by Lynn Turner
Really, it was such a winsome thing to say. Such an enticing idea, that he’d grown fond enough of her to ache when she wasn’t around. That maybe, just maybe, when he was alone in bed at night—or on the couch, slashing scripts with his red pen—he wished for a warm, welcome body to curl around his…and for that body to be hers. She made a soft sound, and he took her mouth again.
She trembled as his hands slipped under the hem of her top, running hot along the fine bones of her ribcage. “I’ve missed you too.”
He stroked her abdomen, then slid his hands up, his palms cupping her breasts. They kneaded, then kneaded harder as her back arched. “I knew you would understand.”
“Oui.” Arching again helplessly, she pressed herself against his thigh, his hands growing hungrier on her breasts. “You like me.”
“God, yes.”
“Beaucoup?”
“Very, very much.”
Bon Dieu, but she ached. Seeming to understand, he gripped her hips and dragged her firmly up and down his thigh. Need burned through her—hot, searing, relentless. The smoke signal came from low in her belly this time, drawing his dark eyes to her face. He ground her against his arousal with bulls-eye precision, circling his hips, rocking her. The friction made her eyes water, and she clutched the front of his T-shirt in her fists.
“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “I missed you like this. Just like this.”
Unzipping her pants, he slipped his hand into her panties, finding her easily, then pressing, stroking…
A heavy click sounded on the other side of the door, followed by a heavier slide. Zack cursed, jerking his head up. Mina froze in fear, but it was too late: she’d already begun to fall.
“Merde!”
“Shhh, it’s okay, petite.” He pressed the heel of his palm against her, rubbing firmly. “Ride it out, I’ve got you.”
When she stopped shaking, she scrambled down from him, taking quick, steadying breaths. He chuckled, and she shot him a look of annoyance.
“Arrêtes!” she spat. “This isn’t funny.”
“Relax, petite. No one comes out here. They’re probably looking for something in the closet.”
They straightened themselves out as best they could, dispelling the haze of arousal. Well, as much as a few seconds could allow.
“Eyes up, pervert.” He nudged her chin up with his thumb.
A completely unsexy sound—like a horribly muffled sneeze—ripped from her throat.
“Okay?” He searched her face, his other hand on the doorknob.
She managed a nod and nothing else, stepping back for him to open the door.
Carmen was halfway down the hall, pushing a very large wooden apparatus on wheels toward the gymnasium.
“Whoa, mamá, lemme get that for you.” Zack finished locking the storage closet, then slow-jogged to catch up to Carmen.
She looked at him with surprise, then at Mina, then at the storage closet door. “So nice to see you again, Mina. Looks like you and mijo have something in common. Neither of you knows how to take a day off.”
There was mischief behind her smile, which stopped Mina in her tracks.
Oh. That’s where he gets it from. Mina’s answering smile was automatic. “I-I want to be here. I’m so flattered that you invited me.”
“Don’t be flattered, linda.” Carmen stopped fussing with the apparatus, rooting Mina to the spot with the full force of her direct gaze. “Everywhere you go, you belong. Every praise you get, you’ve earned.”
Wow. Raw, unfiltered conviction wrapped around the words like gift ribbon around a plaque. Here you go, doubtful heart, it said. Keep me somewhere safe, so you can take me out and read me whenever you start to question yourself. That wasn’t even the part that brought heat to Mina’s face—the first sign of her irritating tendency to cry whenever she felt the tiniest drop of emotion.
Non, what moved her was that Carmen had said it like it was the most ordinary thing. Like there were people who walked around in the world with absolute confidence that they belonged, that they were good enough exactly the way they were.
Mina considered herself confident enough, but she’d never looked in a mirror and not seen something to improve upon—unlike Zack, who, despite the darkness he’d endured as a child, carried himself as though every centimètre of space on the planet existed solely for him to occupy.
Now she understood why.
