18. Stupid Lucky Boy

“And one, two, three, four, five, six… seven …eight. And one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Rebecca, are you a professional dancer?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Okay. You could have fooled me.”

The instructor was a small, sharp-eyed Asian woman in black athleticwear. She watched the set of nine dancers like a hawk as they moved in choreographed synchrony to nothing but a track of click noises.

“Stop. Stop.” The instructor held up her hand. “Go back to your starting positions. I don’t know what that was. I don’t want to see it again. Go. One, two, three, four…Raine, what are you doing with your face? No. Two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight…”

Sevan watched from the far edge of the room, back to the wall. Farren looked on from nearby, a perfectly blank expression on his face. The second security guard was somewhere outside the room, possibly by the door.

Meika was riveting. He probably wasn’t the best dancer in the group of professionals, but he was easily on par with their skill. And he was magnetic. The way he moved, his flawless control. Every step, every gesture, every movement from his core to his feet to his fingertips to his face.

“Avis, breaths,” the instructor said. “Better breaths. Look.” She held up her hand for everyone to stop, then demonstrated the last several steps. “In two days, you will do this with vocals, no? We will add vocals in two days.”

Meika smiled. He nodded. “Yeah.” He brushed a stream of escaped hair out of his face. “Yeah.”

“You have built up the stamina, yes?”

He nodded again.

“Learn the breaths as you learn the steps or you will have to relearn everything when you put it all together. Okay. Positions. Vetta, remember your diameter. I keep seeing you stray. Stay in your space. You are the shortest one, you need to compensate. Go.”

It became exhausting, just watching it. The number of repetitions. Over and over and over again.

Meika took the clip out of his hair and refastened it so it kept his hair off the back of his neck. The dramatic dark and platinum locks fell in a lifted cascade down his back. His neck was glistening with sweat.

Sevan took out his phone, scrolled on it for a moment, then raised the device just enough to catch the group of dancers in the camera frame. He took the picture quickly, then lowered the phone. “Meikhyel at dance studio session 10:20 AM. 8 backup dancers. Preparing for a tour.”

Send.

Then Sevan was left staring at the array of apps on his home screen. Where was Lacey right now? How was she surviving out there? And how desperate did she need to be before she finally called Sevan or Rick?

That motel keycard. Surely, Lacey wouldn’t be staying in a tent if she had a motel room to go to—the motel doubtlessly came before the tent, before Lacey ran out of funds. But Sevan didn’t have any other leads.

And someone who actually lived in LA might recognize the logo on the keycard.

Sevan’s eyes traveled upward and found Meika’s figure. The dancer behind him had his fists at Meika’s neck, and Meika’s chin lifted like there was an invisible rope his backup dancer was strangling him with. It was artistic, convincing. A little comical against the toneless click track.

Meika could perform.

But Sevan didn’t trust him with a lead on where his sister might be.

Sevan’s fingers moved across the screen of his phone, and he opened the text messages from Jaq. First, he saved her number. Then he attached the photo of the motel keycard to a new message and sent it.

Sevan: Sorry, we should catch up. Do you know what motel this is?

It rang with disingenuity. But three hours of sleep was not enough to compose a falsely heartfelt text on.

Jaq’s reply came swiftly.

Jaq: If one has a motel keycard in one’s possession, wouldn’t one know which motel it pertains to?

Sevan’s fingers hesitated over the touch keyboard. He glanced again at the dancers. Meika. His swift, timed movements.

Sevan: I found some of my sister’s things. This was with them.

Jaq: That woman you’re looking for is your SISTER?

Sevan bit his lip. It wouldn’t be the first time someone was shocked that they were siblings, albeit half-siblings.

Sevan: Can you please just tell me if you know where this motel is?

Jaq was typing.

“Let’s add music now. Are we ready for music?” the instructor said. She walked over to a stereo in the corner of the room and tapped on her phone.

Jaq: That is not a motel. And yes I know where it is. What’s in it for me?

Sevan’s brow dipped a little. Not a motel? Mild frustration prickled his nerves. What was with LA? Every man for himself? Everyone had to get something first, before they helped someone else out?

Sevan: I have literally no idea what you would want.

Jaq: how about a pic of what you’re doing right now.

Sevan’s frown deepened. Maybe NDAs really were just a joke in LA.

Sevan: Pretty sure I’m not allowed to take pictures.

Jaq: so you ARE with him

The next message was a long time in coming. A beat started up from speakers in the studio room. And when the dancers started again, their performance hit with completely new impact. Every overly practiced movement fell in time to the fierce beat of the instrumental playing through the room. There was weight, meaning—voiceless with no vocals, but heavy in the air.

Sevan took his eyes off the dancers and looked down hesitantly at his phone.

Jaq: take a sneaky pic

In spite of himself, a small, bitterly amused smile pressed itself into Sevan’s face. Shameless. And stupid. It wasn’t a risk worth taking. It was one thing to send illicit pictures at the request of the person behind the private number who had both hiring and termination power over Sevan. It was entirely different to send them to a random RedViolet employee.

And still, Sevan found himself opening his photo app. For a long moment before he sent it, he stared at the picture of Meika and his dancers. Was Meika always that photogenic?

Sevan blinked and sent the picture.

He regretted it the very next second. He barely knew Jaq.

Jaq reacted to the picture with a jaw-dropped emoji. A flood of texts came next.

Jaq: You are stupid lucky boy

Jaq: I don’t understand why they don’t have someone from the media team there!!

Jaq: Wtf?? That’s excellent content!

Jaq: What do they have you doing exactly?

Jaq: When do you get off? I’ll pick you up and take you to find your sister.

Sevan bit his lip as he stared down at the last message. Would he have to sneak out again? Was he not allowed to leave the condo?

It seemed overstrict.

But everything was overstrict about life at Meika’s condo.

It would be easier to go by himself with a rideshare than to try to arrange something with someone he didn’t fully trust.

Sevan: 11pm?

Sevan’s eyes lifted back to the dancers, and his heart felt like it completely left his chest. No reason. No logic. No explanation for the way Sevan’s face flushed, his heart started beating strangely, his breath disappeared.

The dancer behind Meika had his arms under Meika’s and was raising the front of his shirt. There was mesmerizing rhythm, movement, chaos in the way the others touched him. The fingers in his hair, the touches on his neck, their hands on his sculpted abdomen.

Sexual, daring, hedonistic.

And then over, every movement mapped by the choreography.

Absolutely nothing novel to the pop music industry, Sevan forced himself to realize.

“You are getting distracted by the mirror,” the instructor interrupted again. “Don’t look at the mirror. The mirror is for practicing alone. There will not be a mirror on the stage, no? I am your mirror today. Look at me. Stop. Stop. Let’s turn. Let’s turn so we are not facing the mirror.”

And then they were facing the wall Sevan was standing beside.

The other dancers kept their eyes on the instructor when they were facing forward. But Meika met Sevan’s eyes twice. And then he smiled. It lit up his face like magic, made his eyes sparkle.

“Avis, what are you doing with your face? No.”

And for some incomprehensible reason, Sevan found himself smiling back.