by Bea Paige
Grabbing my bag and coat from the hook on the back of the door, I head out of the office and towards Anton’s studio.
I hear music the moment I step into the hallway leading to his studio. This time it’s pop. I recognise the song, it’s Wild Love by James Bay, and one of my favourites.
It’s the kind of song that seeps into your consciousness, the kind of song that fills you up from the soles of your feet to the tip of your head. Leaning against the wall, I close my eyes, allowing the sound to wash over me, but the music stops abruptly. Anton pausing it for whatever reason.
Taking that as my cue to enter, I push open the door to Anton’s studio gasping at how tidy it is. The huge central table has been pushed up against the wall on the other side of the room. The numerous canvasses that were spread out all over the space yesterday are now stacked neatly next to it. Every single bit of rubbish, empty paint bottles, discarded sketches and art equipment have been tidied away.
Anton has managed to clear a space big enough for me to dance in.
“You like it?” he asks, a grin spreading across his face.
“It’s certainly tidy. If I knew you were this good at organising, I would’ve got you to help me file away Ivan’s mess,” I laugh.
“That man is about as organised as a piss up in a brewery.”
“He runs a multi-million pound empire, how on earth has he managed?”
“It’s all up here,” Anton replies, tapping his finger against his head. “If anything were to happen to him, all that would be lost.”
“That’s a little worrying…”
“Not now that he’s got you, it isn’t.”
“I’m just his assistant,” I reply, my cheeks colouring slightly at the compliment.
“We both know you’re more than that. I’ve never seen Ivan more enamoured. You’ve certainly turned his head.”
My cheeks blush an even deeper shade of pink at the memory of Ivan’s kiss and at the way I acted. I’d climbed up his body like a bear climbs a tree. I’d wanted to claw at him, I’d wanted to devour his mouth like a bear would a hive full of honey. Another part of me had taken over in that kiss. A part of me I’m afraid of.
“Seems like you might be a little enamoured with him too?” Anton muses, tapping the end of the pencil he’s grasping against his mouth.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask, ignoring Anton’s remark and dropping my bag and coat on a chair by the door. Opposite the open space is an easel with a canvas fixed to it. I suddenly feel nervous that I will be under such close scrutiny, especially by this man. When Ivan looks at me, I know what he wants. When Anton does, I’m not so certain. That makes being with him alone more than a little uncomfortable, not because I think he’ll do something to hurt me, but because I’m not sure how to protect myself.
“Did you bring your ballet slippers?” he asks, settling himself on a stool behind the easel.
“Pointes,” I correct him, pulling them from my bag.
“And you can dance comfortably in that?” Anton eyes my office attire with doubt. I purposely wore a skirt with tights, but the fitted shirt and jacket aren’t particularly conducive to dancing.
“I’ll remove my jacket and shirt,” I say, stopping when Anton’s eyes darken a shade. “I have a camisole on. I can move more freely without them.”
“Go ahead,” he approves, watching me with interest.
With my gaze focused on Anton I drop my pointe shoes to the floor then shrug off my jacket and place it with my coat and bag. Reaching up, I slowly undo each button of my shirt. By the time I’m finished a flush of heat has spread out over my skin, and my nipples have pebbled with the heat of Anton’s gaze.
Anton mutters under his breath, and scrapes a hand over his thick beard, twisting a few strands as he watches me. Right now, I can’t seem to get a grasp on what he’s thinking, so I decide to just stop worrying about it. I agreed to do this.
Sitting down on the polished floor, I slide my feet into my pointe shoes. The moment my toes hit the platform a calmness scatters over my skin and as I lace up the ribbon, the frayed pink stark against my black tights, excitement settles in my belly. Standing as gracefully as I can with a body that aches in places I wish it wouldn’t, I face Anton.
“Did you bring the wine?” I ask, breaking the sudden tension as his gaze lingers on the automatic way my feet turn out into first position.
The last time I’d stood like this Ivan had fired me. Fortunately for me, Anton doesn’t appear to want to do the same.
