“I watched the game. You’re almost back to full form.”
I huff, equally grateful and annoyed to see nothing has changed. She never complimented me without adding a snippet of hesitation to her voice. She’ll never issue straight-up praise without me having to grovel for it.
Not realizing her conversation is one-sided, Lillian murmurs, “I talked to some old contacts I have in your field. They’re under the impression you should be back to full contract sooner rather than later. Is Coach James giving you the same vibe? If he is, I can go over the contract for you, if you like? I’ll do it for free, for old times’ sake.”
I honestly don’t know how to reply to her comment. Talking money is nothing out of the ordinary for us; I never looked at a contract Lillian didn’t handle first, but a lot has happened the past fourteen months, enough that I’m confident in declaring I don’t want her anywhere near me or my assets.
“I’ve got things handled. Danny is—”
“I still can’t believe you hired him, Presley. I thought we agreed to have a little break until your head got back in the game, then you’d return here, where I’d continue to manage your career.”
She really means manageme, not my career. I also don’t recall there being any agreement.
“We didn’t have an agreement, Lillian.” I say her name with the same disdain she used on mine. “Once I was released on bail, I left New York with the intention of never returning. You’ve only popped back into the picture because you’ve caught wind that maybe your cash cow isn’t as dried up as you thought.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous. I ‘popped back into the picture’ because we had nine years together.” I can imagine her pompous turned-up nose screwing up during the quoted part of her statement. “You might be able to push aside a near decade of time, commitment, and feelings as if it is worthless, but I’m not as cold-hearted as you are.”
“Oh, please, because only warmhearted women fuck their yoga instructors when their fiancé is in rehab!”
I could lower my voice, but I don’t need to. All the men surrounding me are familiar with Lillian and my bickering. They were subjected to it a minimum of twice a week before we separated.
“It was a cry for help! I needed to startle you back to living!”
“By sleeping with. . .” I pause, hating that I’m stooping to her level, but I’m unable to stop myself. “How many men was it again?”
“It was only ever Josue. . . and Dean, but he doesn’t count. I did that for you.”
I scrub my hand down my face as my adrenaline from our victory drains from my veins. “That’s right. I forgot you took one for the team that day.”
“He was going to let you go, Presley—”
“He wasn’t letting me go; I fired his ass! That’s what you do when your fucking agent works more for himself than he does you! If you had paid any attention to anything Ieversaid, you would have known that, but no, you were all about the money and what you could get out of any deal I made. You didn’t care about me or my well-being; all you cared about was yourself!”
Stealing her chance to reply, I disconnect our call by throwing my cell phone onto the ground. I don’t know why I’m letting her get to me. For the most part, her affairs were a godsend. I should have called our relationship off years before I did, but I hung on, convinced it was the stress of fame playing havoc with who we were as people.
I was so fucking wrong, and I learned a hard lesson from my mistake. That’s why, as much as I hate that my relationship with Willow is being founded on a lie, I need to do this. I need to know she likes me for me. Not a job title. Not the possibility of what I could bring to the table for her. If she wants it, she’ll strive to achieve it herself. I see that in Willow. I see her determination and drive, but it took me nine years to see through Lillian’s tricks, so I need a little longer than a few weeks before I can make a final assessment.
My deceit could blow up in my face, but I don’t see it being any worse than what I went through with Lillian.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Willow
Butterflies take control of my stomach as the hum from behind the stage curtains increases with every minute ticking by. Tonight is recital night at the dance studio I’ve worked at the past year. My hip hop kids killed it. They had not only the kids in the audience up on their feet joining in, they received a standing ovation from their parents.
Now it’s Chelsea’s turn. I swear I’m more nervous than she is. She dodged one grenade when her mother questioned why she wasn’t on stage with the other ballerinas. I told her only the most exemplary students are given a solo on recital night. She bought it. For how long, I don’t know, but for now, Chelsea’s smile is the only thing that matters. She’s worked hard the past few weeks. She trained between six and seven every evening, then she practiced her routine from sunup to sundown on the weekends. She’s nervous, but she’s more than ready.
“Just remember,glisser, thensauter. We tried the other way, but your landing is perfect this way, so we’ll stick with what you find easiest.” I ensure every strand of Chelsea’s straight blonde hair is pulled back into her bun then stand to take in the entire picture. “Perfect.”
“Thank you, Will.” She wraps her arms around my thighs to hug me tight.
“You’re very welcome.” I guide her to the stage with my hand on her back. Her excitement is as palpable as the energy in the room. I can feel it brimming from her even though I’m barely touching her. “Big smiles, Chelsea. Show everyone how much you love dancing.”
When she nods and smiles, I signal to the music producer that she is ready. I swear the entire world blurs when she darts onto the stage to take her spot on the taped X in the middle of it. I can’t see anything through the tears in my eyes and the blinding smile on her face. She is in her element, her heart more fulfilled than the people packing the dance hall to watch their loved ones perform.
My focus only shifts from her when the quickest flash of a smile stops both my feet and my heart. Elvis is slipping through a side entrance of the hall. Even though the sun went down over an hour ago, he wears a cap sitting low on his face, hiding his trademark wonky grin. Once he is ushered to a seat by one of the senior students who won’t perform until next month, he removes his cap. He should have left it on, as his smile when he spots me gawking at him is more blinding than the spotlight following Chelsea’s every move.
I wave at him like a giddy idiot before refocusing my attention on Chelsea. Tonight isn’t about me and the crazy strong feelings I’m developing in an extremely short time period. It’s about a little girl proving to the haters that she can dance despite what anyone thinks. Weight, height, and agility don’t matter when you have passion, and Chelsea has that in abundance.
