It's a Date Read online

  Mae places her arm in mine. “I need to get to my seat. Now,” she demands. I’m shocked into silence as I lead her back into the theatre and to our seats, which are in the center of the third row. Hell, we are so close to the stage, I can see the scuffs on their bizarre-ass shoes.

  I applaud the dudes who do ballet because I would not be able wear nut-hugging tights and those damn toe-crushing shoes. I flinch as I think about what their feet look like. I recall my one and only up-close-and-personal interaction with a psychotic ballerina. That’s one mistake I’ll never forget. Note to self: don’t ever let your mother set you up with somebody.

  Act II starts with the angels and then the Sugar Plum Fairy. Being a twenty-nine-year-old man, I highly doubt I should know the names of all of these characters, but I do. I can list them off, starting from Drosselmeyer to Mother Ginger. I seriously need to stop coming to these things.

  Mae nudges me as people stand and applaud; confused, I look around and realize that I must have fallen asleep. Ah well, I’m sure the Sugar Plum Fairy's Cavalier put on a flawless performance. Straightening my slacks, I stand up next to Mae as she reaches for my hand and squeezes.

  In a barely audible voice I hear Mae say, “Oh, there she is.”

  I look up at the stage as the Snow Queen takes her bow with her partner then straightens her lithe body. Staring into the audience, her eyes scan the faces before pausing, looking straight at me. I don’t notice Mae yelping with excitement at my side as I take in the pure beauty of the woman in front of me. Her eyes don’t leave mine as she steps back then forward again, raising her arms into the air. Her fingers are laced with her dance partner’s, and jealous anticipation smashes into me like a boulder falling onto a highway.

  Her beauty enthralls me and I find myself captivated, incapable of looking anywhere else. She’s like a siren, drawing me in with her splendor. I have to stop myself from jumping over the two rows in front of us to reach her and claim her as mine. The pull I feel toward this stunning woman is magnetic in nature and growing by the second, along with the intense need to touch and connect with her.

  I need her. It’s primal.

  I want to claim her as my own. Her expression tells me there is something wrong, and my gut tells me it’s him. That bastard needs to let go of her hand before I do something drastic to a complete stranger.

  My world comes to an abrupt halt and starts revolving on a different magnetic axis. Fuck the north and south magnetic poles: I’m spinning on Heather Lane.

  The curtains close and the houselights are brought back up so the audience can exit without tripping over each other. I’m still gazing at the stage. The red curtain has taken place of what I want to see.

  Get your shit together, Ryan.

  Mae is already at the end of our row when she calls out, “Noah? Is everything okay?”

  I pick up the program on the armrest before walking over to her. “All good. Are you ready to head home?”

  She scowls at me and shit, what have I done to bring out this aggressive side of her?

  “No! I want a few autographs from the performers,” she demands. My eyes widen and I nod—I’m pussy-whipped by a woman I know nothing about.

  We head out to the lobby where a crowd has gathered in hopes of meeting a distinguished ballerina. The lobby is alive with the spirit of Christmas as Silver Bells by Michael Bublé serenades one and all. I stand behind Mae and watch as the dancers pour out of the door labeled ‘Backstage’ and begin signing programs for people of all ages. As Mae strolls into the crowd, I signal to her that I’ll be standing in the corner, away from the hordes of ballet fans. I have no doubt in my mind that she hopes to meet Heather Lane. Hell, I’m hoping my world doesn’t combust when I get a second glimpse of her.

  Heather

  I MANAGE TO fake a smile as I walk out into the lobby, feeling Nik’s hand at the small of my back. All I want to do is leave and go to my hotel. There is nothing I desire more than to be done with him and this tour. Stepping away from his hand, I bend down and sign a program for a little girl in a bright pink tutu. Smiling brightly as I sign my name in a neon-pink permanent marker, I tell her, "I love your tutu. Did you know that pink happens to be my favorite color?” She giggles and hugs me quickly before returning to her mother.

