The Fated Dance: Bound to the Shadow Dancer

by Leeann Whitaker

  ***

  I’ve been awake all night, tossing and turning on my squeaky bed before the window. I purposely left the curtains open, knowing I wouldn’t sleep. I needed something to take my mind off this hell I’m in, and the night sky was my main focus. I’ve watched the hazy clouds floating fast across the stars, and the crescent moon move from one end of my window to the other. And now, the pink and orange hue of the morning sunrise flooding throughout my room.

  I make my way into our tiny damp bathroom, and grab the wrench which acts has a makeshift lever in the shower. A twist too far and the pipes in the entire house judder loudly. And not far enough, and the water is freezing. I’m kind of an expert at it now, and I hit the sweet spot the first time.

  After spending a lengthy amount of time under the trickling water, I emerge from the bathroom, wrapping a towel around my head. Flick comes out of her room and her eyes drop immediately.

  “Morning,” she whispers.

  I go directly into my bedroom. I cannot speak to her. She’s pushed things too far this time, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive her for this.

  I get dressed into my blue ripped jeans and cream vest. Today is my day off. Though, I might call Phil; I need as much work as possible now.

  I make my way downstairs to find the lounge has been cleaned and tidied. The beer bottles that were on the coffee table have all gone, and the scatter cushions on the green sofa have been arranged. I smirk, noticing that even the dust coated television has received polished. The place smells fresh and floral. I close my eyes and sigh. I think my darling Sister is trying to sweeten me up. But it’s not going to work.

  As I push open the door to the kitchen, I hear sizzling and inhale the smell of pancakes and bacon. Flick stands before the rusty stove in her pajamas, shaking a pan over the hob. God, I’m surprised she hasn’t blown the place up. She never cooks. I can’t recall ever seeing her near that hob.

  She lingers with her back to me as I pull a carton of fresh orange out from the fridge, then pour myself a glass.

  “I’ve made breakfast,” she says cautiously, placing a burnt pancake on a plate.

  I blow out as she holds the plate in my face. I’m not going to take it. We are way beyond peace offerings now.

  I slope right by her, staying silent. If I open my mouth all hell will break loose, and I’m really in no mood to be having a slanging match with her. So, I sit down at the table. But as soon as my butt hits the red plastic chair, the plate is plonked in front of me again. I slide it away and take another sip of my juice. She shoves her effort at breakfast my way once more, and I hear the irritation in her breath because I refuse to take it.

  “Jen, breakfast.”

  That’s it. I can’t keep my mouth shut any longer. She clearly wants to make things worse for herself.

  “I tell you what, as soon as pancakes make everything better,” I sneer. “Why don’t you take some to the bank and pay the mortgage off with them, eh?”

  Like a shot, she takes the plate from the table and tosses it into the sink. Of course I was expecting her to blow. And I knew all too well that keeping my mouth closed at this present time was the way to go. But hell, she has no idea of the severity of what she’s done.

  “I told you it wasn’t me, Jen,” she barks.

  “But you are responsible.” I hum in anger. “I mean, why else would you be trying to suck up right now.”

  “Do you know what?” She scoops up her dressing gown from the back of the chair next to me. “I shouldn’t have bothered.” She storms through the door.

  “No, you shouldn’t have.”

  The sun shines through the window beside me, warming my arm. I finish my juice and rest my head against my hand, staring vacantly at the mess she’s left me to deal with. I suppose this kitchen resembles our relationship right now. She causes the chaos, and I run around trying to make things right.

  My eyes fall onto my handbag. I reach over and pull it toward me. There’s something in there that may possibly make things a hell of a lot easier, if I could just swallow my damn pride. I dig into the small zip section and take out the card. I place it on the table and begin to feel sick, staring down at his name: Grayson Crane.

  Unexpected

  I was supposed to be at work over an hour ago, but instead I just lie here like I have done all night, thinking of what a complete ass I was yesterday. For one, the whole Jen thing. And secondly, making a mess of my hands on my favorite car. Embarrassed is a definite understatement.

