Chaos Choreography
Page 76

I remembered who I was, I thought. Aloud, I said, “It’s hard out there for a dancer. I guess I just got overwhelmed.” Which was technically true. I’d been overwhelmed by the discovery of a giant sleeping dragon under New York City, and by the presence of a Covenant field team. I’d been overwhelmed by the effort of doing my job and starting my career at the same time, and when I’d been forced to choose one over the other, I’d chosen the one I couldn’t imagine living without.
And now I had to do that again. Insulting a judge was a quick way to wind up on the bottom, but I didn’t see where I had a choice if I wanted to find the others.
“I’m really sorry I was climbing; I just needed to clear my head,” I said, taking another step backward. “I was hoping to catch Leanne before she left to get her things. I’m sorry. Can we talk later, maybe?”
“I thought I saw her on the stage,” said Clint. He closed the distance between us, taking my arm firmly in his. “I’ll walk you.”
Shit. There was no way to get out of this: not without blowing my cover, and potentially getting myself tossed out of the theater. “All right,” I said, glancing over my shoulder toward the basement door and hoping that Malena would take the hint.
This was all on her and Pax now.
Clint chatted vaguely during the walk back to the empty stage. I don’t think I heard more than one word in three. I was too busy watching the corners of the hall, waiting for something to lunge out at us. If there were any dancers remaining in the building apart from the ones I knew about, our route avoided them; it was just Clint and me, right up until we stepped out onto the echoing vault of the stage.
It always seemed larger when it was empty, without the bodies of my friends and colleagues to fill it. The big floodlights were off, but the smaller stage lights were still on, preventing accidents among the stagehands and cleanup crews who were doubtless sweeping through the building.
“Don’t you always feel more alive when you’re on stage?” He finally let me go, taking a few quick steps away before twirling on his heel and offering his hand with a flourish. He was grinning, looking absolutely delighted with himself. “Miss Pryor, may I have this dance?”
I didn’t have a good way to refuse. I wanted to tell him “no,” to turn and run and find my people—but they were good people. They could do this without me if they had to, and keeping Clint from pursuing me through the theater was as important as getting back to them in a timely fashion. Still, I tried. “I’m not wearing good dancing shoes,” I demurred.
“So? I’ve seen you dance barefoot and in six-inch spike heels. I think you can manage a basic waltz in sneakers, don’t you?” His hand remained outstretched. “I’m not hitting on you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m just concerned. You’re not the brilliant dancer I used to know. Something’s eating you. I want it to stop.”
“Life moves on,” I said, and slid my hand into his. He promptly spun me in, and then back out again, moving slowly enough that I could follow him, yet fast enough to make it clear he trusted my capabilities. It would have been flattering, if I hadn’t been so worried. “I had to stop dancing for a while before the show called. I’m not in the best shape.”
“Liar,” he said fondly, beginning to waltz me around the stage. Our steps matched like we’d been practicing together for years. I forced my shoulders down, trying not to let my tension show. Ballroom dance is serious business for those who perform on a competitive level, and we’ve all learned how to hide our fear. “You’re in impeccable shape. If fitness were the only thing we judged, you’d be in the top three easily. You might just walk away with the whole show. What’s eating you, Valerie?”
“Life,” I said, with a very small shrug. “It’s been hard. I thought I’d leave here and find this glorious career waiting for me, and instead, I found a lot of failed auditions, some competitions where I didn’t even place, and a revolving door of partners. I never expected it to be easy. I definitely didn’t think it was going to be impossible.”
“It’s not,” he said. “Why didn’t you call me? I would have arranged some private auditions for you. I can open doors, you know. If you want it, I can make it happen.”
“What would it cost me?” There was no music, but the waltz was so familiar that neither of us needed it. We didn’t dance around the stage; we glided, and his hand was a hot weight on my waist, not crossing any lines of propriety apart from the ones that had already been left far behind us. There was nothing sexual about it. Clint had never pressured me for anything in that direction. So far as I knew, he’d never pressured any of the dancers. It was just there, reminding me that escape was impossible, that I was the dancer and he was the judge, and if I ran, he would pursue.