Dance: The Collected Series Read online

  So I just sit back on the plush leather, kind of frustrated and annoyed, but a little part of me enjoying the mystery and suspense, too.

  This better be good, Dylan Campbell ...

  §

  “So? How was it?”

  I know he’s referring to the salted-caramel dessert (which was gorgeous, by the way), but I can’t help thinking back on the whole date. First of all, the car pulled up outside Eleven Madison Park. This was somewhere even I had heard of. According to NY Goss, it’s one of the best restaurants in the whole freaking world, never mind the city. It’s the kind of place that’s packed with A-listers every single night. The waiting list is supposed to be practically a year long, and as we were escorted inside– the staff all falling over themselves to help us, to bring us any little thing we could possibly desire – I wondered what strings Dylan had pulled to get us in here.

  The room was stunning. It was done all 1920’s style – like something out of the movie Titanic. The ceiling was so high they could’ve fit a whole other floor of the restaurant above our heads. And the waiters were so polite and discreet, they were practically invisible. But it was like they were telepathic or something. Because as soon as you finished your wine, your glass was topped up. As soon as you’d finished your food, your plate was quickly whisked away.

  I’d been expecting the usual: appetizer, entrée, dessert, accompanied by a good bottle of wine and maybe an espresso to finish. But this was the ‘tasting menu’, and course after course was brought to our table – so many tiny plates, each featuring exquisite arrangements of food, some of them so beautiful I wanted to frame them and put them on the wall of my apartment, never mind eat them.

  And things I’d never seen before: a salad decorated with beautiful, edible flowers, and everything just tasted amazing. The roasted duck. The carrot tartar (I still don’t know what that really was, but my God it was delicious!). And four courses of Long Island seafood, including scallops with pistachio! I thought pistachio was for fancy ice cream, not for seafood. I’ve clearly got a lot to learn about food ...

  A place like this? I mean holy crap. I know this is supposed to be somewhere I’d only dreamed about going. And sure, it’s somewhere I’ve seen in the magazines – all those pictures of celebrities leaving with their beautiful dates in their glamorous dresses. And I know that right now I’m supposed to feel like the luckiest girl in the world to actually be here, sitting in the middle of all this wealth and splendor. But the truth is, this is so far removed from my everyday life and even from all of the things I really want most of all, that I’ve never actually dreamed about coming somewhere like this ... So, to answer Dylan’s question: how was it?

  I sigh.

  “It was okay,” I say quietly.

  “Just okay?” Dylan replies, his eyes widening in disbelief. “Just okay?!”

  I shake my head and collect my thoughts.

  “I mean, it was amazing ...” I begin. And I can’t believe I’m about to say this. It sounds so ungrateful after all the thought he’s put into tonight, all the money he must have spent and connections he must have used just to get us these seats. But I also know that if we’ve got a shot at this, if we’ve got any chance of making it, I’ve gotta be honest. I’ve gotta be me. We’ve got to do it right this time. “It was amazing, Dylan. I mean it. But this isn’t what I want.”

  “I don’t understand,” he says, his thick brow knitting in confusion.

  “Exactly,” I reply. “You don’t understand me. You don’t understand that I don’t want fancy restaurants and the world’s most expensive wines. That doesn’t impress me ... That’s not who I am.”

  He’s quiet for a moment, processing what I say. Then he nods, his eyes filling with compassion and understanding.

  “I think I get it,” he says, reaching his hand across the table for mine.

  It will be the first time he’s touched me since that night – the night he shattered my heart completely. I steel myself for his touch, wondering if I should just pull my hand from the table and into the safety of my lap. But instead I leave it there, feeling the heat of his fingers as they enclose my own, even just that briefest touch of skin sending shockwaves right the way through me.

  “I mean it, Julia,” he says softly, keeping his eyes trained on mine. “I’m sorry.”

  And this time, I think I just about believe him.

