The Kisser Read online

  I flick Dirk across the shoulder with a backhand. “Dude, you cannot do that to me either?”

  “What are you talking about?” He flicks me back.

  “You winked.”

  “I wasn’t winking at you.” He winks repeatedly with exaggeration. “I was winking for emphasis.” He winks again. “Why are you behaving like such a homophobe?”

  My voice tips low. “How can I be a homophobe when my best friend is a homosexual?”

  “I don’t know, but now it’s your tone that just sounds... rude,” he scowls.

  I fire back. “I’m not being rude.”

  “An ass then.”

  What?

  “You’re not an ass, Taylor” interrupts Jesse. “But Dirk most certainly wants to get in there.”

  Jesse ruffles the top of Dirk’s head as he flies in to stand between us fully dressed in Adidas like he thinks he’s a basketball star rather than a dancer.

  “Why do you think Dirk couldn’t commit to me, Taylor?” Jesse taps my cheek and puckers his lips as if he’s about to kiss me.

  I whack his hand away.

  “Dirkland will always be in love with you. Too bad you’re straight.” Jesse also winks as he walks away.

  My heart breaks. It’s really strange how sorry I feel for Dirk right now. The guy, with both his hands planted over his reddening face, has been my best friend since we were eight. I think the fact he came out when he was ten made it easy for us to remain friends for the last thirteen years. We both had dark secrets we were hiding. Secrets deep down we were ashamed to confess to anyone but each other: He’s gay. I’m a murderer who murdered his own mother with a single kick to the heart at the age of three.

  Dirk peels his fingers from his face. “Don’t listen to Jesse. He’s deflecting.”

  “You mean projecting?”

  “Sheesh, I don’t know. I’m a dancer, not a psychotherapist.”

  We both laugh.

  The sound of typical warm-up music—Chopin, Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2—resonates through emptying halls as dancers, like soldiers, shuttle single file into their classes.

  I turn towards the heavy double doors where Dirk and I need to go. “You ready to dance dirty?”

  “You think these ladies can handle it?” He smiles slyly. “I mean the two of us? Together?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I reply. “I’m sure they’ve already filled out their checks. We just need to make sure they sign and hand the money over.”

  Dirk purses his lips to the side. “You don’t think this is odd? Giving an ‘exhibition’ to gain funds?”

  “You like the apartment the school puts you up in?”

  “Yeah,” he chortles.

  He should. Dirk’s apartment is bigger than the average size bachelor pad in this bustling metropolis, and it includes parking.

  “The world’s a stage, man, and we’re dancers,” I say. “It doesn’t matter where we are as long as we’re in the center of it with all eyes on us.”

  “That sounds like something your marketer told you. Tried to sell you on.”

  “Actually,” I rub my chin. “I think it was. In an email.”

  “You mean you still haven’t met this person?”

  “Hell, no. Penny deals with all that shit.”

  “Have you seen any of your social media posts recently?”

  “Nope.”

  “You should. You’ve got a million followers and you look great. The images are themed and colored in coordinating colors and effects—a retro meets contemporary theme. Whoever is designing the campaigns really knows what he’s doing.”

  “He must. We’ve seen a serious increase in enrollment and sponsorship, so hiring a marketer was a good idea.”

  “Your idea?”

  “Of course.” I nod.

  Somebody needs to save my family’s school before it goes extinct.

  “But this,” Dirk points his thumb at the doors. “This isn’t your idea, is it?”

  “No. Like I said, this one belongs to the marketer.”

  “And you’re just going to trust this person you’ve never spoken to except through a few emails?”

  “I do as I’m expected.” I stretch my arms to loosen up. “I dance. That’s why I’m alive.”

  “Right.” Dirk nods. “I’m curious. If you had to pick between the two, which would you choose? Women or dancing?”

  I’m Taylor Rose.

  I don’t have to choose.

  I have fans.

  So, I get both.

  Sex, dance, the school—it’s all one thing to me. Doesn’t matter if I like or loathe any of it because no matter what I do, whether I want it or not, I get more love than I know what to do with.

