“Yes,” she nodded. “And not just that but more. It’s the chance to work with the best people, the best dancers, choreographers, instructors, even the pianists. I feel like even our practice pianist is as good as a concert musician, she’s so talented.”
I chuckled deep in my throat.
“Brenda is an aspiring soloist,” I acknowledged. “She moonlights for us during rehearsals, but she’s also a full-time student at Juilliard,” I added. “Her dream is to win the Van Cliburn concerto competition and then travel the world, performing in front of packed audiences.”
Laney nodded, her smile bright.
“I get it, I totally get it,” she said breathlessly. “Because that’s what I want too. I want to be good,” she said in a determined voice, that small chin set. “I want to get better, I want to learn from the best, and NYC Academy is the place to do it. The best is here, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to join,” she said softly, meeting my eyes.
Hmm, that spoke well of the brunette. Some chicks have no idea how lucky they are, they arrive thinking that the welcome mat’s gonna be spread out, that their dancing is better than anyone else’s. Sure, their moves are good for a tiny town in Oklahoma, but this is New York City, and the competition’s at a whole different level.
So I nodded thoughtfully, taking in that curvy figure. Laney smiled softly at me again.
“Do you have any tips, Mr. Channing? I know at some point, you had to be a beginner too. You got your start somewhere, so do you have any advice for a newbie?”
I stared hard at her. Shit, this girl wasn’t just emotionally savvy, she was smart too. She knew to take advantage of the five minutes she had with me. After all, I’m a billionaire CEO, sitting on top of a fortune. Not only that, but I know dance, I know the art.
But I didn’t say anything real. Not really. Because getting to where I am takes a shit ton of blood, sweat, and tears, and no sweet thing deserves that. Innocent girls shouldn’t have to walk the gauntlet, they shouldn’t have to get down on their hands and knees, scrubbing the floor while begging for scraps.
So I kept it easy breezy, the conversation light.
“I’ve got a ton of secrets, but they’re locked up here for now,” I rumbled, pointing to my head. “You’ve got to show me that you deserve it. You’ve gotta show me that you’re worthy before I’ll tell you anything.”
Laney bit her lip.
“I danced my best this morning, sir,” she said in a low voice. “I’ll do it again if you like.”
I leaned back and chuckled.
“So you think you can do better this time?” I asked, voice smooth. “If so, then be my guest,” I said, flicking a button. And the girl gasped as a motor rumbled, one of the walls discreetly rolling back to reveal a studio, complete with polished wood floors, mirrors, and a long barre on one side.
Because there are certain benefits to being CEO of a dance troupe, and one of them is my office. When you come in, it looks like standard corporate fare with a huge desk, chairs, sofa, and computer. The Academy didn’t hold back and there are deep pile carpets and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the bustling streets of Manhattan.
But I’ve also got a hidden studio. That’s right, as a former dancer I asked to have some practice space installed, and the board complied. So now, all I have to do is flick a switch, and the fake wall rolls away, revealing my private studio.
Laney’s eyes opened wide.
“Really?” she gasped. “Oh my god, you’re so lucky, Mr. Channing!”
I laughed deep in my chest then because only a true devotee of the dance would think that I was “lucky.” Right now, the brunette was already practicing eight hours a day, putting her body through the works. If “lucky” meant doing even more, turning that eight hours into ten to twelve, then I suppose I was lucky.
But Laney was up in a flash, wandering into the brightly lit space, twirling joyfully, brunette curls flying in a spin.
“I’m happy to dance,” she laughed, brown eyes sparkling. “What would you like me to do?”
I leaned back, appreciating that curvy female form.
“Anything,” I rumbled. “But first you’ve got to take off those warm-ups, I’ve gotta see every gesture, every move up close.”
She flushed.
“I can’t, Mr. Channing,” she murmured, looking down. “I didn’t realize I’d be dancing again, so I’m just wearing my leotard underneath. Nothing else.”
I frowned.
“So? A leotard’s fine, that’s standard practice wear.”
The girl blushed even hotter.
“No, not that,” she stammered. “I’m wearing a leotard, but nothing else under. Nothing, sir,” she stuttered wildly, unable to look into my eyes.
Ah ha, so that was the problem. My little girl was practically nude underneath those warm-ups, with nothing but the thinnest piece of cotton shielding those curvy assets. Well, no worries. This was right up my alley, it was almost too perfect if you asked me.