Like No One Is Watching

by Jaime Samms

  Moaning, he struggled to his side so he could see out the high window. From his bed, only the sky was visible, broken into deep blue shards by the bare branches of a maple tree in the backyard. Though it wasn’t much of a view, he still loved it. The sky was free, at least, and the tree swayed, gentle and graceful in a spring breeze. He sighed.

  “I should have asked him to stay.”

  And on the heels of the thought was the inescapable realization that he had no right to a man like Conrad, twice the dancer he was, far smarter, and self-possessed….

  The way he had looked up from the floor, though, nestled between Dusty’s legs, waiting for Dusty to command him. The look of… what? Hope?

  “What do you hope for?” Dusty wondered. “Nothing I have to give you, surely.” Because he was just a guy among so many, and Conrad could have anyone he wanted. Why would he choose Dusty over stronger, smarter, richer, better-looking men, any of whom would treat him so much better than offering him a place on his knees?

  But he hadn’t complained, had he? He hadn’t looked resentful or fought the suggestion. He’d looked up at Dusty and been… peaceful. Yes, that was the look. Peace.

  Dusty flopped to his back and breathed with sharp little breaths through the stab of being reminded of what he’d done to his knee that afternoon.

  Peace. The same peace he had felt holding Conrad the way he had? Did Conrad get the same rush from it?

  “Please don’t pretend we didn’t both just get off spectacularly on that. I know I did.”

  “Oh hell yes, I did.” He could hardly deny it had been an incredible experience and one he rarely got to have. So many men expected him to roll over and present his ass. He didn’t so much mind bottoming as he minded the assumption that was what he wanted. Or the innuendo that it was all he deserved.

  “Would you let me fuck you, Con? Really?”

  The idea of it carried him into sleep. Eventually.

  HE HOBBLED out of his apartment the next morning, stiff, his knee aching enough to need the brace but not as badly damaged as he feared, only to find Conrad’s little Fiat rumbling next to the curb.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, opening the passenger door.

  Conrad grinned at him. “You didn’t ask me to stay last night, but you didn’t say I couldn’t come back this morning.” He handed a steaming cup of coffee through the car to Dusty. “Get in.”

  It beat the hell out of waiting for the bus, even on such a sweetly bright spring morning. Settling in his seat, Dusty sipped the coffee and grinned. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Dusty looked over to see Conrad smiling to himself as he checked his mirror and pulled away from the sidewalk. “Breakfast first? Or straight to work, do you think?”

  Breakfast would fortify him some, Dusty supposed, give him more time before he had to wobble around on his bum leg. But he didn’t have a lot of cash to spare for eating out, and he had scarfed down a bowl of Cheerios already.

  “Thanks,” he said after a few more sips of coffee. “I’ve eaten.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  Dusty smiled. “I’m sure.”

  “Work it is, then.”

  Conrad didn’t need directions back to the studio from Dusty’s apartment.

  “Obviously, idiot.”

  “I’m sorry?” Conrad frowned at him.

  “No. Nothing. I was talking to myself.” Dusty glared out the window and reminded himself it was his brain, not Conrad’s, that needed infinite repetition to keep something as simple as where he lived straight. Other people didn’t need the constant double-checking and rechecking—

  “Did I lock the door?”

  Conrad smiled. “I’m sure you did.”

  “I don’t remember.” He thought back, panicked, retracing his steps, trying to recall if he’d stopped outside his door and turned the key. “Dammit.”

  “Do you want to go back?”

  “No.” Dusty fished out his phone and hit the top number in his contact list. It was answered on the first ring.

  “Hi, Mr. Russo. This is Dusty from—”

  “Downstairs.” There was an indulgent smile in Mr. Russo’s voice.

  “I wonder if you could—”

  “I checked, Dusty. You locked the door.”

  Dusty’s face flamed. “Thank you, Mr. Russo.” Of course he’d checked. He always did, because Dusty had called to ask so many times, it just became a thing.

  “You’re welcome. I see you had a ride to work this morning. Is he a nice boy?”