  There’s only one thing I’ve ever loved, and I can’t care to love anything else again. Not dance. Not even the school. And most certainly not another human being. I refuse to love. Period.

  I’m only doing what is expected of me because that’s what she would’ve loved. That’s what would’ve made her happy. If I had listened and done what I was told, my mother would still be here today.

  Putting the bundle of rosebuds to my nose, I take a whiff. “We shouldn’t talk about this anymore,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” I grin. “It’s showtime.”

  Pushing the doors open to enter the grand ballroom, both Dirk and I sing, “Ladies!”

  We each front our best fake, well-rehearsed smile. With our shoulders down, chest out, arms open but relaxed, Dirk and I walk into the room that has a ceiling three-stories high. Windows span the full length of the longest wall, from one deco column to another. The restored neoclassical building built in the 1920s is the most eloquent of all the rooms with a bright but soft glow.

  I prefer to dance in this room. It’s reminiscent of a time when cigarettes and garments adorned with fur and feathers were something of prestige and at one point this room used to be a nightclub.

  Immediately, we are greeted by a woman dressed sleekly in a short black business casual dress and in the company of a younger girl, her daughter, also in black but dressed more plainly.

  Fourteen, I believe the girl is (if I remember the email correctly—I usually only skim the first line). I give the teeny bopper the flowers.

  “Roses?” the young lady smiles brightly. “For me?”

  “Yes.” I smile back.

  Her mother interrupts with a shaky voice, putting out her nervous hand. “It’s so wonderful to meet you in person. We are big fans of yours, Mr. Rose.”

  I take her hand. A woman of her stature and wealth shouldn’t be trembling so easily, but then again, she’s in the company of young stallions. “Please, call me Taylor and this is—”

  “Dirk!” shouts the teenager. “I watch all your online videos. I’m your biggest fan.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to say.” Dirk blushes. “Thank you.”

  I immediately cut to the chase. “Penny says you weren’t sure about the future of the conservatory and that—”

  “You mean your grandmother?” The shakiness in the woman’s voice is gone.

  I grin. “Yes, Penny. I can assure you—”

  “I used to dance here,” the mother interrupts. “I attended this school.” The woman looks up to the ceiling allowing her eyes to wander. They glow with the room.

  “Yes, I know Ms. Peters. I’ve seen pictures of you in the library. You were prima until you broke your foot.”

  Shame. Sorry, not sorry. That’s the life of a dancer.

  “You’ve seen pictures of me?” Her eyes twinkle.

  “Of course,” I assure her. “There are twenty-two pictures of you in the prima album. One-hundred and sixteen pictures of you in the Nutcracker album for the year you danced as prima and—”

  “That’s enough,” she blushes. “They weren’t lying about you, Taylor. You really do love dance, don’t you?”

  “No, I love this school,” I lie with a glint of you’re-totally-buying-my-bullshit
in my eye, which I’m sure she sees as stars. “Would you like to see the performance we’ve prepared for you and your daughter today?” I ask. “Perhaps if you see how hard we are working here...”

  Then you’ll give us a portion of your friggin’ trust fund.

  I stretch out my arm and on cue, Dirk walks to the corner, bringing two folding chairs, which he opens for each lady.

  “Please, sit,” I say.

  “Oh, okay,” says the mother, watching her daughter delighted to be assisted by Dirk.

  Without delay, I head over to the stereo system, turn up the classical music, and do what I always do...

  Exactly. What. Is. Expected. Of. Me.

  The expectation here, however, is not to leap, flip, jump, spin, split, create art using body movement, or perform acrobatics that only I can do, but it’s to ensure the survival of my family’s legacy—a conservatory started by a family of dancers nearly a century ago, along with a great fortune.

  Within the first introduction, the mother and daughter are in awe. They should be. From morning to sunset and sometimes into the wee hours of the night, except for nights Dirk and I go to Club Max, I train for this.

