by Jaime Samms
Dusty’s answering smile was strained.
Conrad plowed on. If he didn’t talk about his blunder, then maybe they could just forget it ever happened, and he would go back to pretending he was always the guy in control. “Do you think what you do here doesn’t matter?” he asked, drawing his own mind from the disastrous sex and into the realm Dusty seemed to want to stay in. “Because I’ll tell you something. After barely a month of having you here, I feel as though I couldn’t get on without you. Like I said, I no longer stress over bringing new parents in here or worry they’ll take one look at my office and think I’m a complete freak. We won’t even talk about the kitchen.”
“I’ll get to the kitchen. Give me time.”
“I hope.” Conrad teased, smiling widely, wishing Dusty would see he brought more than tidiness and respectability to Conrad’s surroundings. Didn’t he know Conrad appreciated all of it? All of him?
“You might like the tidiness, Mr. Kosloff, but—”
“What is with this ‘Mr. Kosloff’? Why are you calling me that?” Conrad covered a shiver with a sway of his hips and a step toward Dusty, closing him in against the table. He was just that needy, and what he needed now was for Dusty to acknowledge that things had changed between them. “I thought I was Con now.”
“Please don’t,” Dusty whispered. There was real distress in his eyes, and Conrad moved back.
“What?” He tamped down the tidal wave of uncertainty. “Why?”
“You want this to be something, and I’m not so sure it can be.”
“Why?”
“You’re… you. And I’m… not….”
“You will stop that, this instant.” Conrad placed Dusty’s coffee on the table. No way was Dusty going to brush this off. For a fleeting few minutes that morning, Conrad had flown, safe in the grip of a man who didn’t balk at him kneeling and offering so much of himself. So many men before either took too much, wanting him bent and cowed, or treated him like a precious thing they could never use in the ways Conrad enjoyed. Dusty was not going to be one of those. He hadn’t been that morning. He’d embraced the dynamic, and Conrad wasn’t going to let him brush it aside. It was too precious.
“This morning, you wanted to know what I meant when I asked you not to make what happened less than what it was.”
Dusty watched him, saying nothing.
“There was a man, well, we were hardly more than boys, either of us. His name was Cobalt, and he… he just took and walked away and it was like everything I did for him, none of it mattered. And then Peridot. He was the son of one of my father’s business partners. I thought he and I were real. Lovers, and in love. But he made so little of that—” Conrad pointed to the table and hoped Dusty understood he meant the intimacy they had shared. “Made what I wanted to give him nothing more than sex, made it a stopgap until his intended came along and gave him a marriage and a child. And eventually a drug addiction that drummed him out of a very prestigious dance company. He denied what we did not just to me, but to himself too. He cheapened it.” Conrad drew himself up. “I know what I did today. I know how much I gave, and you took it. Don’t make it something cheap and meaningless. Don’t turn it into a fling.”
“You don’t understand.”
“So tell me,” Conrad crossed his arms over his chest, but he remained too close to allow Dusty’s escape. The move reeked of desperation. He knew it did. He couldn’t help it, and he hated it. But he persisted, because this was a thing he couldn’t keep giving away and have it thrown back at him like it was nothing. It was too big for that; too much of himself to be nothing.
“Talk. Tell me all the things you think make you less. So you didn’t graduate high school. Should we launch the endless list of brilliant minds who never made it through academia? You don’t know how to dance.” He shrugged. “If you want to learn, I can teach. I have papers that say so. You don’t listen to classical music? Do you think I do all the time? Do you think I have only one setting? Your clothes are old and worn. You have a large CD collection. That speaks to priority, not poverty. And so what if you don’t have two pennies to rub together? I don’t need your pennies.”
“I have nothing to give you,” Dusty growled, shoving lightly at Conrad’s shoulders.
Conrad was so surprised he stepped back, and Dusty made his escape.
“It isn’t just about money,” Dusty said, voice rising as he turned to glare at Conrad, fists clenched at his sides. “Do you think I don’t know who you are? Where you come from? The money in your family could buy me and the block I live on and not even use up your pocket change. You think I can’t dance?”
