by Emme Rollins, Julia Kent, Anna Antonia, Helena Newbury, Aubrey Rose
Clarissa watched me fingering the bills. “Level with me. Was it a lap dance?”
“Clarissa!”
“I promise I won’t tell anyone, not even Jasmine.” She considered. “Maybe Jasmine.”
“No!”
“These days it’s almost okay. I wouldn’t see you any differently. I mean—”
“Okay, okay, yes. Yes, it was a lap dance and yes, we had sex. I went on top.”
Clarissa’s hands jerked on the wheel and we swerved, tires screeching. She fought for control while trying to look at me at the same time. By the time we recovered, I couldn’t control the smile any longer and let it break across my lips. She pummeled me in the arm while letting fly with some choice curses.
I let the laughter bubble up from inside me. I couldn’t remember when I’d last laughed—really laughed—and it felt good.
Chapter Nine
Darrell
The last chunks of gravel were still hitting the ground when Neil, chewing on a pastry, asked, “So, did you bang her?”
I closed my eyes and sighed. I loved the guy like a brother, but sometimes...“No. It’s not like that.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She danced for me. I need inspiration.”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s all it was!”
“Was that an envelope of cash you gave her?”
“...yes.”
Neil didn’t even reply. Just looked at me and poured himself more coffee.
“It’s not like that!”
“Like what?” He was watching me over the top of his coffee mug.
“It’s not about the money.”
“Oh. So it’s love?”
I felt my face go hot. I wasn’t ready to talk about that part of it with him. I barely understood what was going on myself. Jesus, was I blushing? What was I, a fourteen year-old girl? “No! It’s business. I pay her to dance!”
“Uh-huh. Millionaire pays beautiful woman to dance for him in his cellar. That ain’t suspicious at all.” He drank about half his coffee without looking away from me. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“I’m fine.”
“How’s the prototype? That fine?”
“Awesome.”
“Liar. You figure out how to make it dodge yet?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know. That’s what this thing with Natasha is about. I think there’s something there, something to do with dancing.”
Neil cocked his head to one side. “You going to put ballet shoes on a missile and have it pirouette out of the way?”
“Why do you have to be so literal? I don’t know what the connection is yet. That’s why I need to watch her dance some more.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t start that again.” I poured myself some coffee. It was difficult to think, the kiss still burning in my mind. There was no way Neil could know what happened, right?
“You tell her about the missile? Does she know what she’s helping you make?”
I said nothing.
Neil raised his eyebrows. “But you told her you make weapons for a living, right?”
“In a manner of speaking,” I said shiftily.
“What manner of speaking?”
“The sort where I told her I’m an engineer.”
Now Neil folded his arms and looked at me suspiciously. “You’ve never been secretive about it before.”
He was right. I didn’t hide what I did—I was proud of it. The world needed weapons, and someone was going to make them. I made the very best. So why hadn’t I just told her, when I’d talked to her outside the audition? Or in our Facebook chat? Or downstairs, when she saw the workshop for the first time? Why had I flung a sheet over the missile, moments before she arrived? All of the girls I’d dated, the ones from the charity fundraisers and the horse races, had known what I did and they’d never had a problem with it. If they’d mentioned it at all, they’d claimed to be impressed. Why was she any different?
I shrugged. “She doesn’t need to know.”
“Mm-hmm.” Neil picked up another pastry and started munching on it. “Because lying right from the first date always goes well.”
“It wasn’t a date!”
“There’s an alternative.” Neil paused for effect. “You could, you know, not make things that kill people.”
My chest tightened. Neil and had come to an understanding about my work, after many years of drunken rants on both sides. He’d accepted what I did, but that didn’t mean he liked it. “We can’t all be flower children, Neil.”
“The Bitch isn’t going to be pleased.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call her that—it’s childish. Her name’s Carol.”
“It’s both accurate and appropriate. The woman is distilled bad karma.”
I sighed. “How is it that you can have a problem with a respectable executive, but have no issue hanging out with someone called Big Earl.” The biker thing was more than dress-up and weekend rides for Neil. He was in pretty tight with one of the local motorcycle clubs, guys who’d leave you dead in a ditch without a second thought.
“Hey, those guys have honor and respect, man. They’re like a brotherhood. And I mean it, Carol’s going to be pissed.”
“She’ll get her missile.” I topped up my coffee. “I’ll get it working eventually.”
“I wasn’t talking about the missile.”
It took me a second to figure out what he meant. “Natasha? Carol won’t care about Natasha! It’s none of her business! The company doesn’t own me!”
“Uh-huh. You just keep telling yourself that, man. Hey, when are they coming again?”
“ ‘They’—Oh. Clarissa.”
Now Neil was the one looking shifty. “Yeah. I want to make sure I’m not here if she comes back.”
I crossed my arms and watched him. “Uh-huh.”
Chapter Ten
Natasha
That night, I took a long look at the bike and decided that—for once—I didn’t need it. I just slid into bed and let my mind fill with thoughts of Darrell. Sleep took a while to come but I didn’t mind. I had something solid to hang onto as I lay there in the darkness. Something to focus on.
