Boys and Burlesque

by Ripley Proserpina

  Pressing my lips against his skin, I kissed him gently. If he wanted to just hold me, I’d be okay with that. But if he wanted more, I was on board.

  Landry grabbed my hips and pulled me over him. My cast got caught in the sheets, but he was quick to free me so I leaned over him. “You’re all moonbeams and gold.”

  I lifted my eyebrows. “You a poet, Landry?”

  “Nah.”

  I sat back a little, glancing down at his chest. With my finger, I traced the words, what goes around comes around. “You’re still angry.”

  “I’ll always be angry,” he replied, hands rubbing up and down my thighs. “It’s part of me. But the need for revenge, to get him back for what he did, I don’t feel that as much.”

  “I don’t want you to do anything that will get you in trouble.” We were only now together. I wanted it to stay that way. “Not that I don’t hate your dad. That sounds awful, doesn’t it? But I’m not a saint. He messed up our lives.”

  “He has no power over us,” he replied. “And that won’t change.” Sliding his hands from my thighs to my arms, he watched me. A sliver of moonlight spilled over the bed, bathing him and the rest of the bedroom in shades of blue. Slowly, he lifted one hand to my shoulder and urged me closer to him. Then he kissed me—good Lord—could the man kiss. I got lost in it. Time passed. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. He swiped his tongue across my lower lip and swooped inside, tasting me. I rocked into his body. I was only in underwear and a tank, so his hard length was separated only by a thin piece of fabric.

  I squirmed, rubbing myself against him. He rolled and arched, meeting me right where I wanted him. He sucked the skin of my neck into his mouth, biting down where it met my shoulder.

  Canting my head, I gave him more room to do whatever he wanted. I reached between us, cupping him, then stroking the thick, heavy ridge that was nestled between my thighs.

  “Landry.” He pulled aside my damp underwear and cool air washed over my heated skin.

  I gripped him, ready to line him up and slide onto him, but he stopped me. “Condom.”

  God dammit. The first thing I did tomorrow was get birth control. “I don’t know where there is one.” I hadn’t searched through the cabinets. Wes had his own. Brant and I—well, I couldn’t get pregnant from what we’d done.

  Landry slapped next to the bed, knocking into a bedside table and then rummaging through the drawer. He withdrew a sealed box of condoms that he quickly ripped into.

  It was then I caught the tremble of his fingers as he tried to open the condom. “I can do it.” Using my teeth, I tore open the package, sat back, and rolled it onto him.

  Eyes on mine, he circled my clit with his thumb and waited. When it was in place, he tore my underwear, ripping the seams and throwing it next to the bed.

  I lifted myself and pointed the thick tip toward my core before slowly sliding onto him. Landry was big, so he let me choose the pace. I let gravity do the work. Down. Down. He helped me, short strokes that channeled inside me until he was seated perfectly. The short, bristly hairs at his root tickled me, and I let my head drop back, gasping.

  His hands kneaded my hips, lifting me, helping me do the work before I fell down and he bottomed out. “Fuck.” The word was a growl.

  Each thrust built our confidence and our need. We gained momentum. I took him all the way inside me and dragged him out. My flesh parted to receive him, squeezed him, and clung to him as he withdrew.

  He lifted his hand from my hip to grasp my breast, pinching my nipple. With his other hand, he held tight to my hip, urging me back and forth, up and down.

  I needed him to come. I rode him with that goal in mind. Every breath, every moan, every grunt, I kept track of it. Our hips slapped and the muscles in my thighs burned, but I didn’t slow.

  I leaned forward, grabbed the headboard and shoved myself down on him. Stars exploded in front of my eyes and Landry cried out, releasing my breast to hold me against him as he surged upward. I kissed him, capturing his groan. I loved the way he still moved in me, even though we’d both come. He pulled his mouth away, clutching me to his chest and then rolling me so I didn’t have to keep myself propped over him. “My girl.”