Dusty reached past him to stab the Play button on the stereo. Something loud and discordant ripped through the room, and he whirled away, movements jagged and rusty but not unskilled. There was no routine, just a few spins and jetés, then a flying leap that landed him in the center of the room, buckling to his knees, a cry tearing from him as he fell. He groaned pitifully and rolled to his back, one leg stretched out, the other hovering in uncertain space.
“Dusty!” Conrad took a few running steps and skidded across the floor to him, dropping beside him. “Are you hurt?”
“Stupid fuck,” Dusty muttered, and Conrad was going to huff at him but then realized Dusty was referring to himself.
“Don’t say such a thing. Why are you saying this?”
“Because it’s true.” Dusty lifted himself off his back with a groan, holding his left knee. “Because every once in a while, I try again, when I haven’t had to limp in a while, when I almost forget, and every time, I end up on my ass, and it doesn’t matter what I might have been. It only matters what I am. A guy who got hit in the head, and got his knee cranked, and couldn’t concentrate inside the classroom anymore, and couldn’t hobble his way across a ballet studio to save his goddamn life.” He pushed Conrad off him and hefted himself to his feet. For a long minute, he stared at the floor and the blood streaked across it. Conrad’s careful bandaging of his foot had not held through his folly, apparently. “I’ll clean that up in a minute. I have to go find my brace.”
He didn’t look back as he limped from the room, his left knee buckling with every step and his right foot leaving small smears of blood in his wake.
The outside door to the building rattled, and Conrad growled in annoyance. “So it begins,” he muttered. He picked up his mug and went to unlock the building.
He was watching the office entrance for Dusty to reemerge as he pulled open the street-access door. “Yes?”
“Connie.”
Conrad stared. The last person on earth he would have expected to be standing outside his studio grinned at him.
“Peridot.” As if saying his name only moments before had conjured him from thin air, here was the man himself, wavering in the afternoon sunshine, nearly translucent in his paleness. He looked frail, bundled in too many clothes for the weather. His hands, as square and blockish as Conrad remembered, rested on the shoulders of a young girl, maybe nine years old. Her green eyes and blonde, stick-straight hair belonged in a quiet, sad corner of Conrad’s memories. Peridot had those eyes, that hair. Conrad stared at the girl. “Who… who are you?”
“Camille.” She smiled sweetly and held out a hand. “I want you to teach me to dance, please, Mr. Kosloff. My daddy says you are the best teacher Russian ballet has seen in a decade, and I want you to teach me.”
Conrad tore his gaze from the girl to look at the man behind her.
He hadn’t changed. But he had. Years had layered over the sadness in his eyes, but not banished it. Determination lent a blush to cheeks Conrad remembered as always too pale, too hollowed out. Peridot looked… repaired. He looked like a man who had taken great pains to put himself back together, and Conrad didn’t want to imagine what state he had likely been in when that effort had become an imperative.
“How are you, Connie?”
“I—” Conrad looked again at the girl. “You want to dance, do you?” Because how
was he? Confused. Floundering, suddenly caught between might be and never was, and how did he say that to a man he thought he’d never lay eyes on again?
Camille nodded. “Yes, sir, I do.”
Conrad found a smile for her and moved aside. “Then I guess you had better come inside and we shall see what we shall see, yes?”
Again she nodded, a full, bright grin on her face. “I can spin, you know. And plié and all kinds. Daddy says I’m too young for pointe, but you can talk to him.” She patted Conrad’s hand as she passed him, and before he could stop her, she trotted up the steps and straight into the studio.
He was about to apologize for the state of the floor, but the words caught along with his breath. Dusty had already cleaned up the worst of the mess and was just straightening from picking up a few tissues from the floor by the table. He nodded to Conrad politely.
“I’ll just be one minute, sir.” He then nodded to Peridot and smiled at Camille. “Ma’am.”
