Jasmine

  Jasmine

  Nine Months: Book #3

  Written by Maggie Wells

  Copyright © 2016 by Abdo Consulting Group, Inc.

  Published by EPIC Press™

  PO Box 398166

  Minneapolis, MN 55439

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  International copyrights reserved in all countries.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without

  written permission from the publisher. EPIC Press™ is trademark

  and logo of Abdo Consulting Group, Inc.

  Cover design by Candice Keimig

  Images for cover art obtained from iStockPhoto.com

  Edited by Lisa Owens

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Wells, Maggie.

  Jasmine / Maggie Wells. p. cm. — (Nine months; #3)

  Summary: Jasmine is a 19-year-old college freshman—and a professional dancer in Las Vegas. After an unfortunate incident at a cast party, she finds herself pregnant forcing her to acknowledge that she can’t take care of her daughter and gives her up for adoption. She then returns home to New Jersey in defeat but ultimately finds herself back on her feet and self-sufficient, determined to get her daughter back.

  ISBN 978-1-68076-192-4 (hardcover)

  1. Teenagers—Sexual behavior—Fiction. 2. Teenage pregnancy—Fiction.

  3. Sex—Fiction. 4. Adoption—Fiction. 5. Young adult fiction. I. Title.

  [Fic]—dc23

  2015949412

  This digital document has been produced by Nord Compo.

  To Joel Hinman

  ONE

  IT STARTED LIKE THIS: I WAS WALKING TO CLASS—MANAGERIAL Accounting, if you must know; a dancer can’t rely on her body to support her forever, now can she? Anyway, I was running to class, not really walking, because Professor Weed always locked the door as soon as the clock ticked the hour. So, here I was running down the hallway at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, and with each footfall I was thinking: glutes, core, glutes, core, and it must have been destiny; a flyer printed on pretty pink paper blew off the wall and landed at my feet. All I saw was:

  Casting Call: Dancers Wanted.

  So I snatched it up and dashed into the classroom just as Weed was closing the door.

  “Jasmine, late again?”

  You know I wasn’t the only one. There were three guys shoving through the door behind me. Why did creepy Weed always single me out? How many times had I explained to him that I have Dance Studio right before his class, and it was halfway across the campus?

  As Weed droned on about Full Costing Methods, I slipped the pink paper out of my bag and spread it out on my textbook and smoothed out the creases.

  Bally’s Hotel & Casino is casting for its long-running dance spectacular, Bacchanal! Seeking male and female singers and dancers to join the cast of the longest-running show in Las Vegas!

  Please God, let this be my break! Auditions ended at four—fuck! I wondered if I could make it after my Communications class. Or should I skip class? Decisions, decisions. I really didn’t hear anything Weed said that day. I was hoping it didn’t show up on the test.

  Okay, I skipped my last class, so sue me. Professor Jinks liked me and she was an easy grader anyway. So I got to Bally’s and shit, there were a lot of girls there. Big girls, lots of leg, lots of tit (probably fake). How would I ever stand out? First I heard Mom’s voice in my head—“You’ll never make it”—and then Grandma’s voice drowned her out—“Believe in yourself, girl.” Okay, I can do this, I thought.

  “Jasmine, hi!”

  I spun around to see Sandra from my Communications class.

  “Busted!” I said.

  Hey, if she’s here, too, I don’t feel so bad, I thought.

  “What do you think?” she said. “About the competition?”

  “Fuck the competition!” We both laughed.

  “Here’s the director,” she whispered. “Eddie Watson.”

  “Who?”

  “Shhh,” she shushed me.

  The director strode toward us, a black dude, and so young! In sneakers, tight jeans and a mock turtle. Shit, he was hot!

  “Hello, ladies!” he shouted. “Anybody who knows me knows that I love dancers. I want to create something so great that people start thinking, ‘Wow, those dancers are really amazing.’ Now show me what you got.”

