Keep Dancing (25 page)

Jack lay there for a few minutes, breathing deeply. Then he unwound the scarf from my eyes, untied my wrists and ankles, and dropped back next to me.

“That was amazing,” I said, curling up against his chest. “Almost too intense.”

Jack smiled. “No such thing as too intense. That felt good, huh? And the French think
they
invented this stuff.”

“When do I get to tie you up?” I asked.

“Whenever you want, baby. I’ll give you the ride of your life.”

“You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?” I said.

He pulled me closer. “No comment. Let’s not ever go another week without fucking. That was a ridiculous waste of time. And spunk.”

I rested my chin on his chest. “You don’t have to be gross.”

“Nothing gross about it. It’s all-natural, baby. Nature’s finest.” He twitched his hips as I laughed.

“That’s true, I guess. What time do we have to be at the concert tomorrow? I want to go for a run before we leave.” With all the rain, I hadn’t been able to get as much exercise as I liked.

“Oh, it’s not tomorrow. It’s Sunday. We should probably get there around four.”

I sat up straight. “But you always play on Saturdays!”

Jack stifled a yawn. “Patrick changed the date right before the tour started, so we had to take a Sunday. What does it matter?”

This can’t be happening. Please tell me this isn’t happening.
“This Sunday is the Book Awards. Hawtey’s bought a table, and I have to escort Dermot to it. He’s up for best novel of the year. I’m sure I mentioned it.”

Jack sat up next to me. “You aren’t serious. You’d miss seeing us at the Garden?”

“I
have
to go to this awards thing. Dermot’s one of our biggest authors—he’d be really upset if I didn’t go. Ted and Perry would be furious at me!”

Jack got out of bed and crossed his arms. “Where do I fit in all this? You don’t care that it’s my final show? We won’t be touring for two years, except some dates in Europe. This is our biggest concert in the States!” He glared at me suspiciously. “I can’t believe you’d do that for some
writer.
Who is this guy, anyway?”

I jumped up and put my hand on his arm, but he shook me off. “Jack, it’s really important to me. I’ve never been to the awards; it’s a huge thing!”

“So is MSG!” Jack’s face took on a hard look that I’d never seen before. “Don’t fuck with me, Julia. You’ve got a thing for this guy, don’t you? Mary Jo showed me his picture on one of his stupid books.”

“I’ve had it with her! All she does is try to undermine me. I can’t believe you’d suggest that. What, because I’m a woman, I can’t be serious about my job? You think it has to be some sexual thing?”

“I guess you’re impressed with his
literary
credentials,” Jack snarled. “I thought you cared about me more than that.”

“And I thought you cared enough about
me
to understand if I have to miss one concert!”

“It’s not just any old concert; it’s the culmination of the whole thing. Who knows when we’ll be touring again!” Jack scowled. “I’m doing a song you’ve never heard. It’s the world premiere of that new one I’ve been sweating blood over.
Nobody’s
ever heard it before.”

He did have a point. In the midst of my misery, I realized that maybe there was a way out. “What time does the concert begin?” I asked.

“Nine o’clock. You know the drill,” he said in a sullen tone of voice.

“Okay. I should be able to make both. The Awards start at seven; I’m sure they’ll be over by nine. I’ll go there first and then catch a cab to the Garden. It’s being held in a big hotel ballroom in Times Square, so it’s only ten or so blocks away.”

Jack’s expression cleared. “I don’t mind if you miss the first couple of numbers. I just want you to make the last half. My new song will be near the end.”

“I’m sure I’ll catch more than that. How long can a few acceptance speeches last?”

Wow
, I thought as I leafed through the program at the Book Awards.
Who knew there were so many categories?
Children’s books, pre-teen, young adult, history, mystery; first novel, middle novel, next-to-last novel, posthumously published novel. Memoir, inspiration, religion, politics. But at least the authors were limited to five minutes per speech; our publicity director had assured me of that. “They’re really making an effort to cut down on the time this year,” she whispered to me as the opening presentation began. “Last year it ran past midnight, and a lot of people complained.”

Seated on my other side, Dermot touched my arm. “You’re looking glamorous,” he said. I’d borrowed a black velvet jacket and silver party dress from Vicky.