  It only takes two songs before I see the mother fumbling at her purse and I decide to make my move. As Dirk continues to show off his jumps in time with the music, keeping the daughter’s attention and distracted, I kneel beside her mother to seal the deal.

  Ms. Peters is sweating. She’s even panting, with her hands lingering at her neckline, wanting to shake the top of her dress to fan herself.

  I put my hand on her knee. “What do you think? As an alumnus your opinion matters. Do you think we need to get more creative? Dirk and I have been working on these routines tirelessly. Do you think it’s enough to impress the upcoming season’s audience?”

  “Oh, it’s wo-wonderful,” she stutters, admiring my hair, indigo blue bedroom eyes, smooth square jaw, as well as my ripped shoulders. “Very impressive.”

  “Hmm,” I hum, squeezing her knee just slightly so the gesture seems friendly but also intriguing. “I just don’t ever feel like we’re good enough, you know? And we just want to dance, but it costs so much to make a living off those dreams.”

  “You don’t have to worry,” she wraps her hand over mine and taps lightly. “I’ll take care of it. You’re wonderfully talented, Taylor. I see why my daughter has been obsessed with the two of you—a couple of celebrities.” The woman looks directly into my eyes and then at my pouty-shaped mouth but her eyes don’t stay there long. “We’re also very thankful that you’re adding cameras, so we can see behind the scenes of all that goes on here.” Her eyes wander to my chiseled chest, my cut abs, and then down to my...

  “Mom!” interrupts her daughter. “Can I try dancing? I want to dance here.”

  “Oh no, Melissa,” her mother says calmly. “You’re a much better fiddler than you are a dancer.”

  I don’t mean to scowl but I do. Who tells someone they can’t dance? Her own daughter, the daughter of a prima, no less!

  “What do you mean? Have you ever tried dancing?” I ask the girl.

  Melissa frowns, bowing her head. “My mother won’t let me.”

  That doesn’t make sense. “Why not?”

  Ms. Peters looks me directly in the eye again. “I died to be prima. Gave up everything and died again when I broke my foot. But it’s worth the stress if you love what you do. Melissa loves her violin. It’s as if the instrument was made just for her.”

  “Is that true?” I ask Melissa.

  The girl smiles brilliantly. “Yes. I love music. It’s...” Melissa inhales deeply, her lungs expanding so wide it’s as if she intends to suck in every last breath of air covering the planet because she owns it. “It’s my true love.”

  “I can tell you love dancing, Taylor.” Ms. Peters says, eyes blazing. “Watching you brings me back to a time when dance was the only thing that mattered to me.” She sighs, suddenly looking forlorn as we lock eyes. “You do love dancing, don’t you?”

  My throat suddenly feels swollen. Is it possible she can see the emptiness? “I lo—” I swallow. “I do lo—”

  Dirk interrupts. “You can’t ask him a question like that. He gets choked up, he loves dancing so much.”

  Ms. Peters nods, appeased. “Thank you for doing this demonstration for us, gentlemen. How much do you need? One?”

  “Wha... one?” I stutter.

  “One million?”

  I clear my throat. “Uh... yeah... yes! That will be very generous of you.”

  “We’ll make it two million,” she corrects with a tap on my nose. “But I’m not making a donation because I was once prima at this school. My generosity I give to the world because the world deserves the gift of watching you dance.”

  Scum. I feel like such a scumbag. The school, me, Penny! We don’t even need that money. If I was allowed to do with the school what I really wanted, we wouldn’t need to solicit sponsors or donors.

  We need to expand. We need to diversify.

  Hip-hop, modern, contemporary—these are all styles we should be opening classes to stay relevant. Ballet will always be the foundation. I would encourage every student to enroll in those classes, except it would not be a requirement.

  Pulling the flannel hood of my denim jacket over my head, I exit the backdoor to the studio and head towards the parking structure across the street. I do a few flips and tricks on the way to my car where no one can see. Penny would have a fit if she saw me out here like this.

  And why do I care? I’m twenty-four years old!