  §

  Dylan stays a gentleman in the limo on the drive back to my apartment. He doesn’t try to make any moves, even though I can sense that he’d like nothing more than to tear this dress from my body right now.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to come back to mine?” he asks, darting a hopeful glance my way.

  “I’m sure,” I reply softly.

  When the car pulls up outside the steps to my crappy, run-down apartment building, I have to laugh to myself, knowing just how out of place a gleaming black stretch limo must look in this neighborhood.

  The driver opens my door and I step outside into the cool night air. And of course Dylan steps out too, obviously still trying his luck.

  “So,” he murmurs, taking a step towards me, “I’m guessing a coffee at your new place is out of the question, too?”

  “‘Fraid so,” I sigh, even though I can feel my body responding now despite myself.

  Fuck. It’s like any time I’m near Dylan Campbell, I want him.

  Stay strong, Julia.

  “Thank you for tonight,” I say, truthfully.

  He takes another step towards me, so close now that I can feel the desire radiating from him, so close that I can feel my own body crying out for him too, my nipples hardening, the warm ache growing between my legs.

  Stay strong ...

  But then he kisses me – a soft, gentle kiss that has me melting. And I kiss him back too, despite myself, shivering as I feel his hands move over my body, pulling me closer towards him, shivering again as I feel the sheer hardness of his cock pressing against my belly through my dress. I pull away, unable to trust myself.

  “That’s all you’re getting, I’m afraid,” I say, taking a deep breath and a step back away from him again, fixing my hair and pushing my back up straight.

  “I need you so fucking badly right now,” he growls, melting my resolve.

  I take a breath, knowing I need to give him more. Knowing that he deserves the truth at least ...

  “Listen,” I say. “There’s something else I need to tell you. I was a virgin when I met you because I was afraid, okay? Afraid of what might happen if I had sex. Afraid of ending up like my mom – still a teenager and having to marry a man she didn’t love because she’d gotten herself knocked up. And then I met you. And it was too much for me to resist. You opened my eyes to how good it can be, Dylan. To how wonderful something like that can feel. And I’m grateful for that, I really am. I was closing myself up to so much good before. But you know what I’ve learnt? I’ve learnt that sex doesn’t come without responsibility either. And it’s not just about whether or not you get yourself pregnant. So I’m gonna wait, again, until I’m sure.”

  He nods solemnly, and this time I know I’ve made myself perfectly clear.

  “Well, can I see you again? For another date?” he says. “Are you free tomorrow night? There’s the most amazing opera on at the Met. I just know you’d love it. I can send a car and ...”

  “No, no, no, I interrupt. “No more cars. No more amazing places. Don’t get me wrong. Tonight was great and all. But my feet are killing me in these shoes. And all these sequins are kind of digging into me, too. At heart, I really am just a jeans-and-sneakers kind of girl.”

  “So? What do you suggest?” he says, obviously happy that I’ve not completely blown him off.

  “There’s this really fun bar near here,” I offer. “Parkside Lounge. We can drink some beer and shoot some pool. How about it?”

  “Sounds great,” he says genuinely.

  I lean in to him, placing one final kiss on his lips, before quickl
y pulling away again, turning and running into my apartment before my resolve crumbles completely and I invite him upstairs.

  CHAPTER twenty-NINE

  When I first get to the bar, I almost don’t recognize him. For once, he’s not wearing a suit. Or even chinos. He’s dressed in a red and black plaid shirt, beat up blue jeans and Converse sneakers. It’s not that he even looks uncomfortable, just different. But the thing that does make him look uncomfortable? Right now I am totally owning him at pool.

  “How are you so damn good at this?” he says with a hint of disbelief.

  “You know what they say?” I reply. “Sign of a misspent youth ...”

  “I thought you spent all of your time dancing.”

  “Not all of it,” I explain, as I position my cue, ready to sink the black. “The pool hall was opposite the dance studio. Besides, dance is a notoriously difficult place to meet straight men. I learnt quickly that the best way to get a boy to notice me was to beat him at pool.”