  Oh, are you fucking kidding me? Dusty glanced at Conrad, his cheeks flaming even hotter. “Yes, Mr. Russo.”

  “Good, good. You deserve a nice man in your life. Shall I pick up your mail, Dusty? I can sort it, if you like.”

  “Shit.”

  Silence. Mr. Russo wasn’t a fan of vulgar language.

  “Um, sorry. I mean. Yes, please, Mr. Russo, if you could, that would be… thank you.” He closed his eyes. When was the last time he had picked up his mail, anyway? He used to stop at the box on the front of the house every evening to check, but the boxes had been removed to the porch where they were behind a closed door. The change in location had messed with Dusty’s routine. “Is there very much?” he asked, giving up trying to figure out when the last time he’d picked it up had been.

  “A few days, Dusty. Not to worry. I’ll make sure nothing important gets overlooked.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Russo.”

  What an idiot, to need looking after like a little kid. And Conrad expected Dusty to be the one in control in bed? Did he even know what kind of dolt he was giving himself to?

  “It’s fine, Dusty. Don’t worry. Please.”

  “Sure.”

  But he did worry. He clutched his duffel closer to his body and wondered frantically if he had packed the extra indoor shoes he needed for Mrs. Agostino’s house. Then he remembered he wouldn’t be cleaning the Agostino place, or anyplace other than the dance studio from now on.

  Had Marcello restricted him to one task because he kept screwing up the others? He was sure he hadn’t. He’d taken meticulous notes, and he followed them religiously. He knew precisely what to do at each home. And as Conrad had pointed out, cleaning was hardly rocket science. Even he could manage most of what the job entailed without difficulty.

  “Dusty?”

  “Yeah. Sorry, Mr. Russo.” He’d drifted.

  “I’ll leave anything important on your kitchen counter, all right?”

  “Yes. That’d be great.” Mr. Russo had keys to all the apartments. He was in his fifties but as fit as anyone Dusty had ever met, and he was caretaker of most of the apartment houses on the street. Dusty was lucky to have found a place in the same building as Mr. Russo. The man was a saint.

  “You get off to work now, Dusty. And be nice to your nice man.”

  Dusty grimaced. “I will, Mr. Russo. Thanks again.”

  “My pleasure, my boy.” And with that, the line went dead, and Dusty put the phone back in the pocket of his jeans.

  “Everything all right?” Conrad asked.

  “Yeah. Fine. I just asked the upstairs neighbor to check.”

  “Is he the one who waved from the front porch when I drove up this morning?”

  Dusty smiled. “Probably.”

  “He nosy?”

  “God, no. He takes care of m—the apartments. He’s nice.”

  He felt Conrad’s gaze on him but didn’t dare look over. He takes care of me. How very lame was that? Almost twenty-seven years old and he needed a caretaker.

  HE NEEDN’T have worried about how he was going to clean the studio. Conrad wouldn’t let him sweep, mop, or do anything else that required him walking a lot. He spent most of the day in the kitchen, where there was enough to organize and tidy to keep him occupied, and the space was small enough he didn’t have to move around more than his knee could stand. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what it said about him that he was perfectly content—happy
, even—to be bringing some semblance of order to the teenage-girl/bachelor-pad chaos of the kitchen counters.

  Not that anything was actually dirty. Just… haphazard, with things piled so high on the countertop the appliances—toaster, microwave, and coffeemaker—were next to useless. And the cupboards were practically empty. So he spent the time wiping the cobwebs and dust off the cupboard shelves and arranging the cups and bowls in neat rows, finding the most convenient place for the coffee, filters, and sugar, and rearranging the counter space to make the best use of what little of it there was.

  When he was done, everything was plugged in and ready for use. No one had to shove piles of dishes, napkins, and empty towel tubes out of the way to get to them.

  Helpfully, it gave Dusty something to do other than obsess over Conrad’s biceps, spine-tingling height, and gorgeously severe features as Conrad passed the push mop over the surface of the studio floor. Dusty did note, though, that whatever Conrad was thinking about, it did not bring a smile to his face.

