Leaps & Lies

Chapter Two

V ivian was on track to arrive early. She painstakingly chose an outfit. One that hopefully conveys hard work and elegance with a low maintenance attitude. An outfit that says, Cast me as a soloist even though I’m a nobody in this city. Also, don’t ask how old I am. That’s not too much to ask of an outfit solely consisting of tights, a leotard, and tulle masquerading as a skirt, is it?

She was on track to arrive early and ready. Ready being as warmed up as she could manage by doing jumps and stretches in the three square feet of empty floor space in her studio apartment.

Vivian was supposed to be early—until the driver’s door of her geriatric, rusty silver Honda doesn’t open.

She jams the key fob with her thumb again and listens as her car chirps back at her. The crackled silver paint of the door sizzles against her fingers after hours of sitting in the late August sun. The burning sensation is sharp, and Vivian flinches away. Sweat drips down her neck and loose pieces from her blonde ponytail are sticking to her shoulders unpleasantly. The car door still won’t open.

Vivian checks the time. She’s not late yet, but her margin for being early is dwindling fast.

Dropping her bag on the concrete, Vivian grabs the door with both hands and gives it one final, firm tug. The handle snaps clean off the door.

Fuck.

She’s not going to cry. If she cries, she’ll have to fix her makeup, and she definitely does not have time for that. Ellapond won’t cast her if she’s late because she cried her eyeliner off over a broken car door handle. What a stupid excuse.

Vivian needs this audition. She needs this audition. And she needs to get in her car if she has any hope of getting anywhere in this stupid city where she knows no one and no one knows her.

With a shaky sniffle, she tosses her handle into her bag and tries the one of the back door.

It opens on the first try. Of course, it does. Vivian stares at the driver’s door longingly for a beat before she dumps her bag onto the back seat. Sighing, she scrambles, climbs, and wiggles her way inside the car, over the center console, and into the driver’s seat. She checks the time again and starts the car. At least the casting director will have already arrived and won’t see her climbing around inside her car akin to an unsupervised child in a supermarket parking lot.

Fuck.

Vivian pulls into Ellapond’s parking lot late.

She’s technically on time for the company class, but if there’s one thing that dancers are neurotically specific about, it’s schedules. Early is on time, on time is late, and if you’re truly late—don’t even bother. Timing is everything.

There’s a flashy-looking black sports car idling in the spot next to her and it gives Vivian hope that maybe she isn’t the only one running late . If it’s the instructor or casting director, maybe she can sneak into the building before they notice that she hasn’t arrived yet.

Shutting off her car, Vivian clambers over the center console and tumbles into her backseat. She rights herself, grabs her bag, and climbs out of the backseat with as much grace as she can manage. It’s not much given that her sandal manages to get hooked on something and she practically face-plants onto the pavement.

“The women’s shelter is over on 5th and West. Right next to the library.”

The words sway into each other, a wave washing ashore, and it takes Vivian a beat to realize they’re aimed at her.

“Sorry, do you need directions?” she asks on instinct.

When she’s unstuck her sandal from the car, gathered her bag, and found the source of the voice, she immediately wishes she hadn’t.

The car that was idling next to hers is now vacant, and there’s a man staring down at her. As she glances at him, strands of hair cling to the back of her neck, and a bead of sweat trickles down her back beneath her leotard. It’s way too warm for the layers she’s wearing.

The shadow cast by the man’s hat obstructs his face but if it’s anything close to the rest of him, Vivian already knows it will be obnoxiously attractive. He’s dressed casually in clothes that must have been perfectly tailored to his body. With arms that should be illegal and jeans that Vivian wants to peel off with her teeth, there’s absolutely no reason for him to be glaring down at her in Ellapond’s parking lot. Much less asking for directions to a women’s shelter.

Are men even allowed to go to women’s shelters?

“Do you need directions?” Vivian repeats, because what else is she supposed to say?

The man scoffs. “This is a private lot. You can’t park here.”

Okay, so much for hoping he might be attractive and kind. It’s nice to have dreams.

Vivian peers down at her street clothes. With an oversized tee shirt that she’s cut the neck out of and loose sweatpants that are ballooning over her sandals, chipped pink toenails barely peeking out beneath them, she doesn’t look her best. Sure, she picked out her nicest leotard and a brand-new pair of tights for class. Her bag holds her favorite rehearsal skirt too, but all that glamour is hidden under loose clothes and a frizzy, unraveling ponytail that apparently make her look homeless. Appearance aside, this man, with his hat and his stupidly hot arms, still doesn’t have to be rude . . .

“I know it’s a private lot. I’m going inside.” Vivian gestures to the building behind her before promptly turning and hustling toward it. She’s not technically fleeing the scene, since climbing out of the back seat of your own car isn’t a crime, but her cheeks heat all the same.

But she’s going to be late- late if she stays to argue with Hat Guy.