  I step forward into the throng of people, hoping to lose Nik, but he manages to stay close to me each and every time I move. After a few more autographs in my signature pink marker, I look up into the eyes of the elderly woman I saw while on stage. I’d say she’s in her late sixties, with gray hair that is pinned back and wearing a rather outdated red dress.

  Her smile is infectious as she says “Oh Heather! It’s such an honor to meet you. I have been keeping up with you ever since you joined the First Position Ballet Company.”

  I’m a little taken by surprise as I accept the program from her trembling hands. Signing my name with a practiced flourish before handing it back to her, I murmur, "I'm so happy you enjoyed the show this evening.”

  “I have been going to the ballet every Christmas Eve for the past thirty-two years, and darling, your impersonation of the Snow Queen was the best I have ever seen,” she blurts out quickly and before I realize what’s happening, she’s taken my wrist in her fragile, petite hand. I’m unable to hold in the laugh that escapes me as she pulls me to the other side of the room.

  Her excitement is contagious. She comes to an abrupt stop and I'm breathless. She’s fumbling in her purse for something and eventually fishes out a disposable camera. Suddenly her voice rings out, “Son. Quickly! Take a picture.”

  With a goofy smile plastered on my face and Christmas music filling my ears, I turn and glance in the direction of the camera. It seems like the room stills and the music pauses as I am now face to face with him, the stud who was watching the groom as the bride walked down the aisle (of course I mean the ballet). I’m frozen. The way his eyes roamed up and down my body during the final curtain made me feel as if he were making love to me in front of every single person in the theatre. I welcomed it. He looks up from his watch in that second when everything feels like it’s happening in slow motion. His eyes find the elderly woman, but quickly flash up to me.

  The harsh comment of, “What are you waiting for, son?” quickly fills my ears. I try to speak before she continues, but I’ve lost all of my words. I have nothing to say.

  Nothing.

  “I’m sure Miss Lane has a lot more to do than wait to have a photograph taken,” she adds to her question. I suddenly feel extremely shy as if I'm not used to being in front of thousands of people. I can't drag my eyes off of him, yet I feel like I should turn away and run—run from this man whose eyes bore into me.

  I've never really felt unattractive...well, there are those times when I feel bloated and disgusting and nothing fits right. But in this very moment, with his eyes locked on mine, I'm suddenly self-conscious. Even with my hair and makeup professionally done, I feel like I'm the furthest thing from appealing. Standing here in front of this gorgeous man, I feel like I’ve just rolled out of bed with my hair disheveled and my makeup smeared across my face.

  His eyes never leave mine as he steps toward this elderly woman and me, taking the disposable camera from her.

  She stands next to me, completely invading my personal space, as he holds the camera up. It covers his face and I suddenly detest the object, until he speaks.

  “Smile for me.”

  His low, slightly raspy baritone voice resonates through my being. My mouth gapes open.

  Gapes.

  He peers over the camera at me as if he’s waiting for me to smile for him. I do what he asks, but instead of my normal smile, he gets a crooked one and the flash goes off.

  The woman squeals and is about to hug me when I feel a large hand circle around my bicep. I break eye contact with the Greek god and focus straight into the eyes of a malicious man...Nik. I follow his gaze and I can quickly tell he’s sizing up this hunky man in front of me. He straightens
up as he pulls me to his chest.

  "It’s time to go, Heather," he whispers sharply into my ear. I manage the most insincere smile I can and step out of his grip. Turning back to the elderly woman, I reach out and hug her, grasping onto the motherly feel that radiates from her pores.

  Before I can let go of the sweet, fragile woman, Nik grabs me and hauls me against his chest even harder, hissing under his breath, “I said, we’re done here.” His fingers dig into my skin and I’m afraid his nails will draw blood soon if he doesn’t let go. Tears threaten my eyes, but then I feel him. I feel him approaching with such force that I almost want to cower into Nik’s hold. He’s unbelievably close to me and my body is high on him. His cologne surrounds me and…holy crap! I want to bathe in it. He smells amazing. I've never smelled a scent like that before, a scent that totally fits a man perfectly. I don't know this man, but it's him…mouthwatering, crisp, powerful...flawless.

