LUKA (The Rhythm Series, Book 2) (9 page)

“Sure, why not.”

“Good. It’s basic backup work, nothing you can’t handle,” and she gave a quick smile that showed me her real personality. “Get yourself to the Dominion Theatre at 10AM tomorrow—it’s just off Tottenham Court Road. Report to Kathryn, she’s the Dance Captain. You’ll learn the routines in the morning, rehearse with the other dancers in the afternoon, and go for costume fittings. All being well, you’ll be on stage by Monday night or maybe the Sunday matinée. Any questions?”

“Do I get a contract?”

She laughed. “Smart boy! Yes, you do. What’s your name?”

“Luka Kokot.”

“Well, Luka, you’ll get your contract when you turn up for work tomorrow. Don’t let me down.”

“No, ma’am.”

We shook hands and I headed back to the locker room a little dazed. Landing a job was the last thing I had in mind. But yeah, definitely worked for me now that Seth . . .

I turned the thought off and hit the showers.

By the time I got out of the studio, it was early evening and I was hungry. I’d slept through breakfast, skipped lunch to get to class, and now I could have eaten the ass-end of a mule.

A burger bar was calling my name, and I sat down to a Whopper with everything and a chocolate milkshake. I could eat whatever I wanted and never put on an ounce. In fact, keeping my weight up could be an issue on tour. Although Ash had ensured that we stayed in nice hotels with good food, and not the shithouses I’d been in on the German and Australian tour last year. But sometimes nothing beats a greasy burger.

I stopped off at a pub for a beer. I loved London pubs—they were different from anywhere else in the world. America did bars, but London did pubs. The one I chose was off of the main street, and I’d only found it by accident. It was really quiet and only seemed popular with old guys who took three hours to drink a pint of dark bitter ale, and laborers from a nearby construction site. You could order eel pie with mashed potatoes. It sounded disgusting—and I really wanted to try it sometime.

No one hit on me and no one spoke to me, other than the heavily made up woman serving at the bar. Her earrings jangled when she moved her head, and a man could get lost in that cleavage for a week and never see daylight—if you didn’t mind sleeping with a woman older than your grandmother.

“You look like a man who has a lot on his mind, luv,” she said, pulling a pint from the barrel with arms that looked as if they could crush a bear.

“Yeah, some,” I smiled at her.

“Well, you know what they say, ‘the only easy day was yesterday’.”

It was quiet, no music or TV allowed, and I watched the dust swirls caught in the evening twilight as I sat nursing my drink. No one bothered me here. I sat on a threadbare bench seat and let the tiredness settle through me. Perhaps it was a mistake going back to work so soon—my body needed rest. But the thought of having nothing to do and no one to do it with was not the liberation I’d expected: it was depressing.

Images of Seth pressed into my brain. How had I not noticed that he had the same eyes as Sarah? I remembered her talking about her brother, and Seth had even told me that his sister had taught him some dance moves.

I sipped the cold beer and let my eyes drift shut.

I’d slept with both of them—what a clusterfuck.

I listened to the conversations going on around me—bets on horse-racing mostly, but also a few comments about women. The same all over the world.

I finished the beer and headed home. My exciting evening included working out how Sarah’s washing machine operated, and watching TV.

Tomorrow was going to be a long day, but I was looking forward to it.

I was surprised to see a fancy white Benz parked outside Sarah’s apartment—especially since it wasn’t the kind of street that had many expensive cars. But then I saw Seth step out of the driver’s side and walk toward me.

“Can we talk?”

I studied him for a moment. He was wearing charcoal suit pants and a white shirt with a blue tie hanging loosely around his neck. He’d obviously come from work.

I glanced at my wristwatch.

“Please, Luka?”

I blew out a breath. “Sure. Come on in—you know the way.”

As he followed me, I could feel his eyes on me the entire time. It was slightly unnerving. I tossed my gym bag in a corner and ran some water from the kitchen faucet until it was cold, filling a glass. Then I leaned back against the sink.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“I’m really sorry about last night,” he began, his hands shoved into his pants pockets. “It was so weird. But just because you and Sarah are friends, there’s no reason why we can’t see each other, is there?”

