by JJ Knight
“You just need to be a little more forceful with them,” David says. “Show them who’s boss.”
“It was fine,” Renata says. “Just unexpected. How are you, Livia? You look so different!”
“Grateful not to be injured,” I say. “It was a lot more workout than I’m used to.”
“I’ll say,” Blitz says. He keeps squeezing parts of me, my arms, my shoulders, my waist. “You’re all muscle.”
“She was already damn skinny,” David says.
“It’s just a few months,” I say. “I’m sure I’ll be back to my old self by Christmas.”
“You think you’ll keep doing ballet work?” Renata asks.
I glance at Blitz. “I’m just taking it one job at a time right now.”
The bar quiets down. It almost feels as if no time has passed, and I’ve just walked up to meet Blitz and his parents in San Antonio.
Except. Well, some parts of me are waking up just being next to him. I think about how it’s been six weeks and I’m dying now that he’s here.
Blitz is probably in a similar frame of mind because he scoots out of the booth and takes my hand.
“If you’ll excuse us, I’m sure Livia is tired and would love to get some rest before her big opening night tomorrow,” he says.
David coughs into his hand. “Some rest. Sure,” he says with a laugh.
Renata taps his arm to make him stop. “Sounds perfect. We’ll see you tomorrow after the show, dear.”
Blitz scoops up my dance bag and my forgotten shoes. He drops his sunglasses on his face despite the darkness of the bar and we stroll out to the lobby.
The elevator doors have barely closed when he’s on me, pulling me against his chest. “I’m going to kiss every inch of these new muscles of yours,” he says.
I’m still fairly warm and limber from a day of rehearsal, so when he reaches down for my thigh, I can raise my leg straight up to rest on his shoulder.
“Oh man, oh man, oh man,” Blitz says, turning to bite my ankle through the stretchy leg warmer.
We’re in this position when the doors open on the sixth floor. I notice the number and know it’s where all the dancers are staying. But I can’t get my leg down before Weeza steps in.
Then backs out. “Forget it,” she says.
I wonder why she’s going up rather than down, unless she’s planning to visit Evangeline. But she doesn’t have a card that allows her on the secure floor.
She keeps backing away until finally the doors close again.
I put her from my mind and turn back to Blitz. “You were saying?”
He shifts and sweeps my other leg off the floor. He settles me against his chest, my dance bag banging his shoulder and my shoes dangling from his fingers beneath my back.
“You are going to be naked before the door is closed,” he says.
“Oh, really?” I say. “Will you at least let me shower first? I’ve been dancing since nine this morning!”
“In the shower, then,” he says. The elevator door opens on our floor, and he takes off down the hall. I spot the same elderly lady as on the first day and her eyes grow wide as she watches me being carried by Blitz.
I bury my face in his shoulder, stifling a laugh, as we hurry past the other doorways. I could run into anyone up here. Ivana. Evangeline. Dmitri. We might be staying next to one of them! They will hear!
But we continue through another set of doors that require a key card. Then more doors. I’m guessing they aren’t in here. At least not Ivana and Evangeline.
We’re safe.
Blitz shoves the card key in the reader and shoulders open the door.
When we’re inside, he tosses me on the bed. I let out a little shriek as I go airborne and he dumps my shoes and bag on the floor.
“That leotard is coming OFF,” he says, tugging on one of the wine-colored leg warmers.
He peels them down and tosses them across the room. I can barely take in the place, large and spacious but not quite a suite.
He assesses the rest of my outfit and goes for the skirt first, sliding it down and throwing it behind him in a puff of netting.
Then he grasps the top of the leotard to start peeling layers away.
The air hits my skin, chest, ribs.
Blitz lifts my hips to get it down to my knees, then it’s flying across the room.
“Always the tights,” he mumbles, grasping the waistband and pulling.
“Got to make it a challenge,” I say.
“Oh, you’re a challenge,” he retorts.
When I’m naked on the bed, he kicks off his loafers and pulls his shirt over his head. He starts to take off his pants, but then sort of dives forward, his mouth landing on a breast.
I arch up to meet him, reveling in the feel of him, finally. I’d shut those thoughts out for the most part, not wanting to get too lonely or too homesick for him.
But now it’s back, all of it, every memory, every need. My desire for him blasts through me like a shock wave. I feel consumed, covered in fire.
“Shower, please,” I manage to say.
He doesn’t move his lips from their soft surround against my tender skin. But he shifts me down so I’m closer to the edge of the bed. Then he’s able to slide off and get to the snap of his jeans.
His pants hit the floor, then his boxers.
He lifts me up, wrapping my legs around him so we walk together to the bathroom.
“This is going to kill me,” he says, shoving the glass door aside and reaching in to turn on the spray.
Thankfully the water is hot almost immediately. It’s a broad standing shower, so Blitz sets me down ahead of him and enters behind me, pulling the door closed.
The small space steams up quickly. I relax into the spray as I let down my hair, relieved to feel the sweat and stickiness of the day washing away.
Blitz tugs a washcloth from the rack on the wall and wets it. “I am going to make sure every inch of you is clean.”
He squeezes green body gel from a tiny bottle onto the cloth and works it until it suds up.
