Ripped (32 page)

A
FTER MUCH
persuasion, Bax convinced me to show the images of Pierre’s suspicious activity to Carter. For all his laidback, hippy vibe, Carter was a savvy businessman. He had worked on Wall Street for many years in a senior accounting role before throwing it all in on a whim and buying Melody Music. Some people opted for a sea change or tree change. Carter had experienced a total spiritual awakening and decided he couldn’t do the suit-and-tie thing one more day. He’d left his office one evening and just never returned.

“He’s definitely embezzling funds, that’s for sure.” The photos had been downloaded and printed and were now spread across the counter in the store. Carter went to work with a highlighter pen, cross-referencing figures and dates and making little notes on the side of the pages. Every time he swiped the fluorescent yellow marker across the page, Bax and I stuck our heads in closer, trying to figure out what he’d found that was of interest.

“See here?” He tapped his finger on a bank transfer to the Swiss account. “This figure matches the sum of what he’s ledgered you dancers have been paid, less twenty percent.”

All the furrowing of my brow couldn’t help me grasp the point he was making.

“And these credit card statements—he’s opened accounts under company names and is paying them with donated monies. But if you look at what he’s purchased”—he circled several charges—“I don’t think he’s buying your costumes from Armani or Rolex.”

“Sneaky bastard,” Bax hissed. “Clever, but sneaky.”

Carter sat back, grinning at Bax. “Yes he’s clever, but every dishonest person gets caught eventually. They get careless and sloppy, or over-confident, and then make mistakes.”

“Has he made a mistake?” I asked, hoping there would be some trail that could prove what he was up to.

Carter laughed. “Sure he’s made a mistake. He left a paper trail and you found it.” He gathered the printouts into a neat pile. “He doesn’t have to make a financial error; you have all the proof you need right here.”

My chest swelled, before I slumped on the counter, my head in my hands. “Can I go to the police with evidence that I gained by rummaging through his private drawers? Isn’t that illegal or something? At the very least, can they even use it in a court of law?”

I could go to the police and at least show them the photos. Maybe they would do something about it, or maybe they would arrest me for breaking some law by photographing his possessions without his knowledge or permission. But my hesitation was a selfish one. If Pierre was locked away, then our production would surely be over before it had ever started. With the director/choreographer in jail and the producer missing from nearly every rehearsal, what hope did we have to pull the show together and actually perform on opening night?

No, I needed to do something with this evidence, but I needed to be just as clever and just as sneaky as Pierre had been.

Watching Baxter and Carter chatting afforded me the opportunity to observe Bax as I hadn’t done in a few weeks. The way his muscles tensed and pulled on his sweater as his arms made subtle movements. His posture and grace. He was a born dancer. Even if he didn’t think he was good enough anymore, I still did. I believed he needed to be on the stage, and not in that dingy little club, but in a theater where people would pay good money to see him dance with his clothes on.

I scooped up the documents. “I’m going to go speak to Pierre.”

Baxter stopped mid-sentence and turned to me, his mouth agape. “You’re not going to tell him you know what he’s up to, are you?”

“Oh I’m not going to tell him.” I flapped the documents I clutched in my hand. “I’m going to show him that I have hard evidence that he’s a scheming, conniving good-for-nothing.”

Bax took my hand. “I’m coming with you then.”

“I think we both need to.”

I chuckled as Carter made his way around the counter to stand beside me.

“Thank you both for your concern, but this is one battle I need to face on my own. Besides, you need to be here; it’s nearly opening time.”

Pierre had intimidated and threatened me in his passive-aggressive way for too long. It was time I gave him a taste of what it was like to be backed into a corner.

My step was lighter as I navigated the streets of New York on my way to the theater. The clouds overhead threatened rain, and it was a particularly gray and miserable morning, but I couldn’t wipe the smile from my face. Crowds of businessmen and women strode past in their mundane attire, their faces devoid of any expression, and I once again marveled at how lost I had felt when I’d first moved here from Boston. I’d had no one and certainly no prospects. All I had come with was a dream and the desire to make something of myself in this city that never sleeps.

What I hadn’t counted on was meeting up with Baxter again after all those years, and now, if I played my cards right, having the opportunity to help Bax’s dreams come true, too.

Pierre sat in the front row dressed in a smart navy suit and vibrant pink tie, poring over documents. The orchestra tuned their instruments and stage hands positioned props. In all the excitement I’d forgotten that we were to have a full-dress rehearsal that would be attended by a group of potential investors. I tapped my dance bag which held the key to not only my future but also Baxter’s. It would have to wait; I needed to get into costume and warm up before the moneybags arrived and the performance started.

The dressing room was already abuzz with dancers, and I weaved between them to find a position at the makeup mirror.

“There you are. Did you have a little sleep in, Jaz?” Becca was already stretching, her hair and makeup done.

“Or maybe making up for lost time with Baxter.” Tiffany gave me a wink. “You were apart for a whole two weeks.”