  Because she’s the only family you got, dummy, and you’ll do what she says before you give her a heart attack and kill her, too.

  Popping the door open to my sexy white with black rims Maserati GranTurismo, which I bought with the money I made from modeling, I get in, putting the key in the ignition and then pause.

  I don’t know what I’m doing.

  That woman, Ms. Peters, asked me if I loved dancing and I hesitated. The sheer joy in her daughter’s face with the mention of the word “fiddle”—

  I don’t think I’ve ever known joy like that. It makes my eyes wet. My throat feels swollen again and I take a moment.

  Leaning my head back, I scroll my eyes, swiveling my head to see if anyone is around...

  No one.

  The silence is thick and I grab the steering wheel, muttering, “Mother?”

  I don’t know why I talk to her sometimes. I’ve never been to church and I have no idea where people go once their gone, but I can only hope that maybe my mother did have a soul and perhaps she’s still around. It’s stupid to try and talk to her, I know, especially since I obviously have no soul. But it seems to make the ache in my throat go away.

  “Mom, I need help. I don’t know where you are or if you can hear me, but I need to know if I’m following through on this life you left me with. Am I the dancer you wanted me to be? Can you give me a sign? Any sign, Mom, that I’ve become exactly what you expected of me?”

  The air in the car is stiff accompanied only by...

  Silence.

  I wait a few minutes, collecting my cool.

  I’m famous. I’ve been told I’m the most adored dancer on the planet, but I wonder what people would think if they knew I was behaving like a child—I’m a grown man talking to himself.

  I turn the ignition and I’m completely surprised to hear...

  More silence?

  Whatha?

  “Ah, hell.”

  I pump the gas and crank the ignition again and again.

  “Damn!” I slam my hands on the steering wheel.

  Pulling out my phone, I notice my eyes are red in the rearview mirror. I was going to call Dirk, but shit! I think I just need to be alone. If Dirk sees me like this—looking like a crybaby—he’ll get teary-eyed as well and fall all over me. I love the guy, but not like that.

  Not to mention, he’ll try to console me—get me to think the opposite of what I know i
s the truth: This is not my mom but Karma trying to teach me a lesson.

  I used my skills—my body—to sucker two million dollars out of a single mother.

  I grab my sack, flip on a cap, and get out, heading back to the street where I see a bus is preparing to stop in front of the studio.

  “Seventh Street” flashes above the oversized square windshield. I figure I live on Sixth and I can take the bus home and deal with my car in the morning. Dirk is supposed to pick me up to take us out later anyway, so I won’t need wheels this evening.

  Zigzagging my feet hastily through the street, I slide on my sunglasses and reach the bus doors as they start to hiss shut. The driver gives me a sneer initially, but she opens the doors when I pull down my shades to blink my twinkling dark indigo blues.

  Up the steps, I fly, panting just slightly. I did have to run to make it onboard in time.

  I clutch the handrails above me as the bus rolls onward. Spying the empty seats at the back, I head towards them when I stop abruptly.

  I also stop panting, breathing easily.

  The scent of something familiar—floral but light—fills my nostrils and I inhale deeply.

  Roses.

  To the left, from the corner of my eye, I make out a short pink halter dress and red hair cut into a wavy bob above bare, soft-skinned shoulders.

  I look down to the seat next to the woman and whaddya know?

  The open bag laying across the seat is stuffed with magazines. I’m on all the front covers.

  This is going to be too. Easy!

  I reach both hands towards the rail above the seat and lean my body forward just a little. I take a moment to observe the woman’s profile. She’s pretty. Pale blue eyes—a blue much lighter than mine, plus a pointed nose, rosy cheeks, glossed red lips, and a tiny cleft at the center of her petite chin. Not too much makeup. Just a little, but she’s got a lot of thigh. Miles and miles of long fair thighs.

  I notice her black umbrella leaning against the seat, blocking my path to sit next to her. So, I grab the handle and nudge it in her direction as I clear my throat.

  “Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

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