  I slide back the cue, then hammer it into the white, sending the eight-ball slamming into the corner pocket, winning my second game in a row.

  “Well, it’s working,” he laughs. “I can’t take my damn eyes off you.”

  After I’ve totally wiped the floor with him, winning three games to zero, we take a seat in a quiet little corner booth and chat over beer and hotdogs. I feel myself unwinding. Because for once this feels totally ... normal.

  “What about you?” I say. “How did you misspend your youth?

  “To be honest? There wasn’t much of that,” he replies, taking a swig of his beer. “Being the eldest of the Campbells carries a lot of responsibility. I worked hard at boarding school, and at Dartmouth. I didn’t even go to that many parties.”

  “What about that graduation photo?” I say. “I thought you were stoned ...”

  “And you know what?” he says. “That was the last time. The next week, I was interning in the family firm while all my friends were spending their summers chatting up girls in Rome or on yachts in Cannes ... My family are important to me, and I never want to let them down.”

  As he talks, I realize that a lot of the things I thought made him cold – his dedication to work and to business – I thought was just about making money. But in fact, it’s not about money. It’s one of his good qualities. It’s about a dedication to his family. And it makes me think about my own.

  “Remember I told you about my deadbeat dad?” I say.

  He nods, leaning in towards me, his face becoming warm and compassionate.

  “Well, I went to see him a couple of weeks ago. He’ll never be the greatest dad in the world, but we talked. And I guess I’ve forgiven him for a lot of things. Maybe we’ll even have a normal relationship in the future ... Or as close to normal as my fucked-up family can get ...”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Dylan says, raising his beer bottle.

  I clink bottles with him, and as our eyes catch, we both take another hit of the ice-cold beer, and I feel a tingle of excitement run up my spine.

  §

  That night I decide to invite him up for coffee.

  “No promises,” I warn. “Just coffee ... We’ll see how the rest goes.”

  He follows me up to the third floor and waits patiently while I fish out my key from my bag.

  “Here we are ...” I say, opening the door and pushing it open to let him through. “It’s a little smaller than my last place ...”

  “You can say that again,” he laughs, as he looks around the cramped room, piled high with all the boxes I’ve still not got around to unpacking. “Take a seat,” I tell him, indicating the shabby old couch, “and I’ll fix us that coffee.”

  As I set it to brew, I can’t hide the excitement that’s building inside me, at the thought that maybe, just maybe, this could work out between us after all. I feel as giddy as a dumb teenager as I carry our steaming mugs back over to the couch, handing Dylan his then taking the seat next to him, painfully aware of how little space there is between us, his eyes trained on me, that now-familiar heat coming off him again.

  He takes a sip of his coffee. “That’s actually pretty good!” he says.

  “Don’t sound so shocked,” I laugh. “I spent a year as a barista before moving on to serve cocktails to guys in fancy suits, you know ...”

  Then I turn to him, my heart beginning to pound as I put down my mug on the little table in front of us, then take his from his hands and place it next to mine.

  I love the way he’s holding back, letting me take the lead for once, and slowly and softly I lean in to him, bringing my face close to his, pressing my lips against his, tasting the deep richness of the coffee as we kiss. His hands move into my hair and once again I can feel myself melting, my whole body yearning for him, that sweet ache building between my legs as our kiss becomes more urgent and passionate. But like a gentleman, his hands stay where they are, just holding my head, as time seems to stop around us, like we’re the only people in the whole world right now.

  And you know what it reminds me of?

  Those long, endless makeout sessions from my teenage years – full of pent up desire and holding back. It’s delicious and frustrating, and I want it to go on forever ...

  But soon I feel his hand moving to my thigh, and I feel my body giving in to him, my legs parting as his touch travels closer to the part of me that wants him the most. God. I want so badly to tear open his shirt, pull open his jeans, straddle him right here on this couch, fucking his goddamn brains out.