He cleared his throat, because obviously she was a drama queen, overreacting to someone being nice to her, and she needed a moment. “I thought I’d show her around before introducing her to the kids.”
Carmen’s brow lifted in the exact way that Zack’s often did. Vraiment, it was fascinating.
“I see.” She planted her hands on her hips. “You were showing her the breathtaking view of that rickety old fence and the brick wall next door?”
“Mamá…”
“Oh please! Don’t try to pull the wool, mijo. Manny and I go back there all the time.”
Zack groaned.
Mina’s cheeks flamed.
“Anyway,” Carmen said. “It’s none of my business—”
Zack scoffed, but seemed to have the good sense not to say the Since when? written all over his face.
Carmen turned away from them and back toward the apparatus, positioning herself to push it down the hall again, speaking over her shoulder. “I can handle this thing. There are a few more T-shirts from the summer intensive program in the office in case you two don’t want to look like you were in a back-alley brawl.”
Mina grimaced at the horribly misshapen front of Zack’s shirt. She could identify exactly where her fists had been because the fabric across his chest boasted two little whirlpools made of wrinkles.
Pride kept her from even glancing at her own shirt. Instead, she glared at Zack.
“What?” He didn’t look embarrassed at all. “You were making sex eyes at me.”
Grunting, she lifted her chin.
He shrugged. “If you don’t want people to know about us, keep your sex eyes to yourself.”
Chapter Seventeen
Mirrors.
The wheeled apparatus turned out to be mirrors.
Mina gaped. There were six of them, each two meters tall and a half-meter wide, in wooden frames connected by hinges. When Carmen had taken them from the storage closet, they had been folded together like an accordion to save space. Stretched out now, with a barre in front of them, the shiny basketball court was transformed into a makeshift little dance studio.
“Manny and mijo built it a few years ago, when Zachary first started the new summer program,” Carmen explained.
Late comers took their places along the wall and on the bleachers, likely hearing about her visit through word-of-mouth. Mina turned her attention from them to Zack—who was herding about thirty kids ranging in age from six to twelve—into a semi-circle on the gymnasium floor. It wasn’t a publicized event, but camera phones were out nonetheless.
“Zack started it? Not you?”
“Sí, it was his idea.” Carmen beamed at her son, who was telling jokes and laughing with the kids. “We do it every summer for free, because some of the kids can’t afford to pay. Most can’t afford dance clothes, so we rely on donations and support from the community.”
“The summer? And…after that?”
Carmen spoke candidly. “I get one, maybe two every year who have enough natural ability that I can mentor them, catch them up in time to apply for scholarships. The rest? If I see them next year, I’ll be surprised.”
Mina gasped, pressing her hand to her stomach. “But…” She blurted the word, because her insides felt like a lava lamp—like her organs were floating around in molten liquid. “How can you introduce them to something so beautiful, only to tell them they cannot continue?”
The warmth in Carmen’s wide brown eyes intensified to a spark, her voice a whisper. “En boca cerrada no entran moscas.”
Mina stared at her mutely.
“Y
ou have no idea what that means, do you, linda?”
“I understand the words, just not what they mean. ‘Flies don’t enter a closed mouth?’”
“Sí. It means, ‘Sometimes, it’s best to keep your mouth shut.’” She gave her a meaningful look, then went to join Zack in front of the kids.
Even with her own foot shoved down her throat, Mina observed the way Carmen radiated around Zack, how incredibly proud of him she was—how fiercely protective.
Oh.
Merde.
Zack, who stood there so charismatic and relaxed, had been one of these kids. Hungry and full of potential. Potential, but not money.
Without Carmen to keep him from slipping through the cracks, where might he be right now? How different—and small—would the world of ballet look without him to stretch and redefine its boundaries? Without someone who refused to accept that the genre was confined to the styles of only a handful of choreographers? Someone who saw a classic like La Dame Aux Camélias and re-imagined it for a contemporary audience—and for the lead to look like her.
