Chains and Canes (21 page)

It was all about balance. She was taking a crash course in balance of late.

“Almost there, Manuel,” she called to the man she mentally referred to as the tall one. He was likely only an inch taller than his male partner, Wes.

Although Remy knew most of the talent they’d assembled, Naya was still playing catch-up. Everyone she knew in the dance world fell into two categories: chorus girls and financiers. An odd combination. Aside from one leading role, she’d never been close to the soloists, out of intimidation and the nagging knowledge that she could be better than them if she ever pulled free of her fears. With a glance around the wide warehouse that would house their industrially themed performance, she realized the fears were still there, but at least she was doing something about conquering them.

“Freeze. The angles don’t match.” She adjusted the awkward position of the ladies’ elevated legs. Flexed feet felt wrong when years of training shouted
point your toes!
But it looked fresh and different as they posed in a tableau. “There. Perfect. You’re doing great.”

“Naya, shug,” came Jack’s voice. He wore an uncharacteristically solemn expression.

“Take five.” She shooed her foursome toward duffel bags slumped along the far brick wall. Her attention was all for Jack. Seriousness across his teasing, boyish features was as out of place as an elephant in a
pas de deux
. “What is it?”

He tipped his head subtly toward where he, Tara Jean, and another six dancers had been working on Remy’s raunchiest number. Remy and Naya would eventually join the group to make it a piece for ten.

“The tall one.”

Naya smiled. “Which tall one? I’m five-foot-two. Even you look like a towering inferno.”

“Normally I’d giggle like my out-and-out queer-ass self, and I’d give as good as I get. I always do.” He seemed unable to help a cheeky half-grin. “But the tall one—the one with the
Flashdance
top and black hair ravens would envy? He keeps harassing Tara Jean.”

A shiver washed over Naya’s skin. The potential abuse of power in this business was astonishing.
You want this gig, baby? Then you know what you have to do.

Luckily she’d never been in that position. She’d spent the final two years of high school at a private arts academy her parents were still paying off. After working for a while and rushing through six blinding months with Patrick, she’d climbed onto a Broadway stage. Talented? Sure. Lucky? Hell yeah, especially after meeting and falling in love with Daniel. She’d escaped the worst.

“Harassing how?”

“Well, in the last hour alone…” Jack ticked off on his fingers. “A pinch to the tit—and even I know she has a gorgeous rack. How
does
she stay upright?”

“Jack, you’re a damn Google search. Stay with the important stuff, please.”

“Then a slap to her ass that wasn’t, believe it or not, choreographed by Remy. He’s calling her a pretty pussycat, although I don’t think he means feline.”

“What’s his name?”

“Oliver, um, Kline? Some guy from Vancouver. I don’t give two fucks. He’s gonna steal her shine.”

Who knew Jack hid a fierce tiger under all that flounce and sass? He zeroed a hard gaze on the man, who was standing solicitously close to Tara Jean. Her body language revealed intimidation, if not worse, although her smile was as bright as ever. Maybe she didn’t see how she was being used, or maybe that was how she’d escaped Alabama. It still wasn’t right. Not if Naya had any say in the character of Transit. Which she did.

“Frankly,” Jack added. “He’s got a weird vibe. Keeps muttering about you and Remy. Would it be too cliché to say he’s not a team player?”

“Flaming honey child,
you
are a cliché.”

Jack snapped his fingers in an obviously ironic gesture. “Thank you. Now, you don’t know me from Jack. Heh. Not really. But Remy knows I wouldn’t make up poo this real.”

“I know you’re not laughing, which is enough to make it real for me. I’ll talk to Remy.” She nodded toward Tara Jean’s group. “Meanwhile, can you rescue our innocent dove, sweet prince?”

“On it.”

Jack was a master at finagling. Soon he’d ushered Tara Jean back within the safety of the rest of the dancers. Without hesitation, he rattled off a sharp, rather impressive four-count to kick off the routine. She shouldn’t have been surprised about his professionalism, but his behavior made it impossible to believe without seeing it in person.

Remy was in the middle of demonstrating his piece—a flowing, heart-rending yet ruefully sexy number that was basically Remy’s persona set to movement. Whether he recognized that…Naya doubted he ever would. All the pain was there, and so were the shields.