  I’ve already had six missed calls from Henry. I was due to meet the contractor to discuss the possibility of a new annex next to the gardens, so guests can sit out and enjoy the view. But why the hell should I care? I won’t be enjoying the damn view six feet under will I?

  A tap echoes through my room. My dark gray room with blackout blinds, which I deliberately made dull to make me not want to get out of bed this morning. But that idea doesn’t seem to be working now Henry is on my case.

  “Sir, are you okay?” he calls.

  Is it impossible for someone else to deal with things today? One day I would like to be left alone, without having to go over the plans and details of my father’s stupid hotel.

  I fling the sheet from my body and swing my legs off the bed. I sit for a moment, with hands pressing down into the mattress at my sides.

  “Sir,” he calls again.

  “Henry, I’m fine… give me a damn minute will you,” I bark.

  He goes silent. I shouldn’t take my foul mood out on him, he’s not my car in the garage. He’s just a guy in my life who thinks he’s helping, but is in fact pointlessly interfering. I’m a jackass. I have become some bitter twisted fool… over a girl.

  I grab my blue joggers from the floor and pull them up over my waist. I tilt my neck from side to side with a crack, stand, and stretch out my arms. I take a step toward the door when my cell vibrates on my bedside table. I peer down at the number calling; I have no idea who it is. Probably someone on site needing more funds or materials. I lift it and answer.

  “Grayson speaking.”

  “Grayson.”

  “Jen,” I say in astonishment, dropping down onto the bed because I really thought I’d never hear from her again.

  She’s gone quiet. I have come across this kind of hush before when doing interviews. A young intern coming into my office in the city, thinking they can handle the bigtime. But as soon as the reality hits them, they lose the will to talk. At that point (in my professional opinion) they’ve blown it. I am no longer interested so the interview is cut short. But it’s a whole different ballgame with Jen. I need her to relax about this, because she already has the position if she wants it.

  “Are you still on the line, Jen?”

  She lets out a nervous sigh. “Yes, I’m still here.”

  “Well, what can I do for you?”

  “I… I would like to talk terms.”

  “Okay,” I breathe out. “Would you like to discuss this with me in person?” I would like a yes on this one.

  Again she goes quiet, and again I’m in some virtual interview where the intern has been put on the spot by my question. I like it short, snappy, and to the point. You need some balls in the industry I’m in. But I guess leniency is key here, after all, there’s a big difference between oil and dance.

  “Fine,” she finally speaks. “Where and when?”

  I pick my Rolex up from the bedside table. It’s now ten forty-five am, and I know just the place. “Are you familiar with the Harbor Café on San Francisco bay?”

  “Yes… it’s a little far away.”

  “I’ll pick you up.”

  “No,” she snaps. “I will meet you there… what time?”

  “Is two pm good for you?”

  “Yes, that’s fine.”

  “Okay… I will speak with you soon.”

  She’s gone without another word. I lower my cell down to my thigh when Henry knocks again. In annoyance I march to the door, p
ull down the handle, and open to see him stood there with his slanted mature brow on me. He looks down at my damaged hands then up into my eyes.

  “So, you’ve decided to take the morning off?” he asks in suspicion. “Did you have a bump in the car last night?”

  “Yes Henry… was all dealt with on scene, so nothing to concern yourself with,” I lie. “I will use the Boxster for now.”

  I move by him. I haven’t really got the patience to explain or lie further. I grin, feeling lighter than I did earlier. All thanks to that phone call.

  “I will also be unavailable this afternoon, Henry.” I wink, taking my breakfast, an apple from the fruit bowl. “So, if there’s anything else.” I make my way toward the wet room.

  “Sir… your results?” he quizzes.

  “Henry.” I smile, tossing up the apple. “It’s all good.” I take a large bite.