  As we took our positions and the music started, I thanked the Lord that Sandra was with me, shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip. But with each kick, each shimmy, I gained confidence, enough to smile, to make eye contact. And he was watching me. Wow! He was watching me. Me! At this point, I was channeling Beyoncé. I was owning it. This is mine! I thought. Fuck you, Sandra; see you in Communications class.

  Eddie. Was that his name, seriously? How old was he, like eight? Eddie kept his eye on me through the whole first exercise. I know that for a fact because I kept my eye on him the whole time. Then at the break, after he had dismissed half of the girls, including Sandra (sorry, babe!), he singled me out. Jazz, he called me.

  “Jazz, trade places with Jules.”

  I moved up to the center of the front row.

  “Let’s take it from the top,” he called out.

  I watched him watching me and I danced for him alone. Each kick, each spin, was bigger, tighter than the last. I had never danced better and I realized at that moment that I needed him and his critical eye of perfection to reach my highest level of achievement. I admit it, I started fantasizing about the power couple we could become. I would be his muse; he would be my Svengali. Wait! Was that a negative thing? Maybe Kanye was a better role model—I could be his Kim. Yes, that was exactly what was going through my head during the audition.

  This went on for over an hour—until we were all drenched in sweat, our muscles trembling with fatigue, our faces frozen into smiling grimaces. Finally Eddie called out, “That’s it for today, ladies. We’ll be sending out callbacks tomorrow. Keep an eye on your phones. I didn’t have to say that, now did I?” Eddie laughed at his own joke. I mopped my face with a towel as I watched him prance across the stage, draping his scarf theatrically around his throat. He was immediately engulfed in a cloud of assistants and stage personnel who hung on his every word and gesture.

  When you have a dream and the talent to match, you have an obligation to the universe to hitch a ride on that star and ride it as far as you can. Mom had never been supportive of my move to Las Vegas. Yes, she had humored me by enrolling me in dance classes from the age of five, and drove me to dance practice after school every day for years and attended all of my shows and recitals. But, I think she always saw me as an also-ran. She acknowledged that I was good enough to be in the show, but she never believed I could be the star.

  “You’ll never make a living as a dancer,” she had said.

  She might have been right about trying to make it on Broadway, but Las Vegas was one of the few places where a dancer could make a decent living. The shows ran for years. You could dance until you were forty. I’d heard of women putting their kids through college on their showgirl paychecks.

  Back to reality. I should have stretched after the audition, but I was afraid of looking like a wannabe. So, instead, I swaddled myself in sweats and leg warmers and trudged back to campus and across the quad to the library.

  I found a carousel on the lower level and spread out my textbook and worksheets. I muted my phone and tucked it into my pocket since Eddie had said we wouldn’t hear anything until the next day. I was deep in calculations on the present value of a stream of projected cash flow when my pocket began to buzz. I ignored it, thinking it was from one of my study buddies, but the buzzing wouldn’t stop. I dug the phone out of my po
cket and saw a bunch of green message icons in my text feed.

  Please confirm

  Please confirm

  Please confirm

  Please confirm

  I swiped to unlock my phone and scrolled through the messages.

  Congratulations! You passed the first round of the audition process for Bacchanal. The next round is scheduled for 2 p.m. tomorrow.

  I clicked to confirm and slammed my book shut. Priorities! Accounting could wait—I shoved everything into my bag and ran to the dance studio to stretch and grab a sauna before collapsing into bed.

  TWO

  Hi Professor,

  I woke up this morning with a high fever and won't be able to make it to class. Is the lecture available online?

  Thanks,

  Jasmine.

  Okay, I know I should have gone to class. But I was too excited, too distracted, too focused. I spent the morning in the studio, warming up. I drank a protein smoothie for lunch and then headed over to the audition.

  This time, there were only ten girls. Bacchanal was a big show with dozens of dancers; we must have been auditioning for a handful of openings—probably high up in the back. None of that mattered to me. I was feeling good, strong, empowered by the spotlight.