She
could
take care of Kline on her own. But Transit belonged to both of them, even in this formative stage—and even if Daniel and the moneymen were responsible for the roof above her head and the assemble-your-own parquet beneath her feet.

Theirs. Together.

Dios mío,
responsibility was daunting. Sharing it with Remy lifted half that weight off her chest.

“Oh, ragin’ Cajun of mine?”

He dropped out of a double pirouette as if his knees had turned to silly putty. His eyes shone with intense curiosity.

Because yes, she’d just called him
mine
. Accident or intentional? She’d been aching to claim him for hours. Hours and hours. Soon they’d be alone, after all the dancers called it a night, and she waited for those moments like she waited for the spotlight—pure power and the endorphin high she’d sought for years. Only, Remy would be with her, sharing that high. Their ebb and flow would settle into the roles they longed to play.

“Is that what all the girls are calling me now?”

“Only the good girls.”

His mouth quirked. “Then quit teasing me, cuz I know you’re not.”

She didn’t bother dismissing the dancers he’d been working with. She wanted to be close to him, and she wanted the others to know that they were a unit. Lovers…? Some might speculate. But she didn’t need to make concessions for what had to be said—and what would be more effective if overheard.

While Remy faced the company, she turned toward the opposite wall. Shoulder to opposite shoulder. She lifted her mouth toward his downturned ear. “Oliver Kline needs to go.”

“Sucks to be him.”

Naya blinked. “You don’t need to know why?”

“You have reasons. Probably based on that unusual chat between you and gold hot pants over there?”

She nodded, somewhat dazed that he’d noticed while working so hard. Then again, his focus was always razor sharp when doing what he loved. “We’re not here to condone physical harassment.”

“That’s good enough for me, and you should get used to that,
chère
. Can you see every inch of space behind me?”

“
Sí
.”

“And I can see every inch of space behind you. We got it covered,
non
?” He leaned a little closer. “Trust ain’t my strong suit either, but we gotta make it happen. Not just with our clothes off.”

She smiled at that, wanting to do more than stand on tiptoes to give him a platonic hug and kiss on the cheek. “You’re the best.” She tacked on a whispered, “Sir.”

“Get off me, you little monkey.” Remy urged her away. His long, elegant fingers lingered a heartbeat too long on her ass. “Hey, Kline? Yeah, you. Pack your things. Transit gals don’t need any more groping than I set to music. Won’t stand for it.”

The black-haired dancer was fabulous, actually. Perfect technique. Great stage presence. But his sneer was a nasty piece of work. “You think you can just—”

Remy strode forward with as much force as his muscular, coiled tension could unleash on Naya’s eager flesh. Only, this arrogant
cabrón
backed up.

“I can. I just did. But I’m willing to take this further if you wanna.” Remy crossed his arms as he took another menacing step. “Let’s say you take a swing at me and actually land a punch. I’d be impressed. Then I’d pop my dislocated nose back in place. I have
that
much practice using my body for something other than dance. Can you say the same, pretty boy?”

Kline didn’t say a word. He swallowed, ducked out of Remy’s shadow and grabbed his gear. The slamming of the warehouse front door was the sum extent of his rebuttal.

“Got it, kiddos?” Remy asked to the company in general. “We’re here to dance. And a cold, unpleasant fact of our business is that any of us can be replaced.”

As if to prove the point, he made a show of digging his phone out of the battered denim jacket he’d flung over his things. Three taps later, he held it to his ear. “Nick? If you can be here at the joint in an hour, you got a spot. Yeah?
Très bon.
”

He hung up and lifted the phone. Damn, he was turning this into pure theater. Naya witnessed more conviction than she’d ever seen of him outside of sex. Even if he was faking it to the max, that didn’t change the result—he was leading this company.

Daniel would be so proud.

“I have all of your numbers saved,” Remy said, voice still raised. “And fifty others besides. Don’t fuck up. That don’ mean your dancing. We all do that, and we’ll probably fuck up on the night. We cover it and move on.”

He glanced at Naya, who nodded. Yeah, they knew what that felt like. But they’d gotten past it.