She gave him a cursory nod, as if acknowledging the man who cleaned the floor was the polite thing to do but not really worth a lot of her time or attention.
Dusty pinched his lips and hurried to the far side of the stereo table, where he collected the trash can and dusting rags he’d left there. There was no chance for Conrad to follow him to say anything, because Camille was already at the barre, hands placed gently, posture perfect.
“It’s so good to see you again, Connie,” Peridot said quietly as Camille began to count, barely moving her lips, as she showed off her skills.
Behind them, Dusty quietly put away his tools and left the room.
Conrad was distracted from the girl during the time it took Dusty to limp away. He wanted to call him back, but Camille’s sharp voice demanded his attention, and he turned to her.
“That’s good,” he complimented her, because truth told, she was a decent little dancer. It was clear she was her father’s daughter. He wondered if she would ever be his equal.
She would be good, if a little tall, and pretty on stage, but she would never be center stage unless she turned her sights on something less traditional than the big ballet companies. Or a miracle happened and the traditional image of the perfect ballet dancer changed from stick thin and tiny to willowy slender and long-legged. Conrad had seen enough girls at this age morph from children into young ladies to be able to pretty accurately predict what the final outcome would be. He knew Peridot’s body intimately and had met and danced opposite Camille’s mother. Their daughter had inherited most of her physical traits from her father: tall, muscled, sturdy. All perfect traits for a male ballet dancer. Not so much for a ballerina.
Conrad caught Peridot’s gaze in the mirror over her head. The father’s eyes were filled with equal parts pride, longing, and resignation. At least Conrad would not have to break his ex-lover’s heart over this girl. Peridot already understood that Camille was bound for a different stage than the ones he had once graced.
“I think there’s something here to work with,” Conrad said, touching her shoulder lightly. “Show me your feet.”
Obliging, she settled into first position and then focused on him as he instructed her through a short exercise.
DUSTY WATCHED from the door of the studio. His hand and arm twitched, involuntarily at first but then deliberately shadowing the port de bras with smaller movements while he watched critically as Camille executed it with surprising grace for her age.
Conrad’s voice carried his quiet instructions. “First.” He nodded as she positioned her feet. “Second. And third. Okay.” He stepped to the barre in front of her. “Follow.” He did a few quick movements of his leg and stepped away. “And now you.”
She mimicked his movements exactly, if a tad stiffly, occasionally glancing up at her father. The man stood impassively, watching, saying nothing, his arms crossed in front of himself.
When she was done, she returned to resting position, lips tight, chin high, and head tilted just so, waiting.
Well. At least she took it seriously.
Dusty tiptoed crookedly into the room, his steps tilted and awkward with the pain in his knee and foot. He gathered the cooling cups of coffee and took them to the kitchen. He had washed the cups and was just scrawling a note for Conrad when the voices in the studio rose and grew nearer.
“I don’t see why she can’t join the nine-to-eleven group. I’ll get the dates for you, and we can arrange payment.”
“Nine to eleven?” Her father’s voice was haughty, if wafer-thin. “I thought she might hold her own with the twelve-to-thirteen group.”
“It’s summer camp, Perry. Let her join for the fun of it. Meet some of my regular students. See how the older girls are and get settled in. We can make decision about her classes in September, if she even wants to continue here.” He stepped into the kitchen while Peridot and Camille continued on into his office.
Conrad plucked the pencil Dusty had been writing with from his fingers. “You’ll stay,” he told Dusty, piercing Dusty’s half-formed protest with just a look. “I will drive you home. You are not walking in this shape.”
“I’m fi—”
“Stay.” Conrad snatched Dusty’s duffel from the floor at his feet and hurried after his client into the office. “Let’s get everything settled, shall we?” He smiled at the father and winked at the girl. “Sit.” He motioned to the chairs opposite his desk and took his own seat behind it, dropping Dusty’s bag in the slot under the desk.
Dusty sighed and leaned in the doorway. Sitting was too much of a pain—literally—and getting up again even more so. He hoped he wouldn’t have to wait too long. It was clear he was not going anywhere until Conrad released him.