  Anything I would have said left me. I was only throbbing, pulsing emotion.

  My love was as blue as the moonlight that came through the window. It touched everything and bathed the entire house, and the boys inside, in its glow.

  Seventy-Six

  Brant

  What was perfection? Was it holding Betsy in my arms anytime I wanted her? Was it sweating in the Virginia sun as I pulled weeds from the garden as Betsy answered emails on her lounge chair?

  Was it driving her to the hospital and watching the doctor take off her cast?

  Maybe it was holding my arms out as she took those first few tentative steps on her trembling legs.

  It was all of this. It was making love and eating dinner. It was pushing Betsy to do one more set, one more deep stretch. It was reading her emails aloud because she was “so tired her eyes crossed.”

  Weeks of perfection passed, and I came to believe that what had happened in the past was a bad dream. Not just being away from Betsy, but that someone would want to kill her. I waited for the detectives to call and tell me just that.

  But they didn’t.

  Instead they called with updates when his fingerprints didn’t match anything they had on their records. Then they called when they found his fingerprints matched records held by Betsy’s company. That time, they had a name—Gordon Chase.

  Seventy-Seven

  Emails received from danceanon@gmail.com to steven.thornton@bellesoftheball.org and forwarded to obryanj@nypd29.org and santawd@nypd29.org

  To: Steven and Betty

  Subject: References

  I can’t get a job teaching old ladies to dance. They want someone reliable. Someone who shows up on time. And I can’t get you assholes to answer the fucking reference calls!

  You fucked with the wrong guy. You think because you add music and cover your tits, you’re “elevated,” but I have news for you. You’ll always just be a stripper.

  I can’t get a job because of you. My entire life is dancing, and you stole it.

  Fuck you. Fuck your whore show and all the whores who work for you.

  I’ll fucking show you who you messed with.

  To: Steven and Betty

  Subject: Unfortunate injury

  So sorry to hear about your injury. Best of luck.

  To: Steven and Betty

  Subject: Garage snafu

  Whoops. Missed.

  Seventy-Eight

  Betsy

  Thank God for exercise. In the days since learning about Gordon, my former dancer, being the one whose fingerprints were found all over the garage back in New York, I threw myself into rehab.

  The boys helped me. Worked out with me. Distracted me.

  We spent long nights wrapped in each other’s arms, and days building back the muscle and flexibility I’d lost.

  Steven flew Nell to us. Landry and Brant met her at the airport in Norfolk and drove her back. The trip took twice as long as it was supposed to because they took back roads to ensure no one—Gordon—followed them.

  When Nell arrived, she took stock of my injury, rotated my foot in painful ways and declared that if I worked hard enough, I’d get at least eighty-five percent of my flexibility and strength back. “The only thing holding you back is you,” she said. And then detailed a weeklong regimen I was to do when she left.

  And I did it. The boys helped me. Someone always worked out with me. My stomach hurt from laughing the time Wes tried to get his feet in first position and plié.

  Sometimes, when the boys were working on the house, and I was standing in the living room, holding onto the back of the couch like it was a barre, I got lost in my thoughts about Gordon. I tried to think—were there any warning signs? Anything that I missed that said, “Gordon is unhinged?” I had a hard time believing that
lazy, entitled Gordon was the person who hurt me. To be honest, it took more effort than I thought he was capable of.

  He was predictably late for rehearsals. Gave minimal input into choreography. Complained about shin splints and blisters—issues that most dancers dealt with on a daily basis and accepted as par for the course.

  But nothing made me think—here’s a guy who’s going to break my ankle. More like—here’s a guy who’s going to fall out of a chair and sue me for worker’s comp.

  I lived an in-between life. Not fully a dancer. Not fully committed to the boys. Things seemed to be balancing on a knife’s edge, and the suspense was turning me inside out.

  One rare rainy day, I sat in the living room, legs in front of me, and studied my calves. The one in a boot had wasted away. I spent hours building up that muscle, doing leg presses, squats, and lunges. And I stretched it. I used that resistance band Brant had busted out from God-knew-where, and flexed my toes. Point and flex. Point and flex.