“Merlot okay?” he asks, ripping his gaze away from me, as he leans to the side and reaches for the bottle behind an upturned crate next to him on the floor. He unscrews the cap, offering it to me. I walk over to him, taking it.
“That’s perfect,” I respond. “Did you bring a glass?”
“I have a mug?”
I crinkle my nose. “Perhaps not.”
Anton laughs. “I’m kidding, here,” he says stretching to the side again. This time when he sits back up he’s holding a large wine glass, and by large, I mean the ones that can hold almost half a bottle.
“Are you trying to get me pissed?” I ask, taking it from him and filling it a quarter of the way.
“Maybe,” he shrugs.
“Well, good luck with that, I can drink a bottle of this stuff and not even get tipsy. Better luck next time, eh?”
“You don’t look the Alcoholics Anonymous type, Rose.”
“I’m not. I know my limits…” I mutter.
“And what are they… your limits?” Anton lifts his foot and rests it on the crate, watching me, waiting for my answer.
“We’re not talking about alcohol anymore, are we?”
He shakes his head.
“That’s for me to know, and you to find out…” I let that statement hang in the air, before asking him a question of my own. “Where’s your poison?”
Anton grins, giving me a cheeky wink that seems oddly out of place, then reaches into the top pocket of his shirt, pulling out a rolled joint and a lighter.
“Bottoms up,” he says, lighting it.
“Cheers,” I respond, raising my glass and gulping back the wine I poured myself. Anton regards me closely, but if he’s surprised about how I’ve knocked it back, he doesn’t say anything.
The wine is full-bodied, smooth. It tastes of wild berries and oak, with a slight bitter taste of tannin, just enough to give it a kick, and exactly how I like it.
“Delicious,” I say, placing both the glass and bottle on the table, careful not to put them on top of the sketches piled neatly on the surface.
“Only the best for our Rose,” he says.
Our Rose? He says it like I belong to him, to them. The last time I belonged to anyone was Roman, and that didn’t turn out so well. Back then I was a child, naïve. Things are different now. I’m different.
Anton takes a long toke of his joint, holding the smoke in his lungs, before breathing it out in one slow breath. The smell of apples and bonfires fills the air once more. It seems to go perfectly well with the berries and oak of my wine.
I stand awkwardly as Anton continues to smoke his joint. “I’ve never been a muse before… What exactly would you like me to do?”
“You came here to dance, so dance,” Anton says, all playfulness gone now. Picking up a pencil, he points to the middle of the space he’s cleared. “Please,” he adds.
“I’ll need to warm up first, it’s been a while.”
“Do what you need to do. I’ll be sitting here, watching your every move,” he murmurs, his words taking the form of a blue tinged dragon as smoke billows out of his mouth.
Turning my back on him, I walk to the centre of the floor and begin to stretch, just like I had that first day I met Ivan. A sudden shooting pain in my back has me gasping loud enough to catch Anton’s attention.
“What is it?” he asks, getting up.
I feel defeated before I’ve even begun. “I have Rheumatoid Arthritis. It’s why I had
to give up dancing,” I tell him, a heavy weight sits on my shoulders at the admission. Here I am, hoping to be able to dance in order to protect myself from Ivan, from the demons of my past, to survive, and my body won’t even allow that.
“You’re in pain? Where?”
“Mainly my lower back, but also my knee.”
“Which knee?” he asks, kneeling on the floor before me. He looks up at me with his liquid brown eyes and for moment we just stare at each other. It’s an interesting position to be in, there’s something so empowering about having a man on their knees before me. It only ever happened a handful of times with Roman, but each time is clearly etched in my memory.
“The left, but it’s no use, there isn’t anything you can do to help,” I mutter.
“I won’t touch you unless you give me permission, Rose,” Anton murmurs, lowering his gaze.
My heart constricts, and inside my demon roars. Does he realise what he’s doing?
“Do it,” I whisper.
Anton slides his hands up from the base of my ankle, over the curve of my calf until they settle around my swollen joint.
