Chaos Choreography (InCryptid, #5)(21)
(Jessica’s involvement with the show had never ended, damn the luck. She’d become a choreographer’s assistant after her elimination, and haunted the stage to this day.)
It looked like I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. The people around Jessica gave her sidelong looks, some annoyed, some pitying. There was little of the easy camaraderie that seemed to pervade most of the dancers, even the ones who’d never met each other before.
“Yes, Jessica?” asked Adrian.
“Is everyone going to have a roommate?” she asked. “I’m a light sleeper.”
“Every apartment will contain four people at the outset, with two bedrooms and four beds,” said Adrian. “There is also a couch. You may attempt to convince whomever has been assigned to share a room with you that they’d rather sleep on the couch, but I’m not going to step in on your behalf.”
“Shouldn’t be a hard sell,” murmured someone behind me. I bit my lip to keep myself from laughing.
“Are there any other questions?” asked Adrian. Without hesitating, he plunged on: “No? Good. We’ll see you at seven tomorrow morning. Please fill out your paperwork before tripping over a cable and breaking an ankle or something, no one’s getting sued today.” He stood, adjusted his jacket, and strode away, with Lindy scurrying close behind him.
Clint paused long enough to throw us a smile just as bright as the one he’d been using for the cameras, if not quite as crisp. “I really am excited to see you all,” he said, and trotted away.
“Guess we’re doing this,” said Anders, stepping up next to me.
“Guess we are,” I said. “Can you and Lyra go find out whether we’re all rooming together, and start making trades if we aren’t? I need to go say good-bye to my boyfriend.”
“Always knew you’d land a hottie,” said Anders. “I should’ve moved faster to make sure it was me.”
“Not getting my email address from Jessica would have been a start,” I agreed, and kissed his cheek before heading for the stairs. I could have jumped off the stage—it was only a four-foot drop, and I have a tendency to leap off the sides of buildings at the slightest provocation—but I hadn’t filled out my paperwork yet, and I didn’t want to give the poor production aides panic attacks. They already had to work with Adrian and Lindy. They didn’t need me to start torturing them, too.
Dominic was seated on the aisle about two-thirds of the way back, where he had a good view of both the stage and the aisles leading up to it. He’d been providing cover, in other words, making sure nothing was going to get the drop on me while I was playing good little dancer.
I rewarded him for his clever placement with a kiss. He kissed me back, so I felt compelled to kiss him again. This somehow turned into several minutes of us passing the kissing responsibility back and forth, my arms remaining locked around his neck the entire time. A few of my fellow dancers whistled or catcalled amiably as they walked past, but I ignored them. I had more important things to do.
Finally, Dominic let go and asked, “Well? Was it everything you hoped it would be?”
“It was pretty much exactly what I expected,” I said. “I have to go see the official housing, but I should be able to sneak out after sunset. Meet you back at our usual spot?”
“Ah, yes; I’d missed this phase in our relationship. The intrigue. The subterfuge. The frequent need for tetanus shots.” Dominic kissed me again. “I’ll see you there.”
I let him go, and watched, only a little regretfully, as he walked away. It was going to be weird, sleeping by myself. But who knew? Maybe this was going to get us back to New York.
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” I said, and turned to head for the back of the room. It was time to fill out my paperwork and meet my roomies.
Five
“The only place you shouldn’t sleep when you have the chance is a den full of bears and rattlesnakes, and if you’re tired enough, even that turns negotiable.”
—Frances Brown
The Crier Apartments, privately owned by Crier Productions, about an hour later
ADRIAN CRIER WAS A SMART MAN: everyone who’d ever had cause to work with him knew that. Being a smart man, he’d invested in Burbank real estate more than twenty years ago, which had helped to fund his production company. Among his assets were several apartment buildings, one of which was kept perpetually open in order to house the people who came to work on his various shows—people like us.
We’d all stayed in the Crier Apartments before, and there was something oddly comforting about climbing the exposed exterior stairs to the second floor. The building followed the kind of open design that only works in deserts and places that get minimal amounts of rain: all the apartments had doors that opened on the outside, and were built around a central courtyard that contained a fountain and a barbecue grill, as well as a great deal of aquamarine tile. It was like looking down into an empty swimming pool. It also echoed weirdly, something that was being clearly illustrated by the people who were shouting across it to their friends.
“I am so glad we’re sharing a bedroom,” I said to Lyra, as I unlocked the door to our temporary home. “I know you’re not weird.”
“And I know you are weird,” she said amiably. “Do you still sneak out the window in the middle of the night?”