Cellphone tossed down on his jacket, he returned to where Naya stood. She briefly closed her eyes, bathing in his control. “But here? This is day one of Transit. A unit. We’re taking a helluva chance giving this a shot. You behave and make it something beautiful, and you will
always
have our support and respect. If you’re an asshole, save it for when I can’t see it. Now.” He returned to the dancers he’d been working with. “Back to the end of the last phrase.”

Naya and the others took this as their cue that the fuss was over.

As she returned to her foursome, taking quiet pleasure in their stunned but impressed expressions, she wondered at her place in all of this. She’d escaped the harassment Tara Jean had been subjected to, but that had been because of Daniel. Now her fiancé was paying for half of what it would take to launch Transit. Why? Patron of the arts aside, it was because of her, and perhaps out of his growing respect and affection for Remy.

She was a dancer, but she wasn’t the best in New York. Daniel called her a star. How could he not of the woman he loved? Remy seemed to need her input and steadying influence, although he was ten times the choreographer she’d ever be. Plus, he’d even proven that he knew how to handle temperamental artists.

What did she bring to this?

At that moment, her only answer had to do with sex. She was the glue holding Remy and Daniel together so that her fiancé could explore.

Three hours later, they called it a day. The guy named Nick had arrived within twenty minutes of Remy’s phone call. He’d still worn a waiter’s uniform, but his duffel was fully packed—as if he waited for such a call at any minute. Maybe he did. Most dancers led radically more transient lives than she did, cobbling together a living out of chance and humility. She was taking her position for granted. That grated on her nerves. Why did she deserve it more than Nick? He’d picked up half of the first routine before the warehouse went dark.

“You’re in your head,
chère
. Talk to Remy.”

He sat beside her on the floor, where she’d been aimlessly stretching tired legs. “Wrestling with the same crap I see on your face.”

“We don’t belong here. We’re gonna let Daniel down. We’re gonna make fools of ourselves. A matched pair of posers?”

“
Puñeta
, that was succinct.”

“I’ve had all day to make it snappy.”

“Then you’re a fabulous multitasker. Seemed to me you were shaping a company, while being a fabulous dancer and a kick-ass leader. Was it true what you said about your nose?”

“Yup.”

“And I thought
I
was the masochist.”

“Believe me, I don’t enjoy it. Just…it’s been necessary.”

“Just? That’s fucking hot,” she said, trying to steer clear of the darkness edging into his voice.

He grinned and tipped his head toward his chest, in that way that seemed like hiding. He did it a lot. His fragility called to her so strongly. She was learning that Daniel was fragile in ways she’d never suspected, most obviously to the nebulous charms of slick, pretty dancers—not to mention his new sexual revelations. But he didn’t exude the same call to protect and pamper. She wanted to indulge her Sir.

It had become too easy to think of Remy that way.

“How hot? Prove it. Tonight. I’ve been gnawing on my hands trying to keep them off’a you.” He paused. “Unless Daniel…”

“Before his flight, we got off hardcore when I told him about how you’d fucked me on Declan’s desk.”

“Now who’s being succinct?”

“Me, Sir.” She lowered her eyes. The almost inaudible rumble in his throat sounded enough like appreciation to set her body alight. “He gave us full permission. You and me together. Although he did mention Skype if our time zones synch up,” she added with a smile.

“Greedy boy.” He stood and helped her to her feet. “So, back to the penthouse?”

“Oh, no. Your place.”

He flinched. “You don’t wanna go there.”

“No matter how much I like you,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Human heads in formaldehyde jars are a deal-breaker. I’m pretty sure for Daniel too.”

“What about a couple fingers and toes in those jars?”

She laughed, feeling suddenly free, happy and very accomplished. Whatever doubts still dogged them both…they could wait.

“That’s why I have to see where you live, so I can make those finer distinctions.”

Remy shoved his fists in the pockets of his jacket. Head tipped down again. She didn’t bother resisting this time. She gave in to her need to comfort this man. Fingers soft at his nape. Lips soft against his cheek.

He shuddered, then sighed quietly. “Just don’ piss off my landlord.”

“Will
he
put my head in a jar?”