Ripped (14 page)

When I had met them, answering an ad like many of the ones I was reading now, I had instantly felt a connection. They had hugged me and greeted me like I was a long-lost relative. There was barely an interview, and no reference checks which was just as well, because I didn’t have any. They had judged my suitability on gut instinct alone. I’d moved from Boston Conservatory where I’d stayed in the dorms, to a cheap and nasty hotel. The hotel had been the first I’d come across as I’d ascended to the street from the subway. It had looked cheery enough and was close to Times Square, which was where I had wanted to be. From my window, if I strained my neck in a forty-five-degree angle, I’d been able to see the lights of Broadway and that had filled me with so much hope. So much love for my chosen career, my passion as a dancer.

But that was then. I soon discovered that I was sharing my hotel room with cockroaches the size of cats, and that the lights of Broadway from a crummy window was as close to working there as I was ever going to get.

Not Jaz, though. She could make it, and make it big. She was a star who shone brighter than any other dancer on that stage. Her talent was only surpassed by an inner beauty; when she danced, you couldn’t take your eyes off her.
Magical
was a word I would use to describe her without any fear of exaggeration. She could take you on a journey to another place and time. Make you forget all the shittiness that life had to offer. For a few hours while she danced, you believed the world was a wondrous place and that anything was possible.

“Hey, whatcha doing, Bax?”

I’d been so engrossed in looking through the advertisements that I’d missed the call for lunch, and now Jaz stood before me, hands on slender hips, head cocked to the side.

“I’m looking for our love-nest. Do you have any preference for the area you’d like to live in?” I was hoping she was going to choose somewhere cheap because to be honest, we would struggle to make rent on anything near the theater.

Jaz plonked herself on my lap, and I quickly dumped the newspaper on the seat beside me. “To be honest, anywhere we live will feel like home because we’ll be together.” She pressed her lips to mine in a chaste kiss. “Is there anything worth checking out in the paper?”

She indicated the crumpled pages beside me with a nod, and I grabbed the listings back up and found the page I’d been searching through.

With a deep sigh, I ran my finger down the first column. “We may have to become bank robbers to afford anything,” I said, only half joking.

“Or you could sell your body.” She chuckled. “We could live in a Manhattan apartment with what you’d earn as a male escort.”

“Hey, great idea. Maybe I’ll look into that.”

She slapped my chest with the back of her hand. “Don’t you dare. I was only joking.” She rubbed my chest affectionately. “This is for me to see and touch, no one else. Understand, Mister?”

Chuckling, I replied, “I understand.”

Jaz studied the paper, reading over the overpriced accommodation I’d already reviewed. There was nothing there.

“What about this one?” She tapped her finger on an ad right down the bottom of the page. It was only three lines. A cheap ad for a cheap apartment. In my mind, that equaled more roaches and noisy neighbors, but sure, we could look at it.

I read over it. A studio apartment in Greenwich Village. The perfect location for Jaz and me to set up home. She beamed at me, watching me read the tiny ad.

“Well? What do you think?” she asked, gnawing on her bottom lip.

“We can take a look. The money seems reasonable.” It was only eighteen hundred a month, which was dirt cheap for the area.

“It’ll go quickly. Maybe you could …” She allowed the sentence to trail off, but she didn’t need to finish it.

“Okay, I’ll go take a look now.”

Slender arms were flung around my neck. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

Chuckling, I squeezed her tight to my chest. “No problem. I want this to work, Jazzy. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

The apartment was only ten minutes on the subway and a brisk two- or three-minute walk from the theater district, and as I waited on the platform for my train, I phoned the number in the ad. A woman answered and informed me that I could pick up the keys from her; she lived in the apartment next door to the vacant one for rent and owned them both. Great, so we’d be living next door to the owner, which could go either way. It may turn out to be beneficial to have the landlord on hand if things went wrong—but of course she would also know our comings and goings, and we would have to be on our best behavior at all times. As I neared the apartment block, I was less and less keen. I didn’t want to have to tippy-toe around for fear of a stern knock on the door. I wanted to be able to play music, to laugh, and God willing, have noisy sex if we wanted to.