“You shouldn’t be dancing like this,” he admonishes.
“I know that, but we made an agreement and I need to dance. I need to.”
The warmth of Anton’s hands seeps into my skin, but he doesn’t try to move them or take advantage of the situation like I know Ivan would. He simply keeps his head bowed and his hands around my knee. Ever so slowly his thumbs gently massage my swollen joint. Both pain and pleasure courses through me as a slow, steady warmth builds in my stomach.
“Then you need to let me look after you, Rose.”
“I don’t need looking after.”
“Everyone needs someone, Rose,” he replies, gently.
I should tell him to stop. I should tell him to get up. But I don’t do either. I allow him to gently caress my knee and wonder what it would feel like if I allowed him to touch other parts of my body. What it would feel like, if I ordered him to?
“Tell me what you want, Rose,” Anton asks.
“I want you to paint.”
Anton lets go of my knee and stands, striding back to his stool. He sits down and waits. Despite myself, I feel bereft of his touch.
Eventually, finally, when my pulse rate has decided to calm down I carry on stretching. Out of the corner of my eye I see Anton relight the joint.
“I know you’re not into drugs… but weed is known to help relieve the pain of arthritis. Maybe you should try some.” He cocks his head and waits for me to answer.
“I’ve heard that,” I respond, looking between Anton and the plume of blue-grey smoke twirling upwards from the joint.
“Do you want to try?” he asks.
I bend my knee tentatively, and the pain expands. “Yes,” I say quickly before I can change my mind. Perhaps the joint will relax me enough to do what I must. I approach him and reach for the joint.
“No, let me,” he says, picking up the joint. He holds it up to my lips. “Go easy the first time. It might make you cough a little.”
Nodding my head, I open my mouth and take the end of the proffered joint, closing my lips around it, the warmth of his fingers pressing against my parted lips.
Taking in a deep breath, I draw on the joint, holding the smoke in my lungs. Anton’s hand falls away and I breathe out, a long plume of smoke billowing from my lips.
Anton raises his eyebrows in surprise.
“Just because I said I don’t use drugs, doesn’t mean I’ve never tried them, Anton. I was a teenager just like everyone else.”
Anton laughs. “You never cease to amaze me, Rose. There’s so much more to you, isn’t there?”
“Perhaps,” I respond, taking the proffered joint and finishing it off.
Anton doesn’t try to press me further, he simply waits. It isn’t long before the effects of the joint begin to take hold. I begin to feel a little light headed, but in a good way. Floaty, I suppose. Handing the joint back to him, I move to the centre of the room.
When I move, the pain is still apparent, but it’s no more than a distant ache rather than a sharp stab. No different to how I usually feel day to day. I start warming up again, this time finding the movements much easier than before.
Once I feel loose enough, I begin to practice the five positions, moving through each one as fluidly as I can manage. I avoid looking at Anton, instead focusing on a spot just behind him.
“Would you like some music?” Anton murmurs.
Something has changed in his voice, there’s a soothing calm about him now. Whether it’s because of the joint, or the fact that he’s genuinely grateful I’m here as his muse, I can’t really tell. Either way I feel myself begin to relax more. My limbs feel lighter, and the stiffness in my joints has lessened further.
“Please,” I respond, rolling my head on my shoulders and enjoying the heady feeling.
Anton nods his head and picks up a remote control from the crate next to him. He presses a button and Wild Love begins to play once more. I watch him as he settles back in his seat. Taking that as my cue to begin, I slide my left foot out in front of me, my toe pointed towards him, then stand on pointe. For a moment I just allow myself a moment to get used to moving this way again. I pull in my core and lift my chin as my arms form and arch above my head. Anton draws in a breath, his eyes widening as they rove over my body. Then as though a spark has been lit within him, he turns his attention to the canvas in front of him and begins to draw.