  My calf burned and sweat dripped down my temple. A warm, wet breeze floated in through the open window and still, I worked. Point and flex. Point and flex.

  Next to me, the burner phone Landry bought me rang. Steven. “Hello?”

  “Betty, how are you?” In the background, traffic blared and horns honked. “I’m bloody walking here, arsehole!” he yelled before lowering his voice. “How’s the foot?”

  Giggling, I rotated my ankle. It clicked now, when I circled it to the left—a fun new noise. “Pretty good.”

  “Serial Staging wants to send one of their dance instructors to you. They want to see how you’re doing themselves. An independent evaluation, if you will.”

  I was still working on strength and conditioning. I hadn’t attempted to put on my pointe shoes.

  “I’m not where I should be yet, Steven,” I said. I bit my lip, waiting for his response.

  “They know that,” Steven replied. “But they need to see you. Can your boys pick them up from the airport?” he asked. I had trouble hearing him over the traffic.

  “When?” I asked. “When are they coming?”

  “What?” It was like he was walking directly between cars. Moving my phone lower, I looked at the time. It wasn’t rush hour.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Coming back from a meeting with the owners of this adorable little bijoux theater. You’re going to love it, Bet—”

  He was cut off by a horn blaring. Sounds seemed to get far away then, but screams and cries were clear. “Steven?”

  He didn’t answer. Something scraped across the microphone, like someone put it in their pocket or fumbled with it. And all the while, scared and raised voices filtered to me, four hundred miles away.

  “Steven!” I yelled this time.

  “Betty Belle.” The voice was calm and unfamiliar. American. Clearly, not Steven.

  “Who is this?” I asked, but I already had a guess.

  “You know,” he replied. The screams and traffic quieted, like he was moving away from the hubbub. “You should probably catch a flight back to New York. Your friend is going to need you. He’s not looking too good.”

  The phone disconnected, and I stared at it, mind searching for an answer. Something happened to Steven. I reconnected the call, but no one answered. It went right to voicemail.

  The boys were hammering upstairs. I got to my feet, limping to the end of the stairs. “Guys?” It was hard to find my voice, so I cleared my throat and tried again. “Guys!”

  The hammering immediately stopped, and Josh appeared at the top of the stairs. “You okay?”

  I shook my head. “Something’s happened.” I held out the phone, like the inanimate object was an explanation. My hand shook, and it slipped from my grasp, clattering to the floor. “Can you help me?”

  Seventy-Nine

  Betsy

  Voicemail received at 5:30 am

  “Hey, girl, hey! It’s Gordon. Wondering when you’re headed up to New York. I’m staring at the back of Jasmine’s head right now. This traffic is just zooming by. You know how crazy New York drivers can be. What am I saying? Of course you do. I mean—look what happened to poor Steven.”

  I was going to puke. Knees bobbing, I folded my sweaty palms together then wiped them on my dress. The phone, the one that Gordon liked to call now, sat on the coffee table. Landry’s phone was bright, the line open to Detective O’Bryan.

  “We have officers watching your principal dancers, Miss Belle, but we can’t tail all fifty of your employees.”

  I swallowed. “Mike?”

  My security guard cleared his throat. “Yes, Miss Belle?”

  “Can you hire enough staff to stick with the dancers? Is there a way to do that?”

  “Miss Belle,” Detective O’Bryan interjected, “we want to draw this guy out. Not make him go into hiding again. Your security doesn’t blend in as much as they think they do.”

  I couldn’t have been hearing him correctly. He couldn’t possibly be hinting that he’d be using my dancers as bait. Unknowing bait.