“Thanks. You’re very debonair, yourself.” Some people at the event seemed uncomfortable in their tuxes, but Dermot looked like he’d been born in his.

“So what do you think of my chances? I don’t see Jeff Sharkey taking the prize. The
Times
tore his book apart.” Dermot scrutinized the program’s list of competitors for Novel of the Year.

“I think you’ll definitely win.” It was the third time he’d asked; I was getting a little tired of reassuring him. Luckily he turned to Ted to ask him the same question, so I could I sneak a glance at my watch. It was 8:05 now; I should be fine. The Floor wasn’t due to start for an hour, and they usually opened a few minutes late.

My concert gear was in a small bag by my feet: leather pants and a tight leopard-print top. I planned to do a quick costume change in the MSG bathroom before I took my seat next to Vicky in the front row. I had given her the backstage pass earlier today when I’d stopped by her place to pick up the clothes. She had promised me to keep an eye on Jack, report on what went on before I got there, and also hold my seat.

The acceptance speech for Best Pre-teen Ghost Story concluded, and a new recipient stepped up to the microphone. As the winner of the Outstanding Novel about an Endangered Species droned on about his grandmother’s love of groundhogs, I recalled how jittery Jack had seemed while we were getting ready at the loft. Since the concert was in New York, he was able to get dressed at home and then have Rick drive him over to the arena. Normally Jack was incredibly blasé about performing, but tonight he’d seemed tense and on-edge. I could only surmise it was because of the new song, but when I asked him about it, he hadn’t wanted to discuss it. I figured even jaded rock stars could have an occasional case of nerves.

I glanced at my watch again: 8:30. The Endangered Species guy finally walked off the podium, and now it was time for Memoir. An actor who’d been through rehab accepted his award with refreshing brevity. But that was made up for by a pompous academic who nattered on until 9:05. Dermot was holding his notes at table level, surreptitiously going over his speech. Perry looked like he’d fallen asleep sitting up. Based on how long this had been going on already, it would be another hour before it was time for Dermot’s category.

I realized that I’d just have to take a taxi down to MSG, catch some of the show, race back up to Times Square to catch Dermot’s speech, and then cab it back for the rest of the concert, which would end around 11:30. If I hustled, it should be no problem.

I told Dermot I was going to make a call from the lobby phone booth, and then leaned toward our publicity director. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She nodded, looking as if she could barely hold her eyes open. I grabbed my bag, took the elevator and raced out to the street.

Times Square was hopping on a Sunday night; panhandlers, prostitutes, and tourists vying for space on the packed sidewalks. I stood shivering on a street corner and tried to flag a cab, but they all seemed to be taken. I started walking downtown, turning around every half-block to scan the streets for a lit roof light. Finally one screeched to a stop. I leapt in and made the arena by 9:25.

The security guard took forever to look over my pass. At last he handed it back to me, and I ran into the bathroom to change. Yanking off the fluffy dress, I jammed my legs into the leather pants and pulled the tight top over my head. I hadn’t bothered bringing an extra pair of shoes, since the silvery heels went okay with both outfits. I put the velvet jacket back on and did a quick touchup in the mirror, drawing cats-eye eyeliner and teasing my hair.
Now I look ready for The Floor
, I thought as I raced out, the dress stuffed into my bag.

I showed my pass to another guard and pushed through the heavy doors of the vast auditorium, filled with sweaty bodies gyrating to the driving beat. My spirits soared as I broke into a run, dodging around people cluttering the aisles. I tried to keep my eye on Jack as he moved around the stage, striking the gritty chords of one of their most popular songs. Finally I reached the front row and shouted “Excuse me! Sorry!” over and over as I made my way to the middle.

“About time!” Vicky said, grabbing my bag and stowing it under the seat. “Let’s get up and dance! I was going to, but I was afraid the old bitch would bite my ear off.” I glanced at Mary Jo, who was glaring at me. I gave her a little finger-wave.

“Why are you late?” she hissed.

“I had a professional commitment. But now I’m here!” I crowed.

Vicky pulled me up beside her. “It’s amazing to be in the front row!” she shouted as we shook our hips to the funky rhythm. Now I could see Jack in all his glory: shirt open, face lifted and eyes closed, sweat making his chest glisten, looking like a bronzed god. Patrick purred into the mic, whipping the crowd into a frenzy. Mark banged his drums and Sammy grooved on the keyboard, a simmering joint dangling from his lips.