  The Terms

  Jeez. Why the hell did I agree to this? Twenty long minutes stuck in this stinking cab. I should have just told him my dos and don’ts on the damn phone. But then I wouldn’t have been able to see his face, and I want to be able to read him; see if he is actually trustworthy on this whole weird deal.

  The cab pulls up by the curb adjacent to Donavon’s ice-cream parlor next to the lake. I frantically wind up my window, then drop the fare in the driver’s hand.

  I quickly scramble out into the open and slam the door, filling my lungs with clean air. Kids on skateboards swerve around me, and dog walkers pull excited pets out of my path. It’s busy, with people enjoying their Sunday off by the lake. And the weather is good to; not too hot with a gentle breeze behind me.

  Harbor café comes into sight. I’ve been there only twice before now. Once with my ex, Rory, and the other when I was nine years old with my dad, after I finished my dance recital.

  I spot Grayson sat at a table in charcoal trousers and a white shirt. I contemplate whether I’m doing the right thing agreeing to meet him here. What if he thinks this is like a date or something?

  As I get nearer his striking blue gaze hits me, and follows my every wary step. He looks smart, sharp, and has visibly made an effort. Why, I don’t know. Sundays are casual days. I’m just wearing what I threw on this morning. Perhaps it’s a rich thing, Sunday best and all that.

  A grin extends across his pink lips. He does have nice lips. He has nice hair. In fact, I can’t really pick out a fault on Grayson Crane’s physique and appearance. He is dangerously hot. Dangerous in the most confusing sense.

  “Jen,” he stands to greet me.

  I press my lips together to make an awkward smile as I sit down in the metal chair. I’m not ready to look at him just yet. I can feel a quiver inside my chest and I don’t want to blush. Blushing is a weakness, and something I usually have a good control of. But in Grayson’s presence, I can sense it beneath my warm skin, bubbling blood trying to reach the surface. I take a huge breath and suck in my gut.

  “I’ve took the liberty in ordering a bottle of wine,” he says.

  “It’s a bit early isn’t it?” I frown.

  “I thought with the view and the great weather, it would be nice to have a glass,” he says, looking across the lake. “If you’d prefer water or something else, I’ll have it ordered.”

  I’m not used to this at all, and he can probably tell by the rabbit in headlights persona I’m fashioning right now. I’m waiting for him to crack and show me his true colors. I’m waiting for his hidden agenda to surface; something much more sinister.

  “It’s fine… I’ll just have the one glass though.”

  A short male waiter leans across our table and places a bottle of white in the center, along with two glasses.

  “Anything else sir?”

  “No thank you… that will be all.”

  Grayson begins to pour the wine into my glass and I burst into a light giggle. I can’t help it. He speaks like some refined British gent from an age ago. This is where the average Joe comes for respite. It’s definitely not the Ritz, and it’s not the eighteenth century either.

  He stops pouring and stares, “Something funny?”

  I hold my breath and bite my lip. “No… sorry.”

  I’m now glad of the wine, it may get me through this. Maybe he should have more to. It might make him less austere.

  “Can I say something without you taking it the wrong way,” I say, twirling my glass around.

  “Shoot.”

  “You seem a little… what’s the word… proper. You should relax more.”

  “I agree with you. But why’s that a bad thing?” His lips slant flirtatiously. “In my line of work, I have to have an air of grace, and I also have to be ruthless occasionally,” he winks.

  Ruthless is not a good word to reassure me about this.

  “There is nothing wrong with striving to do your best at whatever you’re good at, Jen,” he adds. “We’re having a drink on a summer’s day,” he shrugs. “And I guarantee you will always remember it.” He slurps his wine, eyeing me over the rim of the glass.

  “And why is that?” My voice almost cracks with this stupid, stupid need to throw myself at him. Shit. He’s making me weak with those eyes.

  His lips curve slyly. “You’ll remember the time you drank wine at Harbor café with someone proper.”

  I laugh loud like a complete idiot then suck in a calming breath, noticing his amusement at my mental lapse.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t go to school around here?” I ask, thankfully keeping control.