Fantasize about.
....
Some minutes later, my hips strained upwards, my breath ragged as his mouth devoured my breasts, his hands roving over my ass. My fingers were his fingers, on me and in me...God...
I fell back against the pillow, sated. I lay there for a second, just relishing the feeling of being a normal girl, of being happy.
Then my fingers grazed the dressing on my thigh, the rough parallel lines of the scars beneath.
I wasn’t normal. I wasn’t normal at all.
I turned over, staring at the wall. The reality of what I did to myself, and why I did it, hit me like a freight train and I had to dig my nails into my palms to stop me sliding out of control. When it passed, though, it left something unexpected behind. A tiny, twisting thread of hope.
What if this was for real? What if, with him, I could be normal? When I was around him, I didn’t seem to panic and slide down towards my memories so much. He anchored me, just as firmly as the punishment of cutting myself—maybe better. Maybe I’d wake up tomorrow and I wouldn’t need the cigarette case.
Maybe.
* * * *
The next morning, I figured I’d better stick to my routine, even if I wasn’t going to cut. Too much change, too soon, couldn’t be good, right?
My one deviation was to knock on Mr. Kresinski’s door and pay him my rent—early. He was overjoyed at not having to chase me, and I figured it would buy me some slack if things went wrong in the future. I had no idea how long the arrangement with Darrell was going to last—or what it might turn into.
I got to the restroom while it was still empty, then sat there on the toilet seat for ten whole minutes debating whether to do it or not.
I didn’t want to, but then I never wanted to. It wasn’t a want; it was
a need.
I thought of Darrell and felt like I’d be okay without it.
Then I thought about the corridors. The way everyone would push against me, between classes, not knowing who was in their midst. The long hours of practice, lined up with the other dancers—the real dancers, the ones who weren’t fakes. The tension...dear God, the tension of feeling that, at any moment, someone was going to announce what I’d done and everyone would discover the sort of person I really was.
I ripped down my jeans and swabbed at my thigh with an alcohol wipe. When I cut, my vision was blurry with tears and I went deeper than I meant to. Blood swelled and trickled and I swore and sobbed, blotting it with toilet paper. But even though I had to fix it, even though the line was ragged and torn next to all the neat ones, it still worked. I could feel the floor under my feet, feel my breathing returning to normal.
I slapped a dressing over it, looked down at myself and then cried again—big, hot tears. Because I knew that the thing I had with Darrell, whatever it was, would be gone in an instant if he ever found out.
* * * *
By lunchtime I’d got things into some sort of shape in my head. OK, so I had a problem. But I was functional, right? I got by. As long as Darrell didn’t find out, everything would be fine. Better than fine. Things could be great.
A little voice inside me told me I was kidding myself, but I crushed it.
The cafeteria at Fenbrook is your standard college eatery: trays of sodden mash potato, unidentifiable gray meat in sauce and wilted greens, long tables, cliques and noise. Only at Fenbrook you’d regularly see dancers in tights and tutus, grabbing a bite between rehearsals. Or a musician with his sax or guitar or violin next to him, watched as carefully as a favorite child. Or actors running lines while they ate, little snatches of Macbeth or Mamma Mia or CSI mixing together.
Clarissa and Jasmine were sitting across from me, which made it feel a little like an interrogation.
“She still hasn’t told me,” Clarissa said to Jasmine, as if this was the cruelest torture possible.
“You still haven’t told her?” Jasmine looked imploringly at me.
“Come on, Nat. You’ve had a day of mystery. What happened?” I could see Clarissa wasn’t going to quit. Actually, now I’d had time to work through everything in my head, it’d be good to talk to them.
“He kissed me.”
“He kissed you or you kissed?” Clarissa asked immediately.
That threw me. “Does it matter?”
They both looked at me as if I was crazy. “YES!”
I thought about it. “He kissed me. Definitely, he kissed me. But I kissed back. At least, I think I did.”
“This was in the batcave?” Jasmine was almost bouncing up and down in her seat.
“It’s not a—”
“So what happens now?” Clarissa interrupted. “Are you seeing him again this afternoon?”
“I’m dancing for him. I’m not—I mean, it’s business, I think. It’s not a date...is it?”
They both gave me that look again. Was I being incredibly naïve? Was this just some seduction technique he used—pay a girl to dance and then kiss her? But it didn’t feel like that. The way he’d watched me...it had felt like he’d actually been studying me, not lusting after me. Most of the time.
“Can I come?” asked Jasmine. “I have to meet him!”
I started to nod. “Sure. Clarissa’s not coming because....” I trailed off. Clarissa was shaking her head at me. “Clarissa does want to come,” I said slowly, frowning. “Because...oh, wait. I get it.”
Clarissa glared warningly at me.
Jasmine looked between the two of us, delighted. “What?”
I smirked. “Nothing.”
* * * *
As she slammed her door and checked her hair in the driver-side mirror, Clarissa told me, “You’re wrong. I’m coming to watch out for you.”
She’d put more lipstick on than usual, I noticed. “Mm-hmm.”
“That guy’s probably not even here.”