Mina’s heart sank to her stomach, and she suddenly felt half her usual height. Strangely, the smile on Carmen’s face looked genuine when she introduced her to the kids, and Mina knew instinctively that it was. Everything about Carmen was real—her warmth, her frankness, her laughter, and obviously her love. To someone like her, an apology was nothing more than empty words.
Mina had not been sure of what she would say to these children before she’d arrived. She supposed Zack might lead the discussion, open it up to some questions, and she’d take a few pictures. Now, she was determined to share a little of herself, to show Carmen that her privileged upbringing hadn’t made her so out-of-touch, she couldn’t connect with these children.
Or that you can’t connect with Zack, her annoying subconscious said. Not that it would bother you for her to think that, simply because she knows you like his hand in your pants.
Impeccable timing, as always. She tried not to groan. Unlike her subconscious, people could hear her. And see her. Naturellement, he was looking at her now. Non, not at her, or through her. It felt—had always felt, from the first time they’d met—like he looked inside of her, past skin and muscle and bone. That’s why she’d raised a leaden shield around her heart, so his gratingly precise x-ray vision couldn’t see what she wasn’t willing to share. Taking a deep breath, she lowered the shield—just a little—smiled and took her cue.
“Your accent is funny.”
Zack met Mina’s quick eye contact.
Is he serious? she telepathed.
Don’t look at me, he telepathed in return. Serve it right back.
She cut her eyes back to her heckler. “Funny, that’s exactly what the French children told me when I arrived with an américain accent.”
“You were an American?” The kid stared at her like she’d said she was from Narnia.
Several people laughed.
“I am américaine.” She lifted a fine brow. “It is a lifetime honor, so I’m afraid you are stuck with me.”
“Ever heard of Beyoncé?” another one challenged, obviously unconvinced she hadn’t been hatched, or cultivated in a petri dish.
Mina narrowed her eyes playfully. “I’m from France, not Mars.”
With that, the little band of misfits was hooked. Zack exchanged an amused glance with his mother—who seemed to be fighting a smile and losing—then folded his arms over his chest and watched Mina work.
“I come from one of the oldest ballet schools in the world…”
Jesus.
Maybe it was her impeccable posture, or the way her voice had risen to reach the people in the back, but the hard, echoing surfaces of the gym seemed to magnify her accent. The subtle huskiness of her tone became less subtle, her words blending into one another, lending a steady, lyrical sound to her voice that seduced her listeners with its rhythm. It was like hearing her speak for the first time again, sending his pulse racing in his chest.
“I was the only ballerina of African descent in any of my classes, the first to join my company. I had friends, of course, but it was…a unique kind of loneliness—the kind you can feel even when you are not truly alone.”
Zack’s heart stuttered—from pure shock—at those words, at the pain in her voice and in her expression when she said them. Of all the methods he’d considered for extracting information from her (including possible use of tethers), wide-eyed, ruddy kids weren’t one of them.
“It hurt me,” she said, “to feel underestimated sometimes. Like greatness was neither expected, nor required of me. And then, sometimes, when I exceeded expectations, to feel like I was being evaluated with a more critical eye than my peers. It was not until I was preparing to compete for an apprenticeship, that I realized the advantage my experiences had given me. You see, in ballet, your body and every movement it makes, is placed under a magnifying glass—no matter who you are, no matter what you look like…no matter where you come from. When everyone else around me grew sick from the pressure of competition, I remained strong. The kind of scrutiny they were preparing to endure? I had already endured for years.”
Zack felt a whisper tickle up his forearms, the back of his neck, even the skin of his legs. Goosebumps. Her passion was tangible—like he could reach up and pluck it from the air. It was almost too much, being exposed to the full intensity of her soul when he’d grown used to getting just a glimmer at a time.
“If you choose this path, it will be hard,” she said. “It will hurt, and sometimes you will want to give up. I just want to say, don’t. Don’t ever give up, no matter what you decide to do. Would you like to know why?”