  Unexpectedly, Nik wheezes and struggles for air as a muscular hand circles around his throat. My eyes move from the large, tanned hand, to the cuffs of his suit, to his chiseled jawline. He moves so fast that I can’t even take in his irate expression: he pulls Nik away from me and slams the slimeball up against a concrete pillar adjacent to where we are standing.

  This time, the room really does go silent. All you can hear is Nik dragging air into his lungs. It all happens so fast. One minute I’m stuck in Nik’s grip and the next this Greek god has freed me. I hear heavy footsteps approaching fast as two security guards make a pathway up to the two men. I watch as they pull this man off of Nik and yank him back a couple of feet. Nik grabs his throat as if in pain and the Greek god takes a few more steps backward with his hands raised in the air as if in surrender.

  “I’ll see myself out, gentlemen.” His deep, raspy voice echoes in the silent lobby as he turns to the elderly woman and offers his arm to her.

  “Damn right you will!” the first security guard snaps as the other stands between the two men.

  Right then, with everyone watching, he looks up at me as if to get one last glimpse. Once again, I’m iced up. The Snow Queen can’t move.

  I'm utterly embarrassed by the turn of events and I turn away from the stranger who saved me. I know I should stay and thank him for what he did, but I simply can’t face a soul right now. Too afraid to turn around, my legs finally decide to start working as I make a beeline for my dressing room.

  Noah

  MAE AND I get back to the house, and I haven’t said a word since we left the Phoenix theatre, since I lost sight of her. What is there left to say when your world feels as if it is spinning backward? I’ve come to the realization that my life up to this point has been rotating on a false axis.

  A false motherfucking axis. Shit.

  Once we’re inside, I hug Mae briefly before heading to my bedroom. I shut the door and sit on the end of the bed as I loosen my tie, staring across the room at a bleak pale-gray wall. Methodically I remove my new watch, placing it on the bed as I replay the last hour of my evening. The second she turned and went in a different direction than me the floor felt like it fell out from underneath me. I’m enamored with her.

  Heather Lane.

  Who the hell is she?

  Abruptly, I realize that it’s the twenty-first century; I get off the bed, the mattress whining in protest. It takes all of three steps to get to the other side of the room where my tablet is charging on a small oak desk—I’m determined to find out more about this mystery woman who has set my world spiraling out of control. After unplugging the tablet, I slide my finger across the screen to bring it to life before I type in “Heather Lane” into Google Images. A plethora of pictures fills my screen. She is in every one of them.

  There are pictures of her dancing, signing autographs with fans, kissing the same fucking douche I pulled off of her tonight, and then there’s one of her alone.

  She’s not looking directly at the camera, but her smile nonetheless sets me on fire. Clicking on the image to enlarge it on my tablet, I can tell that she was at a white sandy beach when this photograph was taken. On the bottom right-hand corner, this past summer’s date is digitally printed on it. In the photograph, Heather’s rich dark-chocolate hair falls in waves alongside her porcelain skin, as her jade green eyes are fixed on someone or something beyond the camera’s view. Such a pure beauty—I doubt she’s wearing any makeup in this picture. My eyes move to her full roseate lips, which are parted in the most alluring smile.

  Without thinking, I save the image so I’m able to remember her exceptional smile. I need to see her again.

  After further research, I find that she’s rather significant in the ballet world. Thousands of fans flock to her social media pages asking her questions about something called a grand allegro...shit, I don’t know what the hell that is. I look that up too.

  I watch some of her dance videos online, which practically have a million views. It’s apparent that she’s a world-renowned ballerina. No wonder Mae was so absorbed in her. This clarifies why throngs of people were clamoring to get her attention tonight.

  A few hours later I find myself lying in bed as the ceiling grows in on me in this damn small room. It’s almost three in the morning and I need to fucking do something. I can’t lie here and think about her smile. I know nothing about this woman, other than she’s prominent in everything ballet.

  Let it go, Ryan.

  I can’t.