“I’m going to start here,” he says, bending down to slide it around my ankles. “I want to look at these legs.”
The soap makes my skin slippery, and his fingers glide along, feeling every curve and ridge. I haven’t quite gotten the boxy thighs of longtime ballerinas, but the muscles are defined and firm.
He makes his way up, the cloth coming around and behind until he squeezes the new version of my butt.
“Jesus,” he says. “It’s perfectly smooth.”
His face is near my belly button, and one hand slides up my abs, a finger slipping beneath my ribs. “We both have a six-pack,” he says. “We should do a photo shoot.”
I huff out a quick laugh, trying to imagine posing that close to naked. “I don’t think that’s my speed,” I say.
“I probably would have to buy all the copies so no one else would see anyway,” he says. “I’m the jealous sort.”
“Are you?” I tease. “The sort to punch somebody for saying I’m a ‘sick ride’?”
His laugh is low and rumbly. “My misspent youth.”
Water drips off my body and onto his head.
“Less talking, more action,” I tell him. “It’s been way too long.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” he says. He drops the washcloth, most of the gel washed out, and runs both his hands over my skin, back, waist, hips. He’s still kneeling.
Then he lifts one of my thighs to his shoulder. He cradles me with his arms as his lips slide down my belly, his tongue finding its way.
I press my hand against the tile for balance, my breath catching. The water cascades down my back as he works, warm and relaxing.
He’s back. He’s here. He’s mine.
The spiraling starts small and tight, just where he’s working my body. Then it begins to spread, a warmth that circles out like a pebble dropped in a river.
He adds fingers, and everything starts to
speed up. I find the handle to the shower door and grip it tight. God, I’ve missed this. The tension. The anticipation. The pleasure. The tension gathers quickly now and I’m almost over the edge.
Then the rhythm begins, pulsing against Blitz’s mouth. I let it take me over, bliss washing over me in its wake. My tears mix with the shower water. I’m overcome with happiness and relief. The time apart hasn’t mattered. This is real.
Blitz lowers my leg but keeps his hold on me. I’m glad, as my muscles are shaking. He shuts off the water and pushes open the door to fetch a towel.
“To be continued in the bedroom,” he says. “I might not let you sleep, but I’ll let you rest.”
He stands over me, tall, solid, my Blitz. He wraps me in the towel, squeezing my hair.
We walk together to the bed, crisp and white, and when I lay down on it, it’s cool to the touch.
Blitz pulls the towel away and smooths my hair back. “I want a better look,” he says.
He glides his fingers along my shoulders, following the curve of those muscles. Then between my breasts, where my chest is tight and flat between them. And back to my legs, which he still can’t get enough of, lifting one to kiss the entire length.
“Amazing,” he says. “I bet you can jump grand jetés over my head.”
“I’m not sure about that,” I say. “But I won’t apologize for my form anymore.”
During the weeks of rehearsals, we’ve talked about Barb and Franco and all the instructors. He knows how hard it’s been. Now is for reunion, reconnection.
And Blitz takes his time. Kissing, kneading, touching. I know the night will go late, but as he promises, I am at rest, and he worships me.
Chapter 22
I wish I could take Blitz with me for every part of the process leading up to opening night, but the way he’s mobbed yet again as soon as he gets out on the sidewalk outside the hotel, I know it’s unwise.
“They’re just going to wait for you out here,” I say as we duck back inside. “I’ll ride with the troupe over to the theater.”
“I should spend the day with my parents anyway,” he says. “They’re lost in new cities.”
“I’ll see you after the show,” I say. “I think there’s an after-party.” I actually know for a fact that there is, but I’m not entirely sure I want to go. Blitz stealing Dominika’s big night with fans and paparazzi would not help us work better together.
He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Don’t miss the bus. I’ll see you tonight.”
We part reluctantly and I load up with the rest of the dancers.
Our last week has been entirely at the venue as the crew worked in the lights and scenery and we practiced our entrances and exits. The feel of each dance is different in the expansive space of the stage without a barre or mirrors or glass walls.
I thought I was accustomed to the glamour and beauty of lights and stage and how a final number comes together. But a classical ballet is a completely different animal from a TV show. The live orchestra makes it magical. And the lack of cameras and screens helps preserve the illusion that we have stepped into a medieval world.
I think Blitz will be dazzled by it. We’re recording the DVD version in New York, which gives us time to get everything perfect. We have the most shows there plus time for the crew to come in and film a rehearsal so they aren’t obtrusive to the audience.
The atmosphere on the bus is absolutely giddy with excitement. Every time someone reaches the top step to become visible to those already seated, a great “Huzzah!” rises up.
When I reach the position, the cries reach a fever pitch. Some of the dancers chant, “Carabosse! Carabosse!” So I hunker down to give them my best evil hunchback look.
Everyone erupts in cheers and laughter. I sit by Carla, opposite Andrew and Fiona. It’s hard to imagine that our first show is already tonight.
“This is the beginning of the end, you know,” Carla says, tucking her curls into her bun. It’s a futile gesture, as every time she gets one put away, another escapes.