Closing my eyes, I let the music wash over me and just dance. I don’t follow any rules, I just give myself the freedom I desire, the freedom to move without worrying about what it will cost me. At home I don’t have the space to dance this way, but here in Anton’s studio I let myself go. Nothing enters my head but the peaceful calmness that dancing brings. I don’t distinguish one song to the next. I merely let my body move as I twirl and twist over the wooden floor. The pain I felt when I first began to move is nothing but a distant memory now.
With every step, with every stretch of my hand, and point of my toes, with every arabesque, every demi plié, I feel the tension I’ve been holding release.
I feel as though I can finally breathe.
Really, truly, breathe.
It's as though these last few months I’ve been holding my breath, never expanding my lungs completely. Now I can move fluidly, all the aches and pains gone, or at least not registering beneath the haze of weed.
I feel as though I’m floating, flying.
I’m not sure how long I dance for, but the natural light leaving the room and the darkness pooling around us both reminds me that I should get home soon. When I finally stop moving I realise that I don’t want to leave. That I want to stay here in this room with Anton.
When he rolls another joint and silently offers it to me, I take it, greedily drawing in a lungful of apple flavoured smoke and chasing it down with more red wine.
Between us the bottle is soon finished and the joint smoked. I find myself sitting in the middle of Anton’s studio, my legs stretched out in front of me, not really knowing how I got there. Anton is sitting crossed legged next to me and a deep sense of calm envelops me as I relax.
“You okay, Rose?” Anton asks.
I nod my head, trails of light and colour moving in front of my eyes before they become too heavy to keep open. I’m vaguely aware of Anton shifting closer, his arm wrapping around my shoulder as he pulls me against his side.
“Hush now, sleep,” he says.
Those are the last words I hear as I float off into the darkness.
Chapter Twenty-One
I wake up in a dimly lit room, shards of light breaking through a gap in the curtain. Groaning, I sit up, having no recollection of how I got home. The last thing I remember is sitting with Anton on his studio floor smoking a joint and finishing off a bottle of red wine.
My mouth certainly backs up that memory. Urgh, the taste is disgusting.
Slidi
ng my feet off the bed, I reach for the light switch just above the headboard of my bed. Except I can’t feel it. Maybe I’m still high, or drunk, or both. Standing, I test out the strength of my knee. Oddly, neither my back, nor my knee hurt as much this morning. What in God’s name was in that joint? Realising I probably don’t want to know, I pad over to the window and yank open the curtains.
“What the fuck?” I say, taking in the view.
That certainly isn’t my small back yard… I’m still at Browlace Manor and it’s well past morning. Twisting slowly on my feet, I take in my new surroundings. The room is sparsely furnished with only a bed, a side table and a small wardrobe with a few clothes hanging up in it. There’s nothing on the walls apart from a faded photo of three young boys about ten years old. All three are glaring at the camera. They look very much like the younger version of Ivan, Anton and Erik.
Feeling a sudden chill on my arms and legs, I look down to find that I’m only wearing my panties and vest top. Nothing more.
Who the fuck undressed me? Did I manage it myself? Did Anton do it?
My question is answered when the door to the bedroom unlocks… unlocks? Anton walks in holding a tray piled with toast, tea, and two plates loaded with eggs and bacon.
“Morning, Rose,” he says, cheerfully.
“What’s going on?!” I half shout, half screech. “And why’s the door locked, Anton?”
Anton kicks the door shut behind him and places the tray on the side table.
“Shit, sorry, Rose. This must be a bit weird for you. Let me explain…”
“Explain? Explain what… did we?” I ask, looking from the dishevelled sheets on the bed to Anton’s sexy ‘just got out of bed’ look and half undressed body.
“No!” he responds quickly. He pulls a face, looking more than a little guilty. “You kind of passed out and I figured it best you sleep in the spare room. I slept in my own room down the hall.”
“Oh Jesus, thank fuck!”
He frowns at that. “Is the thought of spending the night with me that bad, Rose?”
“No, that isn’t what I meant… I just meant that I’d want to remember if I spent the night with you…” my voice trails off at the admission.