“This guy is as dirty as they come. Money laundering, drug running, rumors of involvement in human trafficking, all while using his diplomatic immunity to keep himself from ever seeing any consequences. It’s no wonder his son was such a fucking monster.”
“You found all that in one night of deep diving?”
“Deep diving? I got all that off Google, bro. I haven’t even started digging yet. If he’s doing all this in full view of our government, he’s got some powerful fucking allies. This isn’t good, man.”
“Keep digging. I want to know how deep it goes. I’m almost to you. I need to do something that won’t get me put in prison… Well, not yet anyway.”
“There’s plenty of work to go around.”
Javier ended the call and tossed his phone on the seat, white knuckling the steering wheel. How fucking deep down the rabbit hole was he willing to go for Bowie? Javier didn’t even know why he asked the question. He already knew the answer. He’d go all the way for Bowie, even if it meant going back to prison. Even if it meant a body bag.
“What is wrong with all of you today?” Diego shouted above the music, the stick in his hand pounding rhythmically on the floor in time with his music. Bowie hated that stupid bamboo stick. He claimed it was to remind the dancers of their posture, but it was just some antiquated attempt to make himself seem avant garde.
The next group of dancers leapt into the main dance space, form flawless in Bowie’s eyes but definitely not in Diego’s. He threw his head back in dramatic fashion.
“Effortless, people. It’s supposed to look effortless. I’ve seen elephants with softer feet.” Before anybody could respond to his latest verbal assault, he scoffed. “Stop the music. Stop. The. Music.”
The music halted, echoing off the walls before a deafening silence fell as the dancers bent over, breathing heavily, watching the furious choreographer warily.
He wasn’t done. He gave them a disgusted look. “Take a break. Pull yourselves together. When you get back, I want your A game. You’re professionals. Act like it.”
He didn’t wait for their response, tossing the stick in his hand into the corner, forcing a dancer to jump out of the way, before turning on his heel and sauntering from the room, posture perfect. The ass.
“Did he not get laid last night or something?” Odette muttered, fuming.
Bowie shrugged, dropping to the floor to suck down his room temperature water. When he finished, he flopped onto his back, using his bag as a pillow, drawing in much needed air into his lungs. “He hasn’t had a day like this in a while.”
Bowie would never say it, but he was relieved. At least, for once, it wasn’t him. Well, it wasn’tjusthim. Nobody had gotten off unscathed. Over the last four hours, Diego had harped on every single thing with extreme prejudice. He’d even made the accompanying pianist cry before nine in the morning, and she was seventy.
“‘Watch your feet, Bowie. Point your toes. I feel like it’s the same thing every single day. Why do I bother?’” Bowie mimicked.
“‘Maybe you shouldn’t eat all your feelings, Odette. Victor’s going to bill you for the hernia he gets trying to lift your fat ass,’” Odette followed, rolling her eyes before adding, “My ass is perfect.”
It had been like that all morning.
“Adagio, Anna. Adagio. Graceful. Smooth. Are you hailing a taxi? Why are your arms flailing like that? Are you having a seizure?”
“Turnout, Emily.”
“Have you been drinking, Viktor? No? Then why are you stumbling over a piece you’ve been dancing for months?”
This amount of verbal abuse usually didn’t happen unless they were debuting a new piece. Diego preferred to target them one day at a time, tailoring his criticisms to where each dancer was most vulnerable. Maybe Odette was right. Maybe he just needed to get laid. It was doing wonders for Bowie’s mood.
There was a buzz in the air, though. It always happened. Diego’s sour mood was out of the ordinary, and if there was one thing this company liked, it was gossip. Bowie was no exception. Except, for when he was the gossip. That part sucked. The other dancers stood in their cliques, chatting excitedly, the talk almost certainly about what had crawled up Diego’s ass.
Bowie didn’t want to think about it. Quite honestly, he didn’t really care about Diego or his shitty mood. He had far more pressing matters to deal with, like texting Javier to see how his day was going. This wasn’t their first rodeo with Diego and it wouldn’t be their last…unless Bowie got fired.
Would he miss the verbal abuse?
He’d just picked up his phone when a loud crack boomed through the studio, startling everybody. Bowie rocketed upright, brows knitting together as a crack fractured the window before him. What the hell?
Before he could truly understand what he was looking at, somebody set off a string of firecrackers, the racket deafening in the echo of the studio. That wasn’t right. Why would there be firecrackers?
Chaos erupted as the windows exploded inward. Bowie had just enough time to shield his eyes before he felt tiny sharp needles penetrate his skin. Time seemed to slow as he tried to make sense of what was happening. People were screaming and running for the door. For a split second, Bowie was certain a bomb had gone off and the building was collapsing on his head. Then the mirrors behind him began to shatter, more glass raining down on him and Odette.
Bullets. Gunfire. Somebody was shooting out the windows of the studio. He dropped flat on his belly, dragging Odette with him. They were too far from the door. The ones who could run did. Others hit the ground and hid beneath the piano. All Bowie could do was keep his head down, covering Odette with his arm, doing his best to keep the glass from getting in their eyes.
He didn’t know how long it went on. He only knew when it stopped, his ears were ringing and everything sounded like he was under water. He blinked, looking around at the shards of mirrored glass glittering like diamonds in the sun’s blinding rays, no longer hidden behind the tinted window panes. It was all gone.