“It is,” agrees Andrew. “Once we’re past opening night, it will be a blur of travel and stages and shows.”
The last few dancers load on and the driver closes the door. The girl with the clipboard, who I finally learned is named Penny, stands to look over us and make sure everyone is here.
I glance out the window to see Dominika, Dmitri, Evangeline, Ivana, Barb, and the Prince loading into a limo. I’m glad I’m not traveling with them, imagining the serious, grim-faced ride.
“Where is Weeza?” Penny says, leaning down to look out the window.
I glance over at Carla and raise my eyebrows. The three of them know I have a history with her, but not that Evangeline wanted Weeza to play Carabosse. I’m glad she got White Cat, though, and did not end up being my understudy. I’m quite sure she would have broken my kneecaps to get the role.
The driver opens the door again as Penny turns and heads down the steps. She goes into the hotel, furiously tapping on her phone.
But when she comes out, Weeza behind her, Weeza has her arm wrapped around Angelique, the girl playing the Lilac Fairy. Instead of coming up to the bus, they head toward the limo.
Fine by me.
Carla looks out and watches them load in. “I wonder why she’s moved up.”
“Sex,” Andrew says. “She’s been all over Angelique since week three.”
Oh! That possibility hadn’t even occurred to me.
“We can take a limo over tomorrow if you want,” I say. “Blitz has one hired for his whole stay.”
“Are we trading a limo for sex too?” Andrew asks.
“Sex not necessary,” I tell him with a laugh.
“Oh! A limo!” Fiona says excitedly. “Can we take it to the party tonight too?”
I frown. I’m not sure I’m going. “I have to do the meet-and-greet event with the patrons,” I say. “I might be done for after that.”
“Nonsense,” Carla says. “We will all be high as kites and ready to go out all night.”
Penny gets back on the bus and the driver shifts us out of the circle and out onto the street. We’ve been having to get ourselves over to the theater all week and mostly took the El, speeding through town on the train. But on show days, they want us to go together and be accounted for. Still, I’m sure I could get the limo cleared for us if I wanted.
Why not have a little fun?
“You guys could take the limo while I’m stuck at the patron event,” I say.
“Yes! A pink one,” Andrew says. “With white carpet.”
“Andrew, you are too much,” Fiona says. “I want it to have a hot tub inside.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Do they even make those?”
“Heck yeah,” Andrew says. “I saw it on some TV show about the rich and famous.”
We speed through the streets. It’s morning, but past rush hour. I wonder what Blitz will do with his parents all day, but mostly I try to figure out if it’s a good idea to go to the party. Especially in a hot tub limo.
Still, I text a quick note to Blitz making sure whatever he got for tonight will have enough room for three more.
Any special requests? Blitz texts back.
I mention pink with white carpet or hot tub.
Blitz’s next text is nothing but exclamation marks and other random characters.
Carla looks over my shoulder. “Is that Blitz?” she asks.
“It is,” I say.
“So wild.” Her eyes meet mine. “Famous people, sitting right beside me.”
“She’s been with you for six weeks,” Andrew says. “You should be over it by now.”
“Blitz is new,” she says. “And I may or may not have a picture of him on the wall of my apartment.”
“Eeeuuuwww,” Fiona says. “You have to take that down. You can’t have Livia’s boyfriend on your wall with your kissy kisses all over it.”
Carla tosses her empty water bottle at her. “There are no kissy kisses!
” She glances at me. “At least, they shouldn’t be noticeable.”
I shake my head. I guess I haven’t really been out in the normal world with friends I would talk with like this since Blitz. Everyone in my life in San Antonio was respectful of my relationship with him, like the Dreamcatcher teachers and everyone at Jenica’s.
I forget that a significant chunk of the young female population probably has a crush on him.
“So, do we get to meet him proper?” Andrew asks. “Is he coming to the party?”
I’m not sure how to answer that. “I’m not sure if he should go,” I admit. “I think he might overshadow all the hardworking dancers. He wouldn’t like that.”
“She has a point,” Carla says. “Maybe we should all just blow off the party.”
“It’s opening night!” Fiona exclaims.
Andrew holds up his hands. “I say we go to the party until Livia arrives.” He turns to me. “You simply have to come for a while.”
I think about this. “I don’t think the meet and greet is very long. So maybe.”
“It’s all settled!” Carla says, sitting back. “This is going to be an epic day.”
I have to agree with her about that.
Chapter 23
The final fittings and rehearsals go perfectly. I may not match Dominika’s style as perfectly as Ivana may have wanted in the spindle scene, but it’s passing to everyone else. Maybe pleasing Ivana is simply an impossible goal.
The makeup artist is amazing and funny. To keep things simple, Dominika decides she and I should share the prima ballerina dressing room. Everyone else is in the common dressing area, and I would have been too, except Dominika didn’t want to have to worry about the timing of the makeup checks.
My face is like nothing I could have done. Thick black arches above my eyes and along my nose ensure that I’m a stark contrast to the light happy fairies. It’s beautiful but haunting, like I’m a shadow of someone once beautiful.
The opening is more storytelling than dancing. I watch from the wings as the King and Queen’s court go onstage with the baby-doll infant Aurora.