Ripped (38 page)

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.” I wiped a stray tear from under my eye, and then gently brushed the wetness from Jaz’s cheeks.

“You always had it in you, Bax. You can do anything you set your mind to—I’ve always believed that.”

“I can do anything as long as I have you by my side.”

It was the truth, and at that moment I knew that Jaz was who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. But those thoughts would have to wait. We had twenty minutes before we were due back on stage for our final number. Our makeup was smudged and needed reapplying, and we both had to get into costume.

“I’ll see you back here in twenty,” Jaz said with a grin. She stood on her tippy-toes and held my cheeks in her palms so she could kiss my lips, letting it linger long enough to have my heart racing again. “One more dance, just you and me. Let’s make it amazing.”

The final dance was one of hope. The lovers had been through so much but at the end they were reunited. Their love for each other was so strong that nothing could keep them apart—not war or the temptation of another to fill the loneliness. They were meant to be, and this dance had to symbolize all that raw emotion.

My costume had been altered to add sleeves in an attempt to make me more acceptable to the audience. It was uncomfortable and hot under the stage lights, but I needed to block all that out. My focus had to be on Jaz and partnering her so she could reach her potential without fear of being dropped or having me in the wrong place at the wrong time. But my mind was somewhere else—not on this dance, but on our future that far outreached this one night.

Because this was the final performance of the evening, all the other dancers stood around in their last costumes, waiting for curtain call. I spied Tiffany chatting to some of the others, and she gave me a thumbs-up when I caught her eye.

“Tiffany,” I called her over with the cock of my head. “Can you give this to Jaz on the other side of the stage?” I handed her a piece of paper, which she immediately went to unfold. “Don’t read it—just give it to her quickly.”

“What, now?”

“Yes, now. She needs to see it before we start.”

Tiffany went off at a run around the back curtain until finally I saw her across the stage. She handed the note to Jaz, and I waited with my breath held. She looked over at me, her hand over her mouth … and then nodded her consent.

T
HE BEGINNING
of the piece was dimly lit with an eerie fog around our feet. We stepped in from opposite sides of the stage, the music deep and low, adding to the heart-pounding expectation that I hoped the audience was feeling. When we met in the middle I looked up into Bax’s face, my vision blurred with tears.

“Yes, I’ll marry you,” I whispered.

It was fortunate that at that precise moment Bax had to lift me and swing me around, because instinct took over and he scooped me up in a very unballet-like embrace.

“Steady,” I said with a giggle as my head rested on his shoulder. “Remember where we are.”

“Don’t worry—we’ve got this.”

The rest of the dance went by in a blur, but I couldn’t remember ever feeling the music and emotion of a piece so much. And it wasn’t only me—Bax took risks that I’d never seen him take before. His leaps, which seemed to hang in the air as if he were flying, were the highest I’d ever seen. His lifts were stronger and more confident. We were connected, not only to the movement and music but to each other and the story we portrayed.

The round of applause was deafening as we took curtain call after curtain call, the cheers and cries of encore never waning even when the curtain closed for the fourth time.

James and Pierre were side-of-stage, their faces like those of two greedy kids in a candy shop.

“Give them an encore,” James instructed.

I looked at Bax; we had nothing prepared. “What should we do? Redo the last scene?”

Bax dragged me to one side and spoke softly. “Do you remember our contemporary ballet piece we choreographed for our first ever workshop? It’s still my favorite of anything I’ve ever danced.”

“Yes, but …”

“Let’s do it.”

I hurried over and spoke to Pierre. His smile dropped, his brows furrowed together. I was sure he wasn’t happy about it, but there was no time for discussion. He said something into his headpiece mic and then ushered everyone from the stage.

I hoped we could pull this off. It was a difficult piece because the entire time we were in contact. Whether it was a hand, our bodies or heads, we were always touching. I hadn’t danced that piece in ten years. Did I remember it? Heck yeah! Every single step would be etched into my memory until the end of time. That piece had helped shape the type of dancer I wanted to become, the song, “Imagine” by John Lennon, was still my all-time favorite.

While James addressed the audience from in front of the closed stage curtain, I slipped out of my dress, leaving only the slip underneath. I removed my ballet shoes and shook out my hair, letting it fall over my shoulders.

“Take off your shirt,” I said to Bax. “You shouldn’t have to hide your body.” Before he could respond, I lifted it over his head and passed it to the costume lady who had come to gather up the discarded dress. “There, much better.”

“Remember what we said about this piece all those years ago?” Bax asked. “This was an exercise in trust, and I trust you with my life, because you are my life.”

We had come full circle. From praying that I’d be partnered with anyone but that guy, he had turned out to be the only guy I ever wanted to dance with for the rest of my life.

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Read other books by Lisa Edward

Adam Walker—journal entry

I’ve decided to take some time off to reassess my life and all the shittiness that goes with it. After the last few months with my family in the UK, I could do with the space. I love them all to death, but being with everyone was claustrophobic, and having Mum fuss over me was great for about the first half hour and then it got real old, real quick.

