Chaos Choreography (InCryptid, #5)(15)
“Yeah. Hmm.” Valerie Pryor was a redhead. It was a decision based half on vanity—I always wanted red hair when I was a kid, and I was never allowed to dye it, since that would have made me stand out too much—and half on practicality, because again, red hair stood out. Between the costumes and the hair, few people remembered much about “Valerie’s” face. They came away with an impression of color and semi-nudity, and didn’t really look at things like the shape of my cheekbones.
Unfortunately, while my costumes had fared reasonably well during the move, my wigs were outdated and disheveled after their time in the box. It would look odd if I showed up on television with the exact same hairstyle I’d had three years ago, and if I tried to rehab the wigs, there was a chance I’d wind up damaging them.
“Is that real human hair?” asked Dominic, sounding somewhere between amazed and appalled.
“Yup. Expensive, but you’re not going to find anything that looks more realistic, or does a better job of fooling tracking spells. I buy them from a wig shop in Salem. It’s run by a very sweet harpy and her daughter. They have feathers in their hair, and pulling them out would hurt like hell, since living feathers have blood vessels in them. They make wigs instead. They do a good business among the gorgon community and with other cryptids who have reasons to hide their scalps.” I was already running the numbers in my head on how many wigs I could afford. Dad would probably give me the money if I asked, since he’d approved this mission, and it would be nice to have something styled in a braid or updo, just to make the rumbas easier.
“I see,” said Dominic. He paused, and then said, “When we met, I thought your dancing was frivolous. I suppose I still do, on some level. Your work is more important than the dance floor.”
I glanced up, raising an eyebrow. He shook his head; he wasn’t done.
“But your joy when you dance . . . it’s radiant. The preparation, the work, the thought you put into every element of the presentation . . . this isn’t frivolous. It may not be what I recognize as important, but that doesn’t mean it’s worthless. I’m glad you’re going to do this reunion show. I think that, as your husband, I owe it to myself to take more time to watch you dance.”
“That sort of thing gets you kissed, Mister,” I said, before standing and doing just that. Dominic looped his arms around my waist and pulled me close. He’d always been an excellent kisser, from the time that I first put my lips on his in an alley in New York, but time and comfort had elevated him to an Olympic level. If there had been a gold medal for kissing, I would have given it to him hands-down.
When I finally pulled away, my cheeks were hot and felt like they were as red as my wigs. “Okay, handsome,” I said. “Let’s go call Artie about getting you that credit card and fake ID. We’re going to Hollywood.”
Four
“Chin up, shoulders back, trigger finger ready. Now go out there, my darling girl, and prove that you’re the one.”
—Enid Healy
The lobby of the Crier Theater in Hollywood, California, six weeks later
THE AIR INSIDE THE LOBBY was at least five degrees cooler than the air outside. It felt more like my native Portland than like Hollywood, land of sunscreen, tanning beds, and movie stars with thousand-dollar skin. I shoved my sunglasses into my oversized dance bag, blinking rapidly to adjust to the switch from outdoor bright to indoor dim. Everyone around me was doing the same thing, which gave me an excuse to hang back from the crowd and get a feel for the situation.
The building was familiar, of course: this was where we’d done my original season of Dance or Die. Holding our final rehearsals on the actual performance stage used for live shows made it easier for us to get comfortable with routines that we barely had time to learn, which cut down on injuries. Cutting down on injuries lowered the show’s insurance rates, so everybody won. Besides, the theater was huge. There was plenty of practice space, and the plumbing almost never decided to back up and flood the bathrooms. Almost. Stepping into the Crier Theater was like coming home.
Dominic was a different but equally familiar presence behind me, although his blond-tipped hair and studiously “I am in a boy band, ask me about our new single” attire made him less familiar when I actually looked at him. Dominic De Luca wasn’t the kind of guy Valerie Pryor would have looked at twice, much less gotten involved with. David Laflin, on the other hand, had all Dominic’s natural hotness, combined with a much more modern sense of style. He was believable as part of her image. That was what mattered here. Image. Reality was boring if it didn’t have a layer of sequins on top.
“Remember,” I murmured. “If someone asks you a question you can’t answer, just laugh and either look in a mirror or look at me.”
“I am to be your boy toy,” he said. He sounded amused. That was good. I couldn’t have done this if he hadn’t been willing to play along.
Six weeks seemed like a long time when I’d agreed to do the show. Six weeks hadn’t been nearly long enough. Not when I needed to have my costumes altered, wigs made, and get a whole new identity set up for Dominic—a big task under any circumstances, and one that was made bigger by the fact that some of Valerie’s paperwork was out-of-date. We’d managed to finish everything just under the wire, and now here I was, a week out from our first show, about to become reacquainted with the people I’d once thought of as my natural peers.