I dumped my bag on the floor and kicked it under the counter. “No, I just forgot we had to be here early. My head has been somewhere else the past few days.”

“Yeah, bobbing up and down in Baxter’s lap.”

The room erupted with laughter and crude gestures, and my face flamed bright red as memories of what we had been doing came to the front of my mind. We had been making up for the last two weeks, and our relationship was stronger than it had ever been. Baxter had been true to his word and was supporting me without any jealousy. We’d practiced until we both knew every routine in the show and in return, I had spent three evenings in the last week sitting at a table in the corner of the pizzeria, eating calamari salads while Bax waited tables.

We wanted to be together, and to do that we both needed to compromise and be willing to put the other one first. I knew Bax would be disappointed to have missed this rehearsal, so while I was waiting for Tiffany to finish pinching my makeup I quickly sent him a text, inviting him to come down if he could get away from the record store.

The costume ladies fussed around us, helping with zips and pinning waistlines that needed taking in, or hems that needed taking up. Being in costume made this whole experience feel more real. No longer were we a group of girls and guys who enjoyed dancing—we were a troupe. A team of professional dancers who were actually being paid to perform in a New York production.

“Ten minutes, ladies,” the stage manager called as he banged on the door, and an excited squeal filled the tiny dressing room.

As we filed through the door, my stomach tumbled over and over in excitement. Even though I knew there would only be a handful of people in the audience, with the lighting, props, and orchestra, it felt like a proper performance, and I would give my all for the chance to help fund this production. My stomach lurched. What was the point in gaining more investors? While everyone else was getting into position, I thought about the documents stored safely in my bag. More funding for the production meant more money going into Pierre’s secret retirement fund.

The call went out. “Places please. Places everyone.”

Shaking out my arms and legs, I took a deep breath and stretched my neck from side to side. No matter what happened with the show in the future, it wasn’t in my nature to give anything less than one hundred percent.

Before I could overthink my performance, Act I was over and we were racing back to the dressing room to get ready for Act II. In the rare quiet few seconds on stage when I held a pose and had a moment to catch my breath, I had the opportunity to look out into the audience. Bax was in his usual position in the audience, the beaming smile on his face reassuring me that his critical eye was enjoying what he saw. That meant everything to me, more than what Pierre thought, or the investors—Baxter’s opinion was paramount, and his smile spurred me on.

The first scene of Act II was a dance where all the soldiers returned from war so none of the girls needed to be on stage. From around the side curtain, I peeked out to see who had shown up to see our performance and assess if and how much money they wanted to throw our way.

“Does anyone look familiar?” Tiff asked, peering over my shoulder.

I nodded. “Yes, a few of them. I met them at the gala the other night. That lady there with the blond hair in the sparkly top.” I pointed in the general direction. “That’s Janice Durbridge. I spoke to her for ages the other night; she’s really lovely and her daughter dances so she’s keen to get involved.”

“Well, let’s hope she has deep pockets, because I hear the ship may sink if we can’t rustle up some funding.”

My blood boiled, and it took all my might to bite my tongue and not blurt out what I knew about Pierre and his money laundering. But I needed to be smart. I needed to confront him, not blab to the world and have the show shut down before we’d had the chance to perform on opening night.

Mikhail was on next for his solo, and Tiffany, Becca and I watched from the wings with varying degrees of disinterest etched on our faces.

“God, he’s crap, isn’t he?” Becca said on a sigh. “He’ll be the death of this production with all his pouncing around. Who’d ever believe he’d just returned from war? He looks like he’d run and hide under the bed.”

My laughter spluttered out, and Mikhail shot me a death stare from the stage.

“No sense of humor, that’s his problem,” Tiff whispered from behind her hand.

They were right, though. Baxter had said it from day one that Mikhail wasn’t leading man material. At first I’d thought it may have been a petty jealousy that Mikhail had been cast and Bax had given up dancing, but he’d been right. After watching my leading man for a short time, I had to agree. Finding out now that everyone else held the same opinion made me realize that Pierre and James must know it, too. Pierre was a trained dancer of many years—he must surely be able to see what we all could, and it sickened me. If he was stealing money and knew our leading man was hopeless then he most certainly wasn’t there for the love of dance. The production needed to be just good enough for donations to keep rolling in, but not good enough to have a long-running stint. Mikhail was the key. Hire a strong cast but with one weak link in an integral role and
When the Ship Comes In
would be forever known as a production that almost made it.

At the end of the show, we all gathered on stage to take our final bows and to meet the investors. Janice greeted me with a warm hug, beaming from ear to ear and complimenting me on my performance.

“You were spectacular, Jasmine. I had no idea how breathtaking you are.”

I couldn’t help the nervous giggle. I would never get used to the praise, no matter how much I loved hearing it. A warm, firm hand wrapped around my waist, and I leaned into Baxter’s side.