I hate being dependent on anyone, especially when I’m quite capable of taking care of myself. I’m not an invalid. I’ve been independent all my life and I will be until the day I die. So I’m going to the Hamptons for a couple of months. It’s winter, so it should be cold and hopefully deserted, which will give me time to evaluate where to go and what to do next. I still haven’t completely come to terms with my broken heart, but I’ll get there. People deal with things a lot worse every day—I just need to stop feeling sorry for myself and figure out a game plan.

Evie Rivers

A
FTER DRAGGING
my beat-up suitcases from the trunk of my car, I awkwardly wheeled them up the wooden front steps of a little cottage on the beach that Angie had leased for me for the winter. I’d never been to the Hamptons before. It had always seemed so pretentious, with the celebrities and crowds flocking there just to be seen, but in winter on this crisp, clear day, it felt like a breath of fresh air.

The bounding of heavy paws and panting breath caught my attention just before I was nearly knocked off balance by an overenthusiastic chocolate Labrador.

“Hey, boy, where’d you come from?” I asked, laughing as I scruffed the wet fur on his head. “I wasn’t expectin’ Angie to send out the welcome wagon.” I found the tag on his collar. “Pleased to meet ya, Max. If only you were a male of the two-legged variety, you could help carry my bags.”

Max sat at my feet, his pink tongue lolling to one side, his head tilted as if he were trying to make out my ramblings.

There was a shrill whistle and Max’s ears pricked up. “Here, boy,” a deep, rich voice called with a hint of an accent that piqued my interest immediately. Max leapt to his feet, affording me one last glance over his shoulder as he raced back down the porch steps toward a house a few doors up from my temporary home.

“So much for the welcomin’ committee.” I chuckled, opening the door and wheeling the suitcases into the entry.

I looked around at what would be my home for the next two months while rubbing my hands together to warm them. The house was light and airy with a spectacular view of the beach through the floor-to-ceiling windows and sliding glass doors at the back of the house.

Leaving my bags by the front door, I took a moment to meander through the pristine house. It was extremely white, with white walls and furniture sitting comfortably on lime-washed floorboards. It would have been too stark for my taste, if not for the sandstone wall with its massive open fireplace. The fire had been stocked with kindling just waiting to be lit, and the warm hues of the stone instantly made this showpiece feel inviting. The ceilings were vaulted and the kitchen was modern but comfortable. Sitting smack dab in the middle of the aged oak counter was a huge wicker gift basket, overflowing with fruit, cheeses, and a bottle of Dom Pérignon. With a smile, I read the card.

Welcome back, Eden Rose, you sexy thang, you. I hope you find this setting conducive to rekindling your passion for writing amazing smut. Now that you’ve kicked Charles to the curb, there’s nothing standing in your way. I’ve put my neck on the line for you, but I know you can do it (no pressure). Speak soon, your best friend and agent, Angie xx

My eyes blurred over and I wiped them quickly with my thumb. I had cried enough tears in the last three months after Charles and I had separated to last me a lifetime. I had given Charles a piece of my heart and filled it with treasured memories of our eleven years together that were now too painful to revisit.

After college, Charles and I had moved back to his hometown to be with his family. It felt wonderful to be accepted by his parents, sister, and extended family after being raised by my grandma, who I affectionately called Mimi, and growing up with just the two of us. Not that a day went by that I didn’t feel loved and cherished by Mimi; she always made sure I knew how much my parents had loved me. But I can’t deny that when I stepped foot into Charles’s family manor and was welcomed with open arms by his mom, sister, aunts, and uncles, it felt as if I had come home.

Charles had followed in his father’s footsteps, as was his plan, and I had not long after become a preacher’s wife.

Finally we could be together in the biblical sense, without the fear of being struck down for him checking out my rack. Our wedding night was filled with the nervous anticipation that you might expect from two virgins, and as I recalled all the scenes from my novellas and how the heroines had been carried away by the romance and ecstasy of their lovers’ touches, I waited for that moment to finally come. But the fireworks never came for me; the most Charles and I could muster was a fizzle. He frowned upon any attempt to spice up our sex life, allowing his beliefs to overshadow his desire to make me happy. I’m not talking about the “red room” kinky stuff either—I’m talking about exploring each other more openly and discovering what would push our buttons. To this day, I’m the only one who knows where my buttons are and how to push them.

I resigned myself to a life of trying to fit the mold of what a good Southern preacher’s wife should be, tirelessly making our home as welcoming as possible, and in the process, trying to find a purpose for my existence. Charles wanted a brood of children, so that’s what I focused on. But it seemed I couldn’t fulfill that role successfully either, and after years of peeing on a stick, chasing that illusive blue line, we drifted apart. I’m sad to admit I gave up on the dream long before Charles did, the nervous excitement of waiting those few minutes for the test to present its findings turning into dread before I’d even unwrapped the kit. I knew what the result would be, but I carried on the charade for Charles’s benefit and then bore the weight of his disappointment.