The business of signing the girl up for her two weeks of summer camp didn’t take long, but Dusty’s phone rang before they finished. He took it to the kitchen to answer.
“Well now,” Marcello said in greeting, “you’ve charmed our dancer, then.”
“I’m sorry?” Dusty frowned. “I’m not sure I know what you mean, Mr. Pen—”
“Do not give me any of that ‘Mr. Penza,’ mio caro ragazzo. I know what happened.”
“Y-you do?” Dusty’s gut twisted, his heart trussed and helpless in the middle of it. Had Conrad told Mr. Penza something? Had one of those many phone calls been to his boss? Had he asked about Dusty? Or worse, complained about him? He could not lose this job. “I can assure you it won’t—” Won’t what? Happen again? He glanced through both open doorways to where Conrad sat at his desk patiently taking down client information. The daughter was very seriously answering his questions, and her father was smiling at her, encouraging and doting.
Conrad must have felt Dusty’s gaze then, because he looked up and winked. He smiled, crooked and almost sweet except for the dirty little twist at the very end that crawled over Dusty’s skin and made his entire body tingle.
Oh fuck. He backed away from the open door to lean against the kitchen wall, clutched his phone, palm sweaty, heart thrumming.
“Sir, I—”
“Whatever you’re doing, Dusty, mio ragazzo, keep doing it, yes?”
“I— What?” A blink, a gulp, a breath too shallow to do any good. “I’m sorry, what?” He thought about Conrad’s mouth on him, and his dick jumped in his pants. Dusty leaned forward, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried his best to make the world stop, or at least slow to a speed he could keep up with. “Keep doing—what, sir?” Keep doing Conrad Kosloff? Because that was not how Dusty wanted to maintain a client, even for an employer as tolerant as Marcello Penza.
“Well, I don’t know exactly, do I, Dusty? But whatever it is, your Mr. Kosloff telephoned me today and requested more of your time and attention. He is a good client, Dusty. And a family friend. And if his rich clients like what they see in his studio, there is potential for much growth. I appreciate that you keep him satisfied. I know he can be a challenge, but I can count on you, boy, yes?”
“I—uh.”
“You have se
en the inside of his place, yes? Catastrofe. He assured me you had.”
“I did.” Catastrophe was right. Dusty straightened. “This morning. I—”
“Never mind the details. Do you accept?”
“Accept what, sir?”
“The job!”
“What job? I don’t understand. What, exactly, is it you want me to do?” His mind raced with the possibilities while his gut folded itself into origami points.
Marcello drew in a deep breath through his nose and let it out. “Steady, mio ragazzo. Think it through.” His voice was kind in a way that reminded Dusty of his brother, before… well. Before. “You work for a cleaning company,” Marcello was saying. “You have seen the man’s apartment. What do you think I want you to do? He called me today to ask for you specifically. If it is as bad as I suspect, it could be your exclusive commission. I know how much you need the money, so what if I cut down on your commuting time, reassign your other clients? I can raise your pay enough to make up for the clients you will have to give up. What do you say? Will you take on Kosloff and his slovenly ways for me? Keep him happy and my other staff free to do the other jobs?”
Relief washed through Dusty. “Of course!”
Before he even thought through his response, he blurted it out, just glad his boss wasn’t trying to pimp him out. Glad his impropriety was still a secret. If it didn’t happen again, perhaps they could call it a one-off and move forward. He refused to think about the awkwardness of working for a man he wanted in the worst way, and whom he’d already had once. It didn’t have to happen again. He didn’t dare let it. This job was the last in a long line of them. The others, he hadn’t been able to keep for more than a few weeks, and he’d grown comfortable in this one. He’d come to believe this one might last. His résumé was getting harder and harder to explain to new would-be employers. This had to be the last time. He might never get another chance.
“Of course, sir,” he said again, pushing his reservations aside. “I’d be happy to.” Mostly. If nothing else, at least he’d be able to admire Conrad from afar, right?