She was in a DKNY dress, today. A short DKNY dress. I nodded at the Harley parked next to the Ducatti. “Mm-hmm.”
Darrell opened the door just as I reached it. Glancing into the kitchen, I spotted Neil wearing, if it was possible, an even more faded and worn t-shirt and jeans than last time, as if he’d dressed as deliberately as Clarissa. There was a fresh basket of pastries and it looked bigger, this time.
Clarissa walked in behind me, saw Neil and huffed. “Oh, great.”
Neil looked up and saw her. “Fantastic!” he shouted sarcastically. His acting wasn’t any better than Clarissa’s.
* * * *
As soon as the elevator doors closed, things changed. I could feel it in the air...words unspoken and looks we didn’t dare give each other. By the time we arrived at the workshop, I couldn’t bear it any longer. We had to talk about what had happened, had to—
The doors opened and I just stopped and blinked. I stood there for so long that Darrell had to put his arm out to stop the doors closing again.
Where I’d danced before, where there’d been a big, open space, there was a stage.
Not some six foot, temporary platform for giving a speech. This filled the area from front to back and must have been fifty feet wide. Its top was three feet clear of the floor and its surface was smooth, polished wood.
I thought for a moment that it must have been a trick, that he’d stopped the elevator at a different floor or something. But this was definitely the room we’d been in the day before. And the smell of sawdust and wood polish hung in the air.
“How—” I began, “How could you possibly have....”
“Is it okay? You said a sprung floor was better.”
I climbed up onto it and tried an experimental jump, then a proper grand jeté. There was just the right amount of give in the wood. It had been made by someone who knew what they were doing.
“It’s great. But how...?”
He shrugged. “I called some people, straight after you left yesterday.”
“They built this in an evening?”
“Oh, no. They worked through the night.”
I blanched. The idea that someone would spend that much money, go to that much effort, for me...I took a staggering step backward.
He climbed up on the stage. “Natasha?”
I put out my hands. I only meant it as a gesture, to slow things down, but he took a step towards me at just that moment and suddenly my palms were against his chest. He had another of those faded t-shirts on and I could feel his warmth through the soft fabric. I drew in my breath.
If this was some seduction ploy, it didn’t feel like it. Even when things went like this, when I could feel the blood rushing in my ears and hear my heart hammering in my chest. It didn’t feel like it was coming from him or me. It felt like we were riding on a wave, swept along with it and barely managing to cling on.
“What is this?” I managed. “I mean...do you really want to see me dance? Or is this—”
“I built you a stage.”
I stared into those beautifully clear eyes. I swore he wasn’t hiding anything. “And is this really...” I sighed. “Is this really helping you? I mean...I can’t see how I can inspire you to do...”—I cast my eyes at the workbenches, the computer screens, the shape under its sheet—“whatever it is that you do.”
He stared at me for another second and then jumped down off the stage. Turning, he offered me his hand and when I felt how warm it was, when I saw my own slender hand captured in his, my stomach did a little flip-flop.
He led me over to the office area. There was a steaming mug of coffee on his desk and more in the pot. Sheets of paper covered in complex notation were scattered everywhere, and a small mountain of screwed up paper had buried what I assumed was a waste paper basket. He’d said the people he’d hired had worked through the night to build the stage. Had he been here all night, too?
He pointed to the whiteboards.
At first, I thought it was just scribbles, random lines with smudges underneath some of them. Then I looked more closely and the smudges resolved into equations. He’d written crazy small just to fit it all on—even with three whiteboards side by side. And then, finally, as I stared at it, as some of the detail dropped away and I began to see the shape of it, I thought I recognized it.
“Is that...?”
“It’s you,” he told me, and his voice was almost a whisper, as if he was scared that if he spoke too loudly, he’d destroy the fragile magic of it.
He’d captured—in some abstract form I could barely glimpse—the movements I’d made yesterday. The rotation of each pirouette, the arc through the air of each jeté.
I frowned. “But you didn’t take notes.” I looked around. “Is there a camera?”
He looked at the floor for a second, as if embarrassed. “I memorized it.”
As he walked me back to the stage, I kept glancing at him, my mind whirling. This man, who Clarissa had declared a bit off, was a full-on genius in the purest sense of the word. I felt that little twist of hope inside me crushed. What on earth would someone like that see in me?
I remembered something, then. During the big argument between Neil and Clarissa, Neil had said Darrell hadn’t graduated. Why not? With his mind, he could have aced any exam they’d thrown at him. It didn’t seem like something I could ask him, though...at least, not yet.
I realized I had no idea what was going to happen, and maybe that’s why I was almost lightheaded with anticipation.
I stepped onto the stage and looked down at him. It was strange, being taller than him for once, and I drank in every little detail. The thick, soft hair on the top of his head that I still hadn’t run my fingers through. The way he managed to look so young, looking up at me with those big eyes, and yet so powerful, the muscles of his arms stretching the sleeves of his t-shirt.
I swallowed. I meant to say, We should talk about the kiss, but what came out was “What would you like me to dance?”
He hesitated, as if he, too, wanted to say something different. But what he said was, “Something with lots of aerial work, if you can.”