There was one big, fat reason.

“It’s not a good idea.”

“Why not? It’s not like you slept with Sarah or anything.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but he rushed on, not giving me a chance to answer, or not wanting to hear what I’d say.

“We’ve got a chance of something good here, Luka. I’d like to try again. Can we?”

“I don’t . . .”

“Don’t say no. Just . . . think about it for a while. Let’s . . . hang out. Please?”

“Hang out?”

He grinned at me, the smile that I was beginning to hope for.

“I guess . . .”

“Great!” he said. “And it looks like you finally bought some groceries.”

“Yeah, it makes a change from eating hotel food all of the time. I’m kind of looking forward to cooking for myself.”

“Really? Are you any good?”

“Haha, maybe. It’s been a while.”

“Sarah hates cooking—and she loves being on tour.”

“I know.”

“Yes, I suppose you would.”

He hesitated, and I hated that the easiness we’d had yesterday was gone. He laughed awkwardly.

“She says she’d happily live in hotels her whole life—room service forever.”

I gave him a polite smile, having nothing to add, and he coughed self-consciously.

“I helped her buy this flat—as an investment, really.”

“Yeah?”

“So she’d always have somewhere to come back to . . . other than crashing at my place and tossing her stuff everywhere. Or, well, going back to our mother’s,” and he pulled a funny face.

“I have an apartment in Koper—my hometown—for the same reason, but I sublet it.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

There was a lot Seth didn’t know about me.

“What’s Koper like?”

“Quaint, old fashioned,” I smiled. “But it’s only a few kilometers from the border with Italy, and it’s on the coast. We don’t have a whole lot of coast.”

“What’s it like living there?”

“I didn’t grow up there, but yeah, I like it. When I’m not touring.”

“Do you like touring?”

“There are pros and cons,” I said, leaning back and closing my eyes.

“Such as?” he prompted.

My eyes drifted open and I turned my head to see him watching me intently, as if every word was golden.

“Sarah must have talked about this?”

“I want to know what it’s like for you.”

“Okay . . . well . . . it’s a full time job being an artist. Your workload is crazy. Being on tour for months, for a year maybe, you get to travel the world and sightsee; you get to do what you love and you’re getting paid for your passion. So travel is the good bit, one of the pros, but it’s also one of the cons—living out of a suitcase. People think it’s super glamorous being in a new hotel every other day. But you wake up and don’t even know what city you’re in half the time. It’s very insular, like you’re in a little bubble of unreality. You miss your family and friends, but the people you travel with become family.”

“So . . . Sarah is your family?”

I winced. The thought was an uncomfortable one, so I shrugged for an answer.

“We’re friends,” I said at last.

“I’m sorry. I’m just trying to understand how it is with you.”

“What do you want, Seth?”

“I want you,” he said simply.

I shook my head, watching his lips turn down with disappointment.

“We can be friends though, can’t we?”

I hesitated. I could use a friend, but things with Seth were complicated.

“Yeah, we can be friends.”

The words tumbled from my tongue without permission.

Seth smiled with relief and yanked off his tie, shoving it in a pocket.

“Um, well . . . do you want to go to the pub? Have a swift half?”

“Not really,” I said honestly. “I’m pretty beat and tomorrow is going to be really busy.”

“I thought you were on holiday?”

“I was. I got a job today.”

“Oh? What sort of job?”

I threw him an impatient look. “Brain surgeon. What do you think?”

“You’d look cute in scrubs. Seriously, a job doing what?”

“Dancing!”

“What, like in a club? Because I’m imaging you as a stripper right now.”

“Fuck you!”

“Luka, I’m joking,” he said, his smile falling away.

“Am I just the punch line to your jokes? The crazy foreigner who can’t speak English right. Is that it? You think dancing isn’t serious? I’ve trained since I was six years old! You think it isn’t a real job?”

