Chapter Twenty-Five
Natayla
I’ve never been as nervous about anything as I am about showing up to the Studio Company after ditching the first rehearsal. Not to mention, fucking Dash like a heathen in the middle of the Oyster House. I almost died last night when I realized they likely have security cameras and the entire wait staff might currently be watching my money shot on repeat. I’ll never step foot in there again.
After a quick warm-up, Cappadonna introduces Donavan Tate—who needs no introduction—and all the company members clap for him. I can’t keep my eyes from darting to Dashiell, who looks drop-dead gorgeous in a white tank top and black sweatpants, his sculpted muscular form perched on a piano bench. When his smoky gaze connects with mine, it’s like all the stars in the galaxy align. A connection so strong that energy zings up my spine.
“As you know, I planned on setting a piece for the spring show. Originally, I had a contemporary pas de duex in mind, but I had an epiphany last night and realized I want more tension. An athletic push and pull. Modern forces juxtaposed against the classical. I think it’ll be a showstopper.”
All the faces in the studio are ecstatic, hanging on Tate’s every word. When I glance over at Dash, he’s leaning forward, elbows on his thighs and hands clasped loosely in front of his knees. I can see the drive in his expression. He wants this part. He feeds off Tate’s attention. And to be honest, who doesn’t? All of us could benefit from having his name on our resumes and his master class under our belts.
“So I went through everyone’s audition tapes and reels last night, and I watched class yesterday and today and…” The room goes silent as everyone holds their collective breath. “I’ve decided to ask Dashiell Cunningham, Dahlia Cohen-Lang, Natayla Koslova, and Daryl Bronson to dance the leads, pairing Cunningham with Cohen-Lang, and Koslova with Bronson.”
I let out a sigh. I should have figured as much. If you want a lot of tension, we’re the perfect guinea pigs to portray that sentiment to the audience. Dash and I can barely be in the same room together without fighting or crying or fucking.
Bronson chucks me on the arm and I give him a warm hug. Thank fucking God for Bronson—a super talented modern dancer with arm and leg extensions that look seven feet long. Bronson and I are tight, and we have exactly zero natural tension because he’s gay, and even if he weren’t, I’m not his type. All his boyfriends are bears with biceps bigger than my thighs.
“I know you wanted to be matched with Cunningham, but at least you’ll be the star of our duo.” Bronson links his arm through mine, and I rest my head on his shoulder as I bourré in my pointe shoes to keep my feet warmed up. I’m totally comfortable with Bronson, and I’d like to think it’s reflected in how we dance together.
Cappadonna is passing out rehearsal schedules that list understudies and demi-soloists. The dancers stampede to read the fine print to find out what the hell they’ll be dancing.
“Have you ever auditioned for anything and not gotten cast?” Bronson asks me good-naturedly.
My eyes zoom to Dahlia, who’s sidled over to Dash and put her hand on his shoulder. She gives me a smug nod and then leans in to whisper something to him while holding eye contact with me.
Please. I want to barf. She’s a star fucker and anyone can see it from miles away.
“Not if Mother had anything to say about it. I’m sure there were teachers who wanted to give me a swirly in the toilet rather than have me in their show. But Katerina’s wrath is like a fucking natural disaster, so probably half the parts I’ve ever gotten were only to stave off her storm.” I’m behind Bronson with both hands on his shoulders and I relevé repeatedly until my calves burn like fire.
Bronson crosses his arms over his chest and lays his hands over mine. “Didn’t mean it like that, Taye. I mean you’re kind of perfect at everything you do.”
“Thanks, babe.”
Bronson is looking at Dahlia and Dashiell as they discuss something candidly. “Cunningham is a fucking dish. What a fox. I’d love a slice of that pie,” he says, licking his lips.
“Join the queue,” I whisper into his ear. I battement arabesque to the back, still holding onto Bronson as my barre.
“He’s only got eyes for one dancer,” he says.
A knot forms in my gut. “Dahlia?”
“Fuck Dahlia, Taye. Pffttt. I’m talking about you. Cunningham looks at you like he’s melting off your leotard with his eyes. I can feel him lasering off my dick for putting my hands on top of yours.”
I burst out laughing. “I’m sure Dash knows you’re gay.”