Take the Chance (Top Shelf Romance #9) - Brittainy Cherry Page 0,183

good.

I was no dance connoisseur but every number felt amateurish and overly dramatic. Trying to make a statement, somehow. Except for Darlene. My considerable bias aside, she was riveting. Stunning. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. The dumbass director shoved her in the back of every ensemble dance, and still she shone brighter than the lead dancer we were supposed to be watching.

Three routines later, and Darlene took the stage. She moved gracefully into a cone of light in a simple black dancer’s dress with billowy material that floated around her long legs. Her hair was tied up on her head in a loose ponytail, revealing the long lines of her neck and shoulders. Like my favorite shirt of hers, the back of her dress crisscrossed her shoulder blades—highlighting the lines and lean muscle. The sleeves were long but sheer, also giving elegant definition to her arms.

God, she’s so beautiful.

The program said she’d be dancing to a song called “Down.” I’d never heard it before, the first notes—a lone piano—descended like downward steps. Darlene remained frozen until a woman began to sing. A lonely voice, yet bright and clear.

I stared at Darlene, watched the play of her muscles under her skin as she moved, filled the small space with her presence, flowing like shadows and light; slow with the piano, fast and precise with the techno beat.

As the song came to an end, Darlene collapsed onto her back, braced on one elbow; the other arm reached for the unlit space above her, her hand grasping at nothing. On that final note and last haunting lyric, her back arched and her head fell back, as if she were being pulled upward by an unseen force, and then left there, suspended in the silence.

The moment hung and then the meager crowd caught their breath. I broke free from her spell and my hands slammed together over and over. A few other audience members whistled or whooped where they had only politely applauded every act that had come before.

My chest swelled with pride. She was the best and they all knew it.

Then the next and final dance came, and Darlene was once again relegated to the back of the stage. I didn’t know what kind of hierarchy this dance troupe had but it was painfully obvious Darlene deserved to be the lead.

I watched her make-do in the back with her partner—the clumsy schmuck who’d bruised her head in rehearsal a few weeks ago. She struggled with him now. I saw her correct mistakes, or cover for him when he was off-time. A sneer curled my lips, and I tried to focus on her. Just her.

And then it happened.

The pairs of dancers in the back came apart and then flew together, and Darlene’s klutzy partner stomped on her foot with his heel. I shot halfway out of my seat as Darlene’s face contorted in sudden pain. No one else seemed to have noticed—the lead dancer had executed some sort of gymnastic feat to capture their attention.

Darlene put on a stage face and I sank down slowly, watching in awe as she powered through the rest of her dance—about ten more seconds. She favored her right foot, but subtly, and the only real sign of her pain was the sweat the glistened across her chest.

As soon as the dance ended, the dancers bowed, and Darlene’s partner shot her an apologetic look. She stared straight ahead, into the lights that blinded her to the audience, but I saw the tears in her eyes and the clench of her jaw. She kept her right foot behind her left as she bowed to the smattering of applause, but as soon as the black curtain began to drop, she limped off.

The lights came up and while everyone else filed toward the exit, I raced down the small aisle with the flowers and jumped onto the stage. I had to paw at the heavy material for a moment but I found the split and stepped through it.

It was dim, but backstage lights guided me to a small anteroom where the dancers were laughing with post-show nerves and being congratulated by their director.

“Where’s Darlene?” I demanded.

They all stopped and exchanged glances. Her asshole partner had the good graces to look chagrined but said nothing.

“Probably in the dressing room,” the lead dancer said in a bitchy tone I didn’t like. “She kind of…does her own thing.”

I remembered how Darlene had told me they didn’t welcome her with open arms, but