  “And you’d be right. My education was what you would call foreign.” He takes a sip of his wine, then places it on the table with a resolute gaze.

  “Foreign?”

  “Yes… the United Kingdom.”

  I frown. “Really?”

  “Yes.” I think he’s getting annoyed with me, but I’m intrigued.

  “Did you ever meet Prince Harry?”

  He laughs lightly, “Unfortunately not.” His blue eyes loop. “Okay, have we to get down to business?” He raises one brow.

  I glance around, cautiously. This isn’t the greatest place to talk, not with people passing by.

  “After all, that’s why we’re here,” he adds. “So Jen, what are your terms if you were to come and work for me.” He draws in his lips briefly and leans back with a fixed business like expression.

  I close my eyes. The delicacy of this topic is making me burn. I struggle to stop my cheeks flushing red. I’m used to performing, and I’m used to dirty sickos wanting to touch me up. But at this very moment, in front of Grayson, I am glowing like a damn torch.

  “Okay,” I huff. “I will not be touched in a sexual manner.” I keep my voice as quiet as possible, arching over the table.

  “Yes Jen, we’ve already highlighted that,” he sighs. “Would you like to tie me to a chair?”

  “Seriously?” I’m unsure whether to take that with a pinch of salt or not.

  “If that’s what you need,” he replies, stone-faced.

  “No!”

  “Well, continue,” he gestures his hand, grinning.

  I fiddle with the stem of my glass. “I will not be expected to touch you in such a way either,” I say sternly.

  “Fine.”

  “I will not be expected to wear ridiculous clothing, or use props.” I have seen many things where I work, and I have to make this clear to him. “For example, neck collars, cuffs, latex, chains, whips. No use of toys, or any other degrading items.” His eyes enlarge in total shock. “Sorry,” I cringe. “I’m just finding this way too strange, and I’m worried whether I’m completely nuts for being here.”

  “You think I want to humiliate or hurt you?” he frowns.

  “I don’t know,” I answer candidly.

  His lips purse to the side before he smiles. “My terms,” he says. “You are to arrive fifteen minutes before eight to prepare yourself.” This seems okay- so far. “You are to wear appropriate dance clothing, and remain covered at all times… which means no
striptease.”

  “Fine by me.”

  “Bare feet.”

  I smile. “Good.”

  “You are to dance to two pieces on Friday and Saturday evening,” he says. “The first song choice is yours, the second is mine.”

  This I’m a little unsure of. “Such as?”

  “Well, that would depend on my mood, Jen,” he says, artfully.

  “Fine,” I say in a breath.

  “And your payment will be left before the door in an envelope,” he explains. “You are to take it with you when you leave, and the matter of money is not to be discussed further.”

  The reason I’m here is a matter I’m not allowed to discuss? Jeez, what if he wants a freebie. This is not a good term to me at all. He’s putting me off the whole deal. I don’t want to discuss my dismal circumstances with him; to tell him I need my salary details. I exhale and look across the lake.

  “Jen.”

  He reaches across the table and his hand touches mine for the briefest moment. It’s as though he was cautious to even do that. I wouldn’t mind if he touched me again. It wasn’t a bad thing he just did, and now he’s looking at me full of guilt.

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m not that cold am I?”

  He nods a no. “I just want you to be comfortable about this.”

  Maybe I’m selling myself and this is all about the money. He’s going to pay me for services rendered. Weird as it is, it’s just business. Sitting here and talking with him, going through my rules, I do actually believe that Grayson Crane is being honest with me. Can I do this, dance for him privately? I don’t know yet.

  I smile. “And I am… so, next Friday?” I offer him my hand.

  He beams and his cool soft fingers curl around my palm. “Would you like my driver to collect you at seven-thirty?”

  He still has my hand in his, and I’m finding it hard to concentrate on anything other than that. He has tiny cuts over his knuckles, and they are all bruised.