“I didn’t. Other people do.” In a fog I turn away.
He gently takes my hand to regain my attention. “Samantha, we’re in love. I’m sorry, but I had to use you to hide it.”
I yank my hand free. “I don’t understand! You asked me to come back to the hotel with you on opening night!”
“I knew you’d turn me down.” He holds my look. “You’re the good girl, Sam. You wouldn’t have come back here with me. It was the perfect cover.”
“Oh my God,” I moan, horrified as all the times he acted like he liked me, play back in my mind. “Why do you have to hide it?! Are you ashamed?”
His beautiful eyelashes flutter closed. “He’s married. Please don’t ruin this for me.”
The breath I take jails my heart in a vice. “What you do is none of my business. But his wife should know.”
“I told him that. Don’t you think I told him?” Asher looks toward the room but the door is closed now. “He’s probably freaking out right now. And I’m going to have to start back at square one.”
Lexi rescues me by dryly saying, “Well that’s too bad for you, isn’t it?” She takes my arm since I’m a shell with no idea how to function. “Come on Samantha, you’ve done enough for this jerk. Let’s go.”
Asher watches us, then starts for his room as she pushes the elevator call button. I’m staring at my warped reflection in the etched steel as she raises her voice to tell him, “You are gorgeous, you dumb shit. There are a lot of men out there who would have you. Don’t know if you know it or not, but newsflash, infidelity is wrong.”
Asher doesn’t respond to her soapbox rant. Instead, he calmly says, “I didn’t drop Marion on purpose.”
I meet his eyes before the elevator opens to take me home.
Chapter Twenty-Five
LOGAN
Stuart owns a couple of lofts in Midtown Manhattan for new talent flying in to do a temporary show.
I’m rooming with five other guys, the 1800 square-foot space partitioned off. White walls are scuffed from what look like rehearsals, unfortunate dance blunders permanently etched into drywall. I can tell by the slant of some, the height of others, in the way they dig in.
There is a pinewood kitchen island where we make breakfast in the morning before what will be our first rehearsal. The apartment comes complete with everything you could possibly need in the kitchen. It’s a mishmash of styles which gives the impression that performers have left bits and pieces from their stays, behind over the years.
I pick up a silver-plated butter knife, twirl it in my fingers before placing it next to a copper fork in the utensil drawer.
Looking up in time to see Elliott throw a banana at me. “Catch!”
As I peel, the memory of Marion reprimanding Samantha when she was eating one of these our other first day, returns. I take a big bite, frowning to myself.
Johan bounds out of his bedroom, another of the new cast members. He’s been flown in from a show in San Francisco I found out last night. “How did you sleep?”
I ask, “Me?”
“Yeah, I know how Elliott slept. Don’t I, Elliott?”
He gets a wink in response.
I chuckle, throwing the peel in the garbage, “That was fast.”
“What, you think I have to romance him first? This show could close tomorrow. And I know cool when I see it.” Johan opens the refrigerator for orange juice. “Where are Terrence, Joel, and that other guy?”
Elliott pops a crêpe into his big mouth. “There’s no coffee left.”
With everything he’s got, Johan screams.
Under my breath, I mutter, “That’s the proper response,” as I head for the shower. “Don’t worry, they’re bringing back more for everybody.”
He screams again only this time in ecstasy.
“What if I told you that coffee is bad for us dancers?” Elliott asks.
Johan counters, “Do you want me to stop fucking you?”
“Coffee is so good for us. It’s like vitamin C, only healthier.”
As I close the door I hear Johan dryly announce, “That’s better.”
This is the smallest bathroom I’ve ever seen and there are piles of mostly empty shampoo bottles, hotel soaps, little plastic containers those body gels use.
There’s a stack of fresh towels on a shelf above the toilet that could rival the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
“Come on, honey. You’re not the only one who needs a shower!”
Casting a glance to my reflection, I shake my head and turn on the faucet. “I’m going to use all the hot water.”
“You better not!”
“Wait and see.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
LOGAN
“Winter is no joke,” I mutter as I zip up an ineffective jacket I’ll need to replace soon.
The guys agree as we head down a cement staircase that leads underground, to catch the ‘C’ train.
Terrence has been here for two weeks and already knows his way around the subway system. He showed me how to use the map on my phone. “All you have to do is put in an address and it gives you options for which train to take, and a walking map that leads you all the way to your destination.”
Its simplicity relaxed my shoulders.
We’re at 14th Street but we need to be at Eighth Avenue and 36th Street. So the ‘C’ it is. Or the ‘E,’ but apparently it’s not running today, so say the signs littering steel beams.
Down in the tunnels we pass street performers—a violinist, and a small band further down. They’ve got buckets for tips on the ground, and their music is damn good. Joel throws some dollars in and mutters, “Hot damn. Create wherever you can!”
As we pass movie posters tagged with graffiti, Elliott tells us, “I read in an article that a famous musician came down here and did his thing, and nobody paid attention. You see how most everyone is walking past and not watching? People normally pay hundreds of dollars to see this guy perform and