  But instead, I break the kiss, pulling a little away from him.

  “Sorry,” he murmurs. “I took things too far, didn’t I?”

  “It’s okay,” I say, rearranging my skirt around my thighs, my heart still beating so hard, my whole body flushed with yearning. “I want this too, Dylan, I really do. But I still think things are moving a little fast ...”

  “I understand,” he says gently. And I really think he does. “But I want to see you again. And soon. Is that okay?”

  “Of course,” I smile back, picking up my coffee mug and taking a sip.

  We spend another hour or so sitting on the sofa, chatting and laughing, and when I see him out to the front door, he doesn’t push for a kiss, even though I can tell he wants to so, so badly. But the way he’s holding back, remaining so considerate of my feelings, means he gets one without even trying.

  I give him a long lingering kiss goodnight, full of the promise of what’s to come if we can somehow make this work.

  And later, as I’m getting ready for bed, taking off my makeup and brushing my teeth, it dawns on me that all this dating is probably just as unfamiliar to me as it must be to Dylan. Because although I’ve fooled around and hooked up with guys and yes, beaten them at pool, in that whole time I’ve never let anyone get so close before, in case they became a threat to my prized virginity. I had friends, and I had hook-ups, and it’s strange that in all my twenty-one years I’ve never practiced that curious mix of friendship and sexual attraction that adds up to a real relationship. But now I think I’m looking forward to finding out just what that holds in store ...

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Unknown Number: I need your help. Meet me at The Standard hotel. 7pm.

  Juliet: Sorry, who is this??

  Unknown Number: Isabella.

  §

  A text like this, and from Isabella no less, is the last thing I ever expected to receive. Although I should have learnt by now not to be surprised by anything that girl does. I thought she despised me. Or at the very least, she had no interest in who I was or what I did at all.

  I stare at my cell in disbelief. I’m tempted to tell her to go jump. Or just to ignore her completely. But then I remember Dylan’s words about how much his family means to him, and I decide to be the bigger person here. Besides, I’m just too damn curious. What kind of ‘help’ could she possibly want from me?

  I check the time. It’s almost six now.

  Okay, I think grabb
ing my coat and my bag. Give me your worst, Isabella ...

  §

  “Now don’t you dare laugh,” she says, hands on hips, “or tell a soul. Or I will ruin you.”

  We’re up in Isabella’s suite at The Standard, and it’s not exactly the most promising start to our little meeting. But I’m here, so I guess things are gonna be on her terms.

  “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me,” I say. “I promise I won’t tell a soul.”

  Oh God, I think. What if she’s on drugs, or she’s in trouble, and I have to tell Dylan and break her trust.

  Please let it not be anything criminal, I beg inwardly.

  “Okay,” she says. “I know everyone things that I’m spoiled and useless and that I’ve got no passion or drive and that I don’t know what I want to do with my life ...”

  I start to comfort her. “Hey, no, Isabella, I’m sure that’s not what people think ...”

  “Save your breath,” she interrupts. “I know it’s true. Anyway, they’re wrong. There is something I want to do. It’s the only thing I’ve ever really cared about. It’s really important to me, okay? So you have to tell me the truth, Juliet. You have to tell me whether my audition piece for RADA is good enough ...”

  “Your audition piece?” I blurt out, confused.

  “My acting! My monologue! Ugh!” she sighs.

  “Wow,” I say. “That’s amazing, I had no idea.”

  “Nobody does,” she replies, like I’ve said the dumbest thing in the world. “And I know my parents wouldn’t approve. Between Dylan the golden boy of the family and Spencer, dedicating his life to saving the world, I’m expected to do something equally important. They’ll never back me. Any time I’ve even tried to mention it, they’ve shot me down. If I could get into RADA, though, then they’d change their minds. It’s the best acting school in the world, you know.”