At their nods and softly uttered yeses, her face lit up with her smile. Holy shit, did it light up. It wasn’t until that exact moment that he missed her smile, when he realized it was her first smile since she’d started talking. That’s how bright it was.
“In French, we say, ‘Petit a petit, l’oiseau fait son nid,’” she said. “It means, ‘Little by little, the bird makes its nest.’ With patience and persistence, you can accomplish anything.”
It wasn’t a speech, but it felt like one. The room erupted in applause and whistles, and a little girl sporting two fluffy puffs of hair on either side of her head rushed forward, nearly knocking Mina over in her eagerness. Zack recognized the smallest ballerina in the program that summer. She belonged to one of the gym’s regulars.
“That’s Charley,” he said. “Six years old, youngest of five, only girl, and obviously raised by wolves…”
Charley giggled, and Mina moved into a squat, bringing them eye-to-eye.
“You’re the same brown as me,” Charley said, which made everyone laugh.
Holding up her hand, Mina examined the back of it with feigned concentration. “I think you’re right.”
“And, we have the same hair…I think.” Charley frowned. She looked like she wanted to say something else, but hesitated.
Mina went to her knees. “Did you want to ask me something, chère?”
Charley moved her head closer, whispering something in Mina’s ear. When she pulled back, Zack saw Mina’s face again—a strange mix of shock and curiosity. They stared at each other long enough that it was almost awkward, and he started toward them to rescue Mina from whatever put that look on her face when she held up her hand to stop him. He paused, gaping along with everyone else as Mina smiled into Charley’s eyes, gave her a subtle nod, and bowed her head.
Charley lifted one of her little hands and tentatively stroked Mina’s hair, sifting several of the spiraled strands through her chubby fingers. Mina’s eyes welled up, but she stayed stock still, waiting for Charley to finish her gentle examination.
“Well?” Mina asked when Charley dropped her hand again.
“You’re just like me,” Charley said. “I knew it!”
That drew some much-needed laughter, and after Mina graciously answered a round of questions, Zack decided to complete the rescue mission
he’d started several minutes ago.
“Okay, we have time for one more. You—Snaggletooth,” he said affectionately to a girl missing all four of her front teeth. “Bonus points if you don’t ask to pet the special guest.”
The girl giggled, then shyly asked her question. “Hi, what’s your dream role? Thank you.”
Mina tensed up, as if the girl had asked what bra size she wore. It was subtle, the way her posture got a little straighter, her chin a little higher. He quirked his brow at her, opening their telepathic communication line again. What’s that about, petite?
Averting her eyes, she turned back to her audience, her smile a little too perfect. “Forgive me, I don’t think anyone has asked me that question. I think, because I’ve been fortunate to have danced as many roles as I have… I-it’s a great question.”
Expert Stalling Tactics, an abridged version, with annotations by special guest, Wilhelmina Allende…
Her words stalled, but her face didn’t. It seemed painted in two shades: sadness and happiness. Red and gold waged war on her skin.
“When I was six years old, my papa took me to see Swan Lake. I was in awe of everything about it, especially that a single dancer got to play two roles—the black swan, and the white swan—such a range of emotion and technique…Since then, I have always dreamed of being the Swan Queen.”
With that, Zack’s heart tripped hard and fell, hitting every rib on its way to his toes. This time, his telepathic communication said:
What.
The.
Fuck?
Then the door to her heart slammed shut, the sound of it echoing off the rafters, and question time was over. Mina was a champ, though. For half an hour, she endured questions about her Frenchness that were, at the least, curious, and at most, semi-insulting (not from his kids, thank God). After posing for selfies with anyone who asked, she was understandably ready to go. She tried to hurry ahead of him, but Zack kept up with her easily.
“How is it you’ve never been the Swan Queen?” he asked. “Weeks ago, when we danced for Alex’s class, it felt like you’d done it a million times. The way you moved—it’s like it wasn’t a memory at all. Like it was mapped in your DNA.”