  In another five minutes, I’m in sweatpants and a lightweight workout shirt, walking out the door. I hit play on my Galaxy before strapping the workout band on my arm. Avicii’s song Addicted to You starts playing. For fuck’s sake.

  After stretching, I take off sprinting out of the neighborhood. I’m running fiercely and putting all of my pent-up energy into my body’s movements. There is not a soul in sight on this Christmas night as I hit a main street.

  The stoplights flash from red to green, as the roadways lie empty. I move from the sidewalk into the street, thinking that this is probably the only time I’d get to run without restrictions in Scottsdale. Along the double yellow lines I run as Avicii sings.

  Addicted?

  Fuck. All I know is her name. Let it go, Ryan, I tell myself repeatedly.

  I run for what feels like five minutes, but when I look at my watch an hour and a half has passed. I’ve been so stuck in my own head that I’ve completely lost track of time and where the fuck I am. I stop in the middle of an enormous intersection to get my bearings; the street signs pinpoint my location at East McDowell and North Central. I look down at my feet and notice the Phoenix Metro Light Rail tracks. I know for a fact without having to look up that the Phoenix theatre is on my right—I’ve run 10.8 miles from Scottsdale to Phoenix.

  To her.

  My shirt is soaked and plastered to my body. There is not a dry patch anywhere. I pull the shirt up over my abs, peeling it off as I walk to a trash can on the corner of the street. I toss it into the trash, not wanting the extra weight of a sweat-drenched shirt.

  Bending forward, I try to catch my breath before stretching. How in the hell did I get here? I don’t remember seeing any street signs or thinking about running in a certain direction.

  My fingers run through my short dark hair, now very damp, as I try to process this. She’s truly fucked with my head and she didn’t say a single word to me.

  I’m pacing in small circles with my hands on my torso trying to remind myself to breathe when the sky abruptly lights up in an electric blue. My eyes flicker up to the darkening skies that are rapidly approaching. Oh come the fuck on!

  There’s no taxi in sight and the Light Rail ends its services at two in the morning. My phone reads 4:23 in the morning. Groaning as I start running, I know I won’t make it back to Scottsdale before this fucking storm hits. My phone is blaring with weather alerts in an attempt to inform me of the approaching storm. What it’s really doing though, is advising me that I’m in for one hell of a 10.8 mile run.

  I take off, decidi
ng I’d rather run through this monstrous storm than quake on the sidewalk. I can’t sit around—I’ve always been proactive. As I’m running, I realize that this might be one of Arizona’s notorious dust storms. If it is, I’ll need to get inside somewhere. What a night to go for a run. Just as that thought crosses my mind, the floodgates open and massive raindrops start falling from the darkened sky.

  I find myself exhaling in relief until three bolts of lightning strike simultaneously, approximately two miles in front of me. Grunting, I push myself harder, racing through the thrashing downpour. I’m vastly regretting my decision to lose my shirt as the rain starts to sting my warm chest.

  The run seems ten times longer since I’m aware of how long I have to run this time. When I finally get to Mae’s house in Scottsdale, it is 5:52 a.m. I know Mae doesn’t wake up until 6:30, as she does every morning, so I drop my sweats and boxers at the front door then walk down the hallway to the bathroom attached to my room. I’m fucking freezing cold and scorching hot at the same time. I decide that taking a shower would be the smartest thing to do in my muddled condition.

  The bathroom fills with steam as I step into the shower. I force myself to stand under the burning water in order to rein in my body temperature. After washing and getting warmed up, I grab a towel to dry off before wiping my hand along the mirror to see myself enough to shave. Mae will be up in half an hour so I don’t see any reason to force myself to sleep.

  Half an hour passes when I hear Mae call out, “Noah? Son? Are you awake?” Her knuckles rap against my old, hollow wooden door. It’s got the word fuck carved into it. Although it’s been painted numerous times, I can still see the evidence of my rebellious teenage years.

  I’ve gotten dressed in a black V-neck shirt and jeans. “Yeah, I’m up. Come on in.” The door creaks open as she enters. I get up and walk over to her, pulling her into a hug, “Merry Christmas, Mae” I say fondly.