  We took our positions and I eyed the competition. Surrounded by blondes, and one enormous redhead, I was probably the smallest and definitely the only dark-skinned girl in the line. What look were they going for? I guess I could look at this two ways: either I didn’t have a shot in hell, or I would stand out in the line-up. I decided to go with the second theory and threw myself into the audition, heart and soul.

  But by the first break, I was pretty discouraged. Eddie hadn’t been looking at me much at all. He kept calling out to the redhead—Ginger, he called her, although I’m pretty sure her name was Joanne.

  “More hip, Ginger!” he said. “Bigger arch. Good girl!”

  At the break, Ginger stood off to the side of the studio, nursing a bottle of water. I wandered over.

  “Eddie seems to really like you,” I said, hoping that didn’t sound like I was jealous or anything. Hell, yeah, I was jealous.

  “I don’t know about that,” she said. “I think maybe he thinks I’m too old and he’s just pushing me to see if I have the stamina.”

  Close up, I realized that Ginger must have been over thirty.

  “You’ve been dancing for a long time?” I asked.

  “Since I was your age, kid,” she said. “What are you—eighteen?”

  “Nineteen,” I replied.

  “You in school?” Ginger asked.

  “I’m a sophomore at UNLV,” I said. “But this is my dream. What do you think my chances are?”

  “Oh, I think you’re already hired,” Ginger said. “I heard that they’re adding a second show. Whoops—there’s the buzzer. Break time is over. Nice to meet you, Jazz.”

  “Jasmine,” I said.

  “I think you’re Jazz from now on,” Ginger said. “You’ll need a stage name if you want to hold on to some anonymity. You don’t want creeps showing up at your door in the middle of the night.”

  As I walked back toward the lineup, I wondered what she had meant by that. I’d always planned to build my dancer’s profile on the Internet Broadway Database online. I would need to use my real name if I wanted to get work on Broadway.

  We lined up shoulder-to-shoulder, backs arched, poised as we waited for Eddie to enter the stage. He walked gracefully and deliberately along the line, appraising each girl with a languorous gaze, as if he were undressing each of us with his eyes. He doubled back and came to stand at the center.

  “Ladies,” he said. “I’m sure by now you’ve all heard the exciting news. The producers are backing a second show of Bacchanal. We’ll be performing five nights a week at ten o’clock. We’re developing an authentic old-Vegas style show. I think you know what I’m talking about?”

  There were some murmurs and gasps along the line.

  “What is he talking about?” I whispered to the blonde to my right.

  “Full frontal,” she hissed back.

  “This is purely voluntary,” Eddie said. “I’m looking for volunteers. Mostly just topless, perhaps a hint of a little more—we need to keep the audience guessing, and the morality board at bay. And of course, we’re offering combat pay.”

  “What’s combat pay?” I whispered to the blonde to my left.

  “Thirty percent bonus,” she muttered. “You could make more as a stripper down the street.”

  “Any volunteers?” Eddie asked. “Please step forward.”

  I was suddenly aware that there was a bunch of stagehands standing off in the wings, staring. But, seeing this as my big break and a way to guarantee my spot in the show, I took a giant step forward. I think I saw a couple of other girls farther down the line step up as well. I held my breath.

  “Jazz?” Eddie asked.

  Oh, shit, I thought, he doesn’t mean me. He doesn’t want a black girl. I started to step back.

  “Show us what you got, baby,” Eddie said.

  Aware of the leering eyes of the stagehands, I slipped my leotard off my shoulders and pulled it down off of my breasts. Not sure what he wanted to see, I stopped at my hipbones, my fingers still hooked in the spandex.

  “That’s enough,” Eddie said. “You can save the rest for later. Turn to the left.”

  I did, thinking, Fuck you assholes. Are you getting an eyeful?

  “Turn to the right,” Eddie said.

  I narrowed my eyes and steeled myself against any emotion.

  “Okay, next.” Eddie had moved down the line.

  I pulled up my leotard and slipped back into the line. I held myself erect and stared straight into space for what seemed like forever.

