Mogul (Manhattan #2)(15)
“Okay then.” Suddenly, I think, why not? I won’t end up worse off than I already am, and I could end up far, far better. Like, with my Workaholic’s hands all over me. But how can I find his name when I haven’t been able to so far?
I consider this for a second. And then it hits me. How did I never think of this before? Because you were too busy jerking off to him in the tub, Sara. Duh. Impulsively, I dial the number for the ma?tre d’ at Daniel’s direct line and pray that he remembers me when he answers with a curt French accent.
“Oui. Fran?ois.”
Hardly believing I’m doing this, I get straight to the point because I know Fran?ois doesn’t like to dally on bullshit. “Hi, I’d like to see if you can do me a favor and check back on your guest list for me. I need the name of one of your guests that stayed at our hotel recently.”
“Sara Davies,” Fran?ois purrs with a chuckle, recognizing my voice, and then he asks me what date, and says he’ll look into it.
“Really? You’d do that for me? Thank you!” I hang up, suddenly wide-eyed. Hell and holy shit, how did I not think of it before? My Workaholic will have had to write down his name at Daniel. Pay with a credit card. Check his coat. Something.
I’m nearly breathless with excitement, suddenly glancing at an inquisitive-looking Bryn. She looks so interested she’s nearly falling off her chair. “He’s helping me find him. Your turn,” I finally tell her, recovering myself.
“Did you really call?” She sounds doubtful.
“Do you want to call back to verify? Come on. Your turn. Go after him, Bryn,” I encourage, suddenly excited for her to do something empowering and maybe a little reckless, too.
And Bryn suddenly grabs her phone and shoots off a text, and I know who she’s texting.
So Bryn texts Christos, and as I watch her start flushing and getting all nervous, I know that this isn’t a joke. This is us, and these are our lives, and sometimes you just need to go for it.
And when Bryn suddenly heads out, looking all guilty and excited, I just know that, at least for her, business and pleasure are definitely mixing tonight.
What do you have in store for me though, stars? I wonder without daring to hope. Then I stand at the window and look out at the city, and I can’t help but hope.
I stare out the window at New York City, the city that never sleeps, where something crazy happens every day, numbing you to the hustle and bustle. It’s a city not everyone could live in, but I can’t imagine living anywhere else. My earbuds are as permanent as me, walking everywhere. Thanks to walking, my legs have been lean and toned all these years, looking as good as when I spent the better part of my childhood and teen years dancing.
God. It was magical, to move my body to the music. I would be the instrument that the music moved, and the happiest moments I remember happened when I was lost in that music, my mind a blank, simply completely immersed in the sound and how it made my body sway to it.
Sex with him felt like that, where no thought came in, only me moving to the pace he set.
Men never have that control over me, usually I would think I only satisfied my lust and that was that, but with this one, one night wasn’t enough. It was a taste that only made me crave more, and now I don’t even look at other men because they’re just not… that guy.
The guy whose name I’ll find out very, very soon.
PARK
Sara
It’s the audition I’ve been waiting for, and I’m holding nothing back. I’m in my last pose—a damn fine split, sweating to the tips of my fingers and catching my breath as the music ends. And a deathly silence settles in the room.
“We’ll call you,” the woman in the perfect bun says after a long moment.
She’s stoic, with her legs crossed, as she sits in one of the chairs lined up at the side of the dance floor where I just leapt, twirled, twizzled, and split, did pirouettes, grand jetés, and fouetté turns, and I had my best run with this piece since I can remember. A man sits next to her who is just as stoic as she is. Neither of their expressions reveals the one crucial thing I want to know: whether they liked my piece. My moves. Me.
And whether my performance was good enough to get me into the show.
“Thank you,” I answer as formally as I can, and then I get to my feet, grab my towel, and step out of the room. I pick up my duffel from the waiting-room sofa, exchange my dance shoes for my running shoes, and head out in leggings and a tight, long-sleeved tank top, draping a sweater around my shoulders.
I’m trying not to feel defeated and assume the same thing that always happens will happen—that I will never get the call. I need to stay positive, because good thoughts bring good things.
When I head home to find an empty apartment, I remember that Bryn was out dog-walking this afternoon after work. I’ll be alone with nothing but my damn thoughts for a few more hours. I toss my duffel onto the couch, then throw myself next to it. I wish I’d told Bryn to wait for me. I need a distraction. Without one, I’m going to either eat my nails raw or eat Bryn’s secret chocolate stash. Neither of which is a good option.
I’m drumming my feet on the carpet and nervously surfing my phone when I decide to freshen up. I’m barely out of the shower, still wet and drying off, when my phone rings. Bryn’s name appears on the screen, and I almost squeal with relief. Nearly tripping on the bath mat as I step out, I grab the phone to answer.