  Dusty didn’t think it had anything to do with him. Conrad had been more than pleasant in his presence all morning, flirting and pecking him with kisses every chance he got. But one of the dance dads had popped by midmorning, and the interaction left Conrad with a sad sort of expression that Dusty wished he understood. Whatever it was, it carried over to the desk when Conrad sat to do paperwork and return phone calls and only dissipated with visible effort when his students began to trickle in for their after-school classes.

  Dusty was sitting with his leg propped up on the couch cushions, a box of receipts in his lap, when Conrad’s raised voice drifted from the studio. Dusty looked up through the big window to see students staring at Conrad, faces pale, eyes wide.

  Conrad’s attention was fixed on one girl in particular, and she looked on the verge of tears. Struggling to his feet, Dusty hurried from the office, sure he was not meant to witness the poor girl’s humiliation and wanting not to be in her line of sight should she look up and through the windows. He’d just entered the kitchen and turned the faucet on full force for cold water when she came barreling in, hyperventilating in that way only someone trying hard not to cry did.

  “Are you all right?” He moved from the sink toward her, then thought better of it when her face crumpled and she lost the battle with her tears. Instead, he filled a cup with water and held it toward her, as though it could shield him from the heart-stopping awkwardness of the moment.

  She nodded and hiccupped as she took it, gulped a sip down, then let out another soft, crumpled wail.

  “Oh. Dear.” Dusty bit his lip and searched for a napkin, which he found and handed to her. She took that too, without looking him in the face. “What happened?”

  She shook her head and dabbed at her eyes.

  “Eliza?” Another young lady exited the studio and followed her sobs to the kitchen. “Liza, you’d better come back. He’s going to close the door.”

  Eliza hiccupped again, swallowed more of the water, and handed the cup and soggy napkin back. “Thanks.” She still hadn’t lifted her gaze from the geometric pattern of the floor rug.

  “Sure,” Dusty replied, uncertain if there was something else he should do.

  Her friend tugged at her, but Eliza seemed reluctant to return to the class.

  “Listen,” Dusty said, glancing quickly between them but forging ahead despite the other girl’s apprehensive glance. “You know how to do this sequence. It isn’t new to you.” Hell, he had stopped dancing at fifteen, and he was pretty sure he could still do it in his sleep.

  Eliza nodded.

  “So then, stop overthinking it. Let the forms flow. Listen to the music—” He held up a hand when she opened her mouth. “—I know it’s basic, boring class stuff, but it is still music. Hear it. And let your body do what it does. Turn your brain off for a few minutes and see what happens. Ten to one, you get your turnout without even trying if you trust your body to do what it knows and keep your head out of it.”

  She stared at him—well, at his chest—a moment, blinked, then nodded. “Thanks,” she breathed.

  Dusty smiled. “Don’t try so hard. Let it flow. I know you’ve got this.” He patted her shoulder, and she smiled.

  This time, when her friend tugged, Eliza let her pull her out of the kitchen and back toward the studio.

  Dusty trailed after, going to the wall of windows between studio and office to observe.

  A line of girls, hands laid delicately on the barre, studiously did not watch Eliza and her friend retake their places. The music trickled through the studio door and thin walls, and Conrad clapped his hands.

  “Again!” He had a log stick in his hand, and he banged it on the floor as he counted to eight. “Plié, relevé!” He swooped an arm into the air on the last word. “Eliza! E-liza! Stop!”

  The poor girl froze, one arm raised in a graceful arch over her head, her chin lifted, her weight balanced delicately but firmly on the very tips of her pink shoes. In fact, all the students remained immobile in the exact same pose, some straining not to wobble, others rolling their eyes as the music stopped with an irritated stab of Conrad’s finger on the Pause button.

  “Turn out, Eliza, and pull that stomach in!”

  She shifted her foot the barest hint of a turn and sucked her stomach up under her ribs. It was a barely perceptible change, but it seemed to satisfy Conrad, because he nodded. “Continue.” He pushed Play. “And one and….”

