Chapter Twenty

There was no denying how much Naya liked watching Remy in his element. Whatever nerves he hid—she knew he was working hard to hide them—were quickly subsumed by his love, his obvious
relish
, for leading others toward his vision. His talent had drawn him to her from the beginning, shortly before he’d pulled her hair in the middle of her audition and jerked awake more primal parts of her psyche.

She was a dancer first, a choreographer second. Ideas came to her, about her own potential for movement, but she had difficulty at times expressing those ideas to others. She did her best, because damn if she was going to let down either man in her life. They depended on her as the shiny, sparkling center of their tenuous trio.

So she worked. She translated her ideas by demonstration, with steps blending into phrases, then into a cohesive piece. Her individual contribution to the forty-five-minute program hinged on the four dancers she’d selected. She imagined them in variations of black-and-white costumes, with the women sleek and put-together and the men ragged at the edges. Ruffled hair. Bare feet. Shirttails out.
Light and shade
, as her dance teacher in high school had said. Most times that meant a variation of movement, not too frantic and not too languorous. She intended to take that idea literally.