They said goodbye and she watched him walk away. He kept turning to smile at her.
“How very romantic,” came a droll voice from behind Boh.
Boh turned and gave Serena the finger.
“Keep your jealousy in check, bitch,” she muttered as she went inside the building. She sighed when she realized Serena was following her. “What do you want?”
“Oh, nothing, just on my way to grab my stuff from the changing room. And to tell you Kristof is out this afternoon, sick. Celine is taking the rehearsal.”
“See, you can give good news as well as bad.” Boh wondered why Serena was being so forthcoming. “What’s wrong with Kristof?”
“Where do you want me to start?”
Despite her dislike of Serena, Boh actually sniggered at that. She studied the redhead. “I thought you and he …”
“Oh, we are. Doesn’t mean I’m blind to his faults. I’d have to be dumb, and if I’m a lot of things, I’m not dumb.”
“No, you’re not,” Boh said and Serena looked surprised.
“Please tell me we’re not bonding, Dali.” But she had a smile on her face.
Boh snorted. “We’re not. But that doesn’t mean we can’t try to get along. Showcase is coming up; we all need each other.”
Serena made a noncommittal sound. She grabbed her bag from the changing room as Boh began to change. “Later, Dali.”
“Later.”
Alone, Boh wondered at Serena. When she had first joined the company, three months after Boh, Serena had appeared to be shy and retiring. Her inner bitch hadn’t come out until she’d realized that Boh was on the fast track to principal; Boh had gotten the impression that Serena was used to getting everything she wanted, when she wanted, and to be fair to the other dancer, Serena was a talented dancer. More than talented, she was a natural, but something was missing. Warmth. Connection, both to her partner and her audience. It was the difference between soloist and principal.
Boh smiled at Celine as she entered the studio. “Good afternoon, Madam Peletier.”
Celine’s eyes softened. “Boh, ma chère, welcome. We’re just running through La Sylphide. Warm up and then we’ll go through the combinations.”
As always, as she began to dance, Boh lost herself in the movement, the technicality, and the beauty of the dance. La Sylphide was one of her favorite ballets to dance and with Vlad, the ethereal Russian, as her partner, Boh soon found herself deeply into the character.
An hour later, however, a very pale, shaken Nelly Fine interrupted the lesson and asked Celine to go with her. Celine frowned. “We are in the middle of rehearsal, dear Nell.”
“I know, and I do apologize.” Boh saw the usually upbeat Nell was close to tears. “But this cannot wait. Please, Celine. Grace will be along in a few minutes to finish the class for you.”
Boh felt a growing dread in her chest. Celine nodded, and glanced at the class. “Forgive me, ladies and gentlemen.”
She left with Nell, and a moment later, Grace, her face tearstained and drawn, reappeared. She closed the door quietly behind her. “Hey, everyone, take a rest, will you?”
They all sat down on the floor, murmuring between themselves. Something was very wrong. Grace took a deep shaky breath in. “Friends … I’m very sorry to tell you that earlier this afternoon, just after lunch, our dear Madam Vasquez took a fall. No one saw the incident, but we’re assuming Eleonor became confused and found her way to the roof.”
Boh gasped, as did some of the others, knowing what was coming. Grace nodded, her eyes filled with tears. “Yes. We found her in the alleyway at the side of the building a little over fifteen minutes ago. There was no hope that she would survive the fall, and so we have lost ...”
Grace couldn’t carry on and Boh got up to hug her friend as she cried. Most of the others were in tears too. Boh saw Elliott, deathly pale, get shakily to his feet and stagger out of the room. Boh nodded at Jeremy to go find him and Jeremy, his expression shell-shocked, followed Elliott out.
It was hard to know what to do in this circumstance, Boh thought later as they all gathered in the common room. Shocked and subdued, every member of the company gathered with the exception of Nell and of course, Celine. Even when Oona had killed herself last year, Boh couldn’t remember such sorrow as this. Liz Secretariat came to find them, her elegant figure bowed by grief.
“Sweethearts, I don’t know what to say to you to make you feel better, because there is nothing to say,” she said. “Some of you younger ones, Lexie, Keith, you may not know what a legendary prima Eleonor Vasquez was, what a trailblazer.”
“We knew, Madam Secretariat,” Lexie said softly. “We knew.”
Liz squeezed Lexie’s hand fondly. “All we can do now is support Celine as best we can, and honor Eleonor’s legacy.”
“We will do anything we can, work as hard as we can, to do that, Madam Secretariat,” Boh said, still holding Grace’s hand. “Anything. Perhaps we should dedicate the showcase to her.”