“No! I never . . . I don’t!”

“Then why do you laugh at me?”

“I’m sorry! I was just trying to . . . I don’t know, lighten the mood. I’m sorry.”

I grunted at him and checked my phone for messages to avoid having to look at him. Then I felt his hand rest tentatively on my arm.

“I’m sorry, really. I’m a bit nervous, and I say stupid things when I’m nervous. I don’t think performing is a joke. I’ve seen how hard Sarah works—and I know it’s not easy.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, annoyed with myself for losing my temper.

I was usually a pretty calm sort of guy, but Seth got under my skin.

“So,” he said slowly, “where will you be dancing?”

“I got a gig as a swing . . . as a backup dancer in a West End show:
The Bodyguard
.”

“Wow! That’s friggin’ amazing! How did you land that?”

“By being a fuck hot dancer,” I snarled, watching him wince.

I had no idea why I was being such a shit to him, but I couldn’t seem to stop.

He sighed and stood up.

“I’m saying all the wrong things. I think I’d better go.” He fidgeted with his car keys while I stared at the blank screen of my cell phone. “Can we . . . go for a drink or something? After your show one evening? Let my buy you dinner—you’ve got to eat, right?”

I nodded without speaking.

He turned to leave, then suddenly grabbed my shoulders and pulled me to him so our chests thumped together, kissing me with such heat and intensity that I was rock hard in seconds.

“I don’t want to be your friend,” he murmured against my lips. “I want a lot more than that.”

And then he left.

I was stunned. But I was smiling.

THE NEXT DAY
was crazy—the good type of torture. I didn’t have too much time to think about Seth, or that scorching kiss.

That’s a lie. I’d jacked off in the shower after he’d gone, imaging my cock in his mouth. But I’d slept really well. And maybe I could admit to myself that I felt lighter after Seth’s visit.

But I had to focus. Arlene told me to be at the theater by 10AM, so I was there at 9.45. There’s a saying in showbiz: To be early is to be on time, to be on time is to be late, to be late is unacceptable.

Unless you’re the star. And even then, there are fewer divas than you might think. The ones who are the hardest to work with are the newbies who’ve made it big in the music charts and think that acting like assholes is going to make people respect them.

I used to do a lot of music videos, but it was gruesome work. The dancing was minimal, mostly just thrust and grind. I did a Britney vid once. She was pretty cool, but the shoot was outside, and we were all in these tight, constricting costumes, dancing on concrete. For eight hours. One of the other dancers ended up with shin splints. Like I said—gruesome.

I showed up when I was supposed to, learned the steps and kept my mouth shut.

Being a backup dancer on this show wouldn’t be a lot different, but at least I’d be treated professionally. I hoped.

Kathryn was Arlene’s right-hand woman, assistant choreographer in all but name, and the company’s Dance Captain.

The D.C. is the person who’s responsible for maintaining the show’s choreography/movement, and teaching new cast members like me when they come into the show. Some D.C.’s are part of the ensemble, some aren’t. Looking at Kathryn, I guessed that she fell into the second category.

“I usually audition the swing dancers,” she said, raising her eyebrows, “but Arlene’s word is the 11
th
Commandment around here, so . . . you’d better be as shit hot as she says you are. We’ve got one other new dancer today,” and she pointed at a tiny brunette girl who was sitting on the floor doing stretches.

“Hi!” she said, waving at me and smiling. “I’m so glad that I’m not the only new kid on the block. I’m Alice.”

“Luka,” I smiled back, reaching down to shake her hand.

Kathryn clapped her hands together.

“Okay, no time for chat. Let’s get started.”

She led us out to the stage and I heard Alice gasp. I felt like doing the same. The theater was huge. It was the biggest stage I’d ever danced on, with a set of complicated hydraulic lifts that moved scenery around. Then row upon row of raked seating in rich red velvet, reaching back into the shadows, with two tiers of circle seats and four private boxes, edged with brocade curtains.