  The music began again. Eliza shot a glance at the windows, and Dusty nodded and smiled, encouraging her. She drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes. As the students resumed their sequence, Eliza faced straight ahead, ignoring the fading tracks of the tears on her cheeks and the scrutiny from her teacher. She focused on the movement and maybe didn’t even notice when Conrad examined her final pose and nodded slightly in satisfaction.

  “Thank you, ladies,” he said after another ten or so minutes. Dusty remembered his own ballet lessons, and for the first time in he didn’t even know how long, a stab of regret caught his breath. He missed it. He hadn’t missed dancing in years.

  Conrad swept a hand from the barre to the center of the room and the girls all hurried to center and performed a beautifully synchronized port de bras, ending with elegant curtsies to where he stood in front before the mirrors.

  Everyone smiled and clapped, including Eliza, and she offered her teacher another, extra curtsy as he nodded to her.

  “Like that again tomorrow, Eliza. You will do it for the class, yes?”

  She paled.

  Conrad held her gaze while she fidgeted.

  “Yes,” she said at last and minced from the studio.

  Dusty hurried back to his place on the couch and lost himself in the stack of receipts he was organizing by date. He was still scrutinizing them when he sensed a presence above him and looked up.

  “I—I wanted to thank you,” Eliza said, offering a quick, embarrassed curtsy. “It helped, what you said. Really a lot.”

  Dusty smiled. “Good. I’m glad.”

  “It’s just….” She glanced over her shoulder to the studio entrance, then moved a step closer. “He wants me to do it in front of the class. I just know I’m going to fu—screw it up. I can never get out of my head when people are watching.”

  “But you know the moves. You can do them with your eyes closed.” He winked and she blushed.

  “Yes, but—” She twisted her hands in front of herself a few times.

  “Tell you what.” Dusty set the box aside and patted the couch. “How about you come in an hour early tomorrow and do it for me. One person watching surely can’t be that bad. And if I spot anything really egregious, I can point it out. I’m no expert, you understand. It’s been a long time for me, but if there’s anything really awkward, I can let you know. And then you’ll be warmed up for when class starts.”

  “You’d do that?” She looked amazed, hopeful, and terrified all in one. But, Dusty realized, she was looking him in the
eye.

  He smiled again, remembering the gut-deep terror of dancing in front of an audience. It had always twisted him in knots, but then the music would wend through his body, into his soul, and he’d forget the audience and the potential for disaster and just dance. It was terrifying and exhilarating and often, at least in his memory, better than sex.

  “I’ll be here anyway. I’d be happy to be your guinea pig, Eliza.”

  She threw her arms around him then and thanked him over and over. “I’ll see you tomorrow at two, okay?” She was on her feet by then, gathering her dance bag and books.

  Dusty nodded. “I’ll be here.”

  “Thank you.” And she was hurrying out to her waiting parent, leaving him alone in the office. Immediately, he regretted the offer. It was one thing to be in the studio to swab the floor and organize CDs. To be in there when the objective was to dance, even if it was someone else doing the dancing, made his stomach lurch. He couldn’t handle it. He’d freak out, want to join her, remember he couldn’t anymore. It would be a disaster.

  Sitting on his own in the suddenly hushed building, Dusty wondered how Conrad would take this. He hoped he hadn’t just made a terrible mistake. He glanced through the windows to where Conrad was straightening his awkwardly piled CD collection and gathering abandoned drinking cups from the studio floor. He brought them to the kitchen, and Dusty heard the clatter of them hitting the bottom of the sink. An instant later, Conrad appeared at the door to the office.

  “You’re still here.”

  “Well.” Dusty frowned, then straightened his shoulders. “Yes.”

  Silence.

  “Are you all right?” Dusty asked, glancing up.

  Conrad’s face was set in rigid lines, but his eyes were deep pools, and he didn’t quite look at Dusty.

  “Only I’m not sure why you were so hard on her,” Dusty tried. “She has a very good turnout.”