Page 40 of The Devil of Downtown

The music starts—an electro-swing remix ofWe’re in the Money.I push off from the wall, body slipping into muscle memory. Hips roll, feet sync, and for once, I stop thinking. There’s a sweetness to it, losing myself in the music.

When I hit the last turn, I catch the panel’s nod of approval.

I slip off the stage, panting. Jennie pats my shoulder. “Killed it.”

“They haven’t cut me yet,” I whisper. “That’s progress.”

A few minutes later, they call my name again — “Ivy Vale, please prepare sixteen bars.”

I trade my heels for simple nude pumps, drink some water, and step up to the mic stand. The pianist looks up expectantly.

“I’ll be doing ‘I Put a Spell on You,’” I say, ignoring the tiny hitch in my voice, handing over my sheet music. It’s bold, smoky, unapologetic. Singing was never my forte. I trained to dance, not to croon, but years of voice lessons taught me enough to fake confidence when it counts.

The pianist starts, and the first few bars curl through the space like smoke. My pulse slows. The lyrics pour out, my movements catching the rhythm, shoulders rolling. As the final note fades, I catch the vocal director’s grin—the good kind.

I step off the stage exhale hard, adrenaline buzzing through my veins. Jennie meets me at the exit, clutching her tote.

“You smashed that, too.”

“I didn’t trip or flash anyone. That’s basically a standing ovation.”

We head out into the drizzle, laughing; the fall light glints off rain puddles and car roofs. My laughter stalls. Leaning against his monster black motorbike, cigarette dangling from his fingers, dark chin-length hair pushed back in thatjust-rolled-out-of-bedway.

Brody.

He flicks the cigarette aside and strides over. “There she is,” he says, scooping me up without warning, spinning me until the street blurs. “My favorite dancer.”

“Brody, put me down!” I laugh, half protesting, half clinging. When he finally sets me down, my pulse is doing gymnastics.

“Still an idiot,” I mutter.

“Still gorgeous,” he fires back, eyes crinkling.

For a second, I bask in the compliment until I remember this is what Brody does. Build you up only to knock you back down.

“How did you know we’d be here?”

“That’s my fault,” Jennie confesses. “A few of us went out last night, and I might’ve mentioned it.”

We end up walking to our old haunt—Bean Too Long, a cozy corner café that sits between a record store and a nail salon. We order drinks, and Brody lights up the moment we sit outside. The smoke curls between us.

“So,” he says, “what’d I miss while I was off pretending to be a functioning adult?”

Jennie nudges me. “Ivy just went to London.”

Brody takes a long drag of his cigarette, eyebrow raised. “London? Since when do you leave the country without sending me a postcard?”

“Since... recently,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Long story.”

“You always have long stories.” He laughs, flicking ash into the tray, but there’s a glint of something, a flicker of irritation that he didn’t know what I was doing, like he still assumes he gets front-row seats to my life. His knee brushes mine under the table. Too casual to call out, too familiar to ignore.

He watches me through the haze of smoke, eyes narrowing. “You look different.”

“Different good, or different bad? Choose wisely.”

“Good,” he says without hesitation. “Like you’re glowing or some shit. Don’t tell me you went and fell in love while I was away.”

“And so what if she did?” Jennie claps back, arms folded.