Stopping for a moment to take in the façade of the charcoal-painted bricks before entering, an excited knot formed in my stomach. This could be our home. This could be where Jaz and I finally set up house and started the first day of the rest of our lives together. There was no security to prevent access to the building, which was probably one reason the studio apartment was less than most in Greenwich Village, so I let myself in. The apartment was on the third floor, and I took the stairs two at a time. Apartment 3A was the first door as I reached the landing, and I knocked then waited for the landlord to answer. A dog barked from inside, its yapping growing louder as it neared the front door.
Great. The landlord and a yapping dog living next door
. An elderly woman cracked open the door just enough to peer through.

“Hello, I’m Baxter Sampson. We spoke a few minutes ago about the apartment for lease.”

“Mrs. Burrows.” She picked up the white ball of fluff and it licked her face affectionately. “This is Percy.”

“Hi, Percy.” I reached out to give him a pat. He snarled, and I just managed to draw my hand away as he snapped at it.

“Oh, Percy,” she cooed. “You’re protecting your mommy.” Percy went to town licking the old lady’s mouth as I screwed up my face in disgust.

Mrs. Burrows was crazy, and her dog was Satan, but if the apartment was decent we would have to learn to live with it. The price was too good to pass up.

“Come this way.” She shuffled out from her apartment, dressed in a robe that only just met down the middle to preserve her dignity, and slippers. Thankfully, she still restrained Percy the psycho pooch. “3B is of course next door.” She unlocked the door, and I squeezed past her tentatively, careful not to get too close to Percy. “It’s not as spacious as mine, but it’s plenty big enough for a single man.” The way she said ‘single man’ sent a chill up my spine. Where I’d thought it would be handy having the landlord close by to fix things, I now had the feeling I would be called upon to do the fixing and provide certain services.

“I’m not single,” I told her. “I’ll be living with my girlfriend, Jasmine.”

She nodded, unperturbed. “The rent is eighteen-hundred but I’m sure we could work something out.” She winked, and my skin crawled.

Eighteen-hundred was way too much for this place. Most apartments had security and at least some furniture. This was one small empty room that was bitterly cold.

“Is there heating?” I asked, trying to find one redeeming feature to latch on to.

“Only if you bring it yourself.” For a woman who moments ago had shuffled her feet, she was surprisingly light-footed as she crept up behind me. “I’m sure we could heat this place up.”

“Okay, well thank you very much for showing me.” In six steps I was across the room and halfway out the door. “Thank you, Mrs. Burrows, but I don’t think we’ll be taking it.”

If I’d climbed the stairs two at a time, I leapt down them even quicker, unable to get out of there fast enough. If that was the standard of an apartment in our price range, then we needed to rethink our location. There was no way we could afford anything better, and I wanted Jaz to have a home that she loved. A home that we shared and could build memories in, where we could invite friends over and have space for beautiful furniture and still room to dance.

The journey back to the theater had me consumed in thought. Maybe Jaz could move in to the tiny apartment above the pizzeria. I was sure Mama and Papa wouldn’t mind if she stayed, too.

By the time I returned to the theater, the dancers were packing up for the evening. Jaz was chatting and laughing animatedly with Tiffany and Becca, and I hung back to watch the interaction. At Boston, Jaz had been so shy in the beginning, and it had taken her six months to come out of her shell and make friends with the other girls. She had maintained it was because she was focused on her lessons and dance and didn’t have time for socializing, but I knew it was because she was so introverted and feared rejection should they not embrace her and welcome her into the group. It warmed my heart to see her having grown, not only as a dancer, but in confidence as a person that she would take that leap of faith and have it pay off.

Pierre had been less lecherous since Jaz had vomited on him a week ago at Pointe—maybe she should have done that at the start—but as I watched the girls together talking, he sidled over and was back to his old tricks. He placed an arm casually around Jaz’s waist; that was my cue to intervene.

“Hey, Jazzy.” I approached from the other side, and she stepped away from Pierre and moved straight into my arms.

“How was it?” she asked excitedly, chewing on her plump strawberry lower lip.

I shook my head. “It was like a scene from
American Horror Story
.”

She raised her brows at me.

“Think horny old lady, psycho dog, and a room the size of a broom closet, and you’re halfway there.”