“Are the awards all done?” Vicky said as the spotlights faded to blue and we took our seats. The Floor went into a moody ballad that was one of my all-time favorites. Even their so-called “lesser” songs were a thousand times better than other groups’ biggest hits.

“They’re still dragging on,” I said. “I need to leave pretty soon to catch Dermot’s speech. If he doesn’t win, I’ll run right back out.”

Vicky’s eyes widened. “Aren’t you supposed to be here for the grand finale?”

“Definitely!” Jack seemed to look in my direction, but I knew it was just my imagination. He had told me that with the bright lights, it was impossible to see anything from the stage. “I should be fine,” I shouted into Vicky’s ear. “In fact, I’d better get going now,” I said, realizing it was just after ten.

Vicky called out “Good luck!” as I grabbed my bag and crouch-walked across the justifiably annoyed front row. I raced up the aisle and out the main doors.

“Leaving so soon?” the security guard asked.

“I’ll be back!” I shouted as I ran past him toward the bathroom. I rushed into a stall, withdrew the crumpled silver dress and draped it over the top of the door. Kicking off my heels, I struggled out of the leather pants, which were sticking to my sweaty thighs. I pulled off the clingy top, yanked the dress down over my head and jammed the concert clothes into the bag. Snatching it up along with my jacket, I hurried out of the stall and pushed through the bathroom door—right into a woman who was just coming in.

“Aagh!” we both screamed. I felt something cold on my chest. Backing away, I saw that she was holding a large crushed paper cup. The smell of beer rose in my nostrils as I glanced down the front of my dripping dress.
Damn!

“Watch where you’re going!” the woman said, barging past me. She went into a stall as I snatched some paper towels from the dispenser and tried to dab at the spreading wet patch. But it was no use; the dress was soaked. Frantically I shucked it off standing at the sink and blotted beer from my skin.
I’ll just have to wear this
! I thought as I tugged the leather pants back on.
Maybe no one will notice. Anyway, the main thing is to catch Dermot’s award.

The taxi lane outside the Garden was usually jammed, but now of course it was empty. I ran the long block over to Seventh Avenue and luckily got a cab after only a few minutes.

“You okay, lady?” the driver asked as I panted in the backseat.

“I’m fine, but I’m late,” I managed to gasp.

“Don’t worry, gorgeous. I’ll get you there.” The driver ran the next three red lights and pulled up in front of the hotel. I stuffed a twenty into the receptacle and jumped out, not waiting for change.

“Thanks, doll!” the driver shouted as I slammed the door. I ran inside and tried to catch my breath going up to the ballroom. I hurried past a group of tuxedoed publishers and squeezed by the crowded tables as a woman announced the winner for First Novel. Quickly I slid into my seat next to Dermot. Empty wine bottles littered the table; everyone seemed totally looped. Perry glared at me as if to say, “Where the hell were you?”, but I avoided his gaze.

“I like this new look,” Dermot slurred, eyeing my tight leopard-print top. He leaned in closer and sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

“It’s beer.” I fanned my neck. “Long story.”

“Where’ve you been? I wanted to ask you about my speech,” he demanded.

“I bumped into someone and got held up.”

Dermot waved his hand impatiently. “Never mind. Should I put it this way: ‘In all my years of toiling away at this book, I never thought I’d receive such an honor’— Or: ‘In all
the
years…”

I zoned out as he ran his alternatives by me. Ted seemed to be giving me an odd look.

“The second one sounds good,” I whispered to Dermot. The First Novel winner was winding up his speech. I looked at my watch; it was 10:47.
Oh god, please don’t win.

The announcer stepped up to the mic. “And now, the winner for Best Novel of the Year is…”

Dermot grabbed my arm, banging my wrist against the edge of the table.
Please, don’t be him
, I prayed.

“Dermot Chase!”

My heart sank as everyone at our table woke up. Beaming, Dermot rushed over to the podium as the audience stood for an ovation. Ted moved over next to me.

“Congratulations!” I said, although I felt like crying. Now I was stuck here for god knows how long.

Ted was looking at me curiously as he applauded. “Did you change clothes?”