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He jerks his head over to the long wooden bench. “Let’s sit, then. You can tell me what you thought.”
I move stiffly over to the bench and drop on it, rubbing my knee. “You had to know that last batch was all but useless. We’ve seen five classes today, ranked best to worst. And that was definitely the dregs.”
He plunks himself down, plucking his water bottle up. He looks thoughtful as he squeezes a little water into his mouth. “They weren’t great.”
I scoot down and raise my leg to lie out straight. Almost instantly, the burning pain subsides and leaves a low level throb. I’m so relieved I could almost cry.
“There were some hopefuls in the first two classes,” I say, screwing up my face. “But there weren’t any that had it, if you know what I mean. I was looking for someone with star quality.”
Basil nods absently. “Someone to replace Honor.”
“Yes.” I rotate my shoulder, reminding myself to have RehabGuy look at it later. “When are you going to have the American Ballet Academy and the School of American Ballet try out?”
His eyebrows lift a little. Usually the company deals with that, not a patron or a guest director. “I think sometime next month, maybe.”
I roll my head over to him. “No. Make arrangements. I want people in here to audition tomorrow morning.”
He blinks. “Excuse me?”
I heave myself up off the bench with a groan. “Make it happen, Bas.”
As I walk away, he explodes.
“This isn’t your private tech company, Calum! You have everyone here running around like fools, desperate to please you. I’m telling you now, that won’t last.”
I roll my eyes. “I get shit done, Bas. I don’t have enough time in the day for all the niceties. I just tell people what is expected of them and fire them if they can’t or won’t comply.” I lean over, scoop up my duffel bag, and sling it over my shoulder. Then I glance back.
“Someday, you’ll meet some girl that makes you fall to your knees. And she won’t behave according to your rules.” He favors me with a twisted smile. “Then we’ll see who is crying uncle.”
I shake my head, walking toward the door. “Love is for people who are foolish enough to have hearts. Meanwhile, I’ll be here tomorrow morning, bright and early. So you’d better start sounding the alarm right now, because there had better fucking be a shitload of dancers for me to judge when I get here.”
“Calum—“ Bas calls. But I hit the doorway, checking my phone.
I grumble a little. There are still no emails or missed calls from Club X. That means that they are still processing the rather lengthy contract that Cerise and I signed, officially making me her patron.
I drum my fingers on my thigh, then take an abrupt right turn into the men’s locker room. I run through a quick shower and change into a fresh white collared shirt and black pair of slacks. By the time I walk out of the changing room, I’ve settled on a plan.
Since Club X can’t offer me what I want, I’ll look elsewhere. As I push out the great glass doors and head into the cool night air, I quickly head for my waiting limo.
I climb in the back, not waiting for the driver to open the door. Tossing my gym bag aside, I look up toward the partition, which is rolled down.
“Sam, take me home. But pull up outside the Continental instead of into the parking deck. I want someone to make me a drink.”
My driver nods, already absorbed in pulling the car out of its spot.
It’s only a short drive to the enormous skyscraper where I own the penthouse. I slide out in front of the Continental, a sleek little cocktail bar that opened last spring.
Since the grand opening, I have spent many meetings and cocktail hours at the dimly lit, wood-paneled bar. It’s menu is brief but memorable; the customers are either healthy people that either live in the area or people who want a really, really fancy gin and tonic. The uber rich mingle with the models and actresses and cocktail snobs.
It’s a fantastic place for hooking up, basically.
I stroll up to the door of the bar, swinging the door open. Hushed lighting greets me. The walls are all dark wood, lined with soft pink velvet banquettes. I cast an eye over the bar as I approach. It’s an old airplane wing standing before towering shelves of colorful glass liquor bottles. There are probably fifteen seats at the bar and only ten of them are occupied.
Adjusting my cuffs, I slide into the first open seat I see. The bartender sees me and recognition lights his face. He heads over with a cocktail menu and a coaster.
“Good to see you, Mr. Fordham. What can I get for you?”
I don’t even have to think about that. “An old-fashioned.”