  “Okay, Ladies,” Eddie called out. “Rehearsals start on Monday at four. See Marcus in HR to get your paperwork together for payroll.”

  That was it—I was in! I was officially a professional dancer. I couldn’t wait to call Mom and say I told you so! All those years of trying to dampen my ambitions. Life doesn’t always hand you lemons, Mom! I went to grab my towel and bottle of water and was heading for the dressing room when I heard my name.

  “Jazz, a moment?” It was Tommy, one of Eddie’s assistants. “Eddie wants to speak with you. In his office. Follow me.”

  Aware that I was drenched in sweat and probably stunk to high hell, I mopped my pits and wrapped my towel around my neck before I followed Tommy down the hall backstage.

  Tommy tapped on the door with his knuckles and cracked it open. “I have Jazz,” he said.

  Tommy pushed the door open. Eddie was sprawled on a sofa covered in floral chintz. That’s a word Mom would have used. Chintz. I’m not even sure what it meant. Was this the infamous casting couch? I had heard rumors about Eddie hitting on girls who worked for him and I was wary.

  “Sit down.” Eddie gestured toward a chair.

  I did.

  “Jazz,” Eddie said. “You opened my eyes.”

  “Really?” I asked. Oh no, where was this going?

  “No, really,” he said. “Exotic. That’s what this show needs. I’m going to pitch the producers on an exotic, erotic element. I need to find a few more girls to back you up—maybe Asian—can we find one with big tits? Maybe Spanish or Caribbean. But you’re the headliner; you’re my muse. I’m going to create a dance number just for you.”

  “Let’s set up some time in the studio to choreograph some moves,” Eddie said. “Tomorrow, okay?”

  “I have class,” I said. “I’ll be done at two forty.”

  “Class?” Eddie said. “Are you fucking kidding me? I just offered you headliner—your name on the marquee. Tourists will come from all over the world to see Jazz in Bacchanal.”

  Tommy interrupted. “Eddie, you are booked solid until three tomorrow.”

  Eddie glowered at Tommy. “Okay, fuck it. Meet me here at three.”

  To Tommy, he said, “Post the new po
sitions for exotic . . . ” He caught himself. “Not exotic dancers—we don’t want to attract that element. We’re looking for dancers of color—that’s the term, right?” Eddie seemed very pleased with himself.

  “Thanks, Jazzy, baby,” Eddie said. “See you tomorrow at three. This is going to be hot!”

  THREE

  THE SECOND THE CLOCK HIT TWO FORTY, I JUMPED UP and scooped my notebooks into my backpack. I had just reached the door when I heard Sandra call my name.

  “You got the callback?” Sandra asked.

  “I did,” I said. “I got the gig, actually. I’m supposed to be at rehearsal right now. Sorry, but I gotta go.”

  I felt sorry for Sandra. I remember that feeling—watching the other girls get called back and then walking home, dejected, wondering what it was they had that I didn’t. That’s what Sandra was thinking—why me and not her?

  The rehearsal room was empty when I arrived at three on the dot. I stood by the door for a few minutes, wondering if Eddie had forgotten about me. Then I figured, what the heck, might as well warm up. I adjusted my ear buds and cranked up the volume on my iPod. I got lost in the music and was spinning around the room when I saw Eddie’s reflection in the mirror.

  I scurried over to where I had dropped my bag and slipped my iPod into it. “How long have you been standing there?” I asked.

  “Long enough,” he said.

  I detected a faint smile, so I figured he wasn’t angry. He walked over to the control panel and flicked some switches. Music flooded the room.

  “Now, let’s do this my way,” he said.

  He led me to the center of the room and stood behind me facing the mirror. He placed one hand on my right hip and with other stretched my left arm up over my head. As he counted out the beats he walked me through the routine. We danced together for over two hours, until I was breathless and soaked in sweat.

  “That’s it,” he said at last. “Let’s meet again tomorrow before rehearsal. Like four o’clock?”