  Anger bubbled up my throat and spewed out of me. “Listen to me. There is no way in hell I’ll allow my dancers to be put in harm’s way because you can’t find Gordon. He’s stalking my dancers. How many people do you have on the police force in New York City? Thousands? And you’re telling me you can only spare ten to watch my principals? And what are they even doing? Standing back and waiting? Do you have them ready to provide first aid if another one of my friends is pushed into oncoming traffic?” My voice rose and rose and finally gave out. Choking, I covered my mouth and shook my head.

  An arm went around my shoulders, drawing me into a warm chest. I looked over, having totally forgotten that Landry and Wes hemmed me in on either side, offering their presence as comfort.

  I took a breath, swallowing hard. “Mike?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Did you arrange my flight?”

  Next to me, Landry jolted and Josh lurched from his chair across the room. “No fucking way. No fucking way, Betsy!”

  “Miss Belle…” he trailed off. A pair of jean-clad legs appeared in front of me, and Brant sat on the coffee table. “We’ll call you back,” he said, and hung up the phone.

  “Brant.” I had details I needed to work out, and I knew what he was going to say, but an argument about me flying to New York would be a waste of time. It was happening. Not only because I worried about my dancers, but because Steven was in a hospital, unconscious, and I needed to be with him. He was my best friend, and for a while, had been my only friend.

  I owed it to him.

  “Bets.” Brant glanced at Landry, and I followed his gaze. I had the distinct impression that I was out of the loop about something.

  “What?”

  “I’m going to New York,” he said, “with Lan, and Josh, and Wes. We’re going to draw this asshole out so the police catch him.”

  That made zero sense. “Not to be rude, but he’s not after you.”

  Brant had the audacity to grin. “We know, but if he sees us, he might assume you’re with us. And he’ll follow us.”

  A thousand times no. It was hard for me to think straight with the fear clouding my brain. “No.”

  “It’s not up to you,” Brant said, quietly. Landry squeezed my shoulder, but I shrugged his hand off me.

  “Yes, it is,” I argued, looking between all of them. But their faces were stony and their shoulders tight. They weren’t going to give in. “This is my life. My responsibility. Not yours. Let me handle it.”

  A flash of hurt came and went, causing Brant to press his lips together for a moment. “We’re more equipped to do this than you are. And you are our responsibility. We have a lot to make up for—”

  Were they insane? “Risking your life isn’t making up for abandoning me!” I cried. “It’s being selfish! It’s trying to be a hero I didn’t ask for! You can’t go back in time.” Later on, I’d run these words through my head and hear the fear talking.
I’d hear how horrible all of it sounded, and how hurtful I was being. But right then, all I could think of was using any means necessary to keep them safe.

  “Fuck that, Betsy.” Wes stood, pacing back and forth. “We want to protect you.”

  “Let the police protect me. Let Mike protect me. You think you’re these super soldiers, but you’re not!” I closed my mouth with a snap when I saw each and every one of them shut down. In that moment, I knew what had happened. I’d lost them.

  Westin stood. “Think what you want,” he said. “But our flight is leaving today and we’re going. You’ll stay here. Two of Mike’s guys will be here in a few hours.”

  “You can’t dictate what I’ll do,” I whispered. The childish taunt, “You’re not the boss of me,” sat on the tip of my tongue.

  Wes put his hands on Brant’s shoulders and leaned forward. “Watch me.”

  Numb, I watched the boys pile into the rusted truck they used to bring supplies back from the hardware store and gun it down the road. Each of them had waved, but not one of them had hugged me goodbye. Or kissed me.

  They were going to New York, focused on using themselves as a means to draw Gordon into public. Who knew what would happen then? Maybe he’d shoot them. Run them over.

  It was easy to think of the horrible ways the people I loved could die.

  Pacing back and forth in the living room, I stared at the driveway. The boys I loved were gone, and they might not come back. They might die trying to save me. Maybe they thought this was some big romantic gesture. But I didn’t want gestures. I wanted them alive. With me.

  In that instant, I made a decision.

  Hastily, I packed a bag, stuffing clothes and toiletries inside. I made sure I had my wallet and my phone.