“That’s a lovely idea, Boh, and I’m sure Celine will have some ideas of her own. Obviously, that’ll be something to discuss after the funeral.” She sighed, looking her age for once. “Look, for today, go home, rest. We’ll open the studio tomorrow for anyone who wants to dance but I’m cancelling all classes, all rehearsals. If any of you want to talk, or feel you need counseling, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
Boh’s eyes slid to Elliott. Jeremy had brought him back from wherever he’d gone too, but her friend still looked … devastated? They were all in despair, of course, but there was something different about Elliott’s grief.
Later, as they got ready to go home, Boh managed to get him on his own. “You okay?”
He nodded, not meeting her eyes. “Just thinking about Celine, how she must be feeling. To lose your true love …”
Boh wasn’t convinced that Elliott was telling her the whole truth, but she didn’t push it. Whatever secrets Elliott was hiding, they were his to hide.
Boh walked slowly back to Pilot’s studio, thinking about what Elliott had said. The thought of losing one’s true love … God, the pain of that, she couldn’t even imagine. Unbidden, visions of Pilot, dying or dead, horribly injured, came into her mind and she gave a sob.
Boh moved to the side of a building and let her grief flood out, burying her face in her scarf as she cried. When she was cried out, she wiped her face and started towards Pilot’s studio, before stopping and turning around. Running back to the ballet company, she sought out Nell’s office. Her friend was sitting at her desk, head in hands, and she looked up as Boh knocked.
“Come in, Boh. Hell, I thought you’d all gone home.”
“I was on my way, but I need your help.”
Nell looked at her curiously. “What is it?”
Boh drew in a deep breath. “I need an address from you.”
Boh waited for the building manager to hang up the phone, not knowing what the answer would be. She was surprised when he turned back to her and nodded. “You can go up. Top floor.”
She rode the elevator, not knowing exactly what she was going to say, but knowing this was something she had to do.
When she reached the top floor, she knocked on the door of the penthouse apartment. When it was opened, she took another deep breath. “Hello. You know who I am. We need to talk.”
“Well, well,” Eugenie Radcliffe-Morgan said with a smirk, “Then you’d better come in.”
Chapter Fifteen
Months later, Boh would wonder if her visit to Eugenie had done anything but stoke the other’s woman’s insanity, but for now, she faced the woman who had been her lover’s wife for a decade. Eugenie, even thinner when Boh had seen her at Pilot’s apartment, her collarbones jutting from the shoulder-less royal blue dress she wore. Boh could tell it was designer and beautifully cut, but it did nothing for the blonde woman, just accentuated her scrawny body, her frailty. Really, she was thinner than some of the more waif-like dancers Boh worked with. Did she
ever eat?
Eugenie seemed to be enjoying her scrutiny. “Comparing our bodies to find out what Pilot really likes?” She looked Boh’s healthy, athletic body up and down. “Hmm. He usually prefers a more … slender silhouette.”
Boh didn’t rise to the bait. For one, she knew that wasn’t true, and two, if Boh was confident in one thing, it was that her body was healthy and strong, even with the odd bout of anemia. This woman was deluded if she thought Pilot would prefer a bag of bones.
“Miss Radcliffe-Morgan, I’ve come here with a request, and a promise.”
Eugenie sat down and lit a cigarette. She motioned for Boh to sit, which she did. “I’m listening.”
“Let him go,” Boh said without hesitation. “Free him, and yourself. He doesn’t want you, Eugenie, and I think you know that. So why are you wasting your own time, and his?”
“And yours?”
“And mine. None of us need this constant denial. Pilot and I are together now.”
“You’re fucking him?”
Boh knew she already knew the answer to that and was just taunting her. “Yes.”
Eugenie flicked the ash from her cigarette into an ashtray. “Wonderful cock. So thick and long. Don’t you think?”
Boh said nothing. Let her get her coarseness out of the way. Eugenie picked a piece of tobacco from the tip of her tongue and studied Boh. “You’re not his type, you know.”
“So you’ve said. The evidence would say otherwise.”
Eugenie smirked. “You think you’re more than just his latest hole to fuck? He does this with his models. He falls madly in love with them while he’s working with them, and then poof! The minute the show is over, he loses interest. Do you really think you could tame that beautiful man?”
Boh didn’t believe a word, but she still felt the sting. “Whether or not Pilot and I go the distance is irrelevant. I want you to leave him alone, let him live his life. I know what you did to him.”
“What I did to him?” Eugenie sounded incredulously and despite the smile on her face, Boh could see the anger in her eyes. “He drove to me to behave like I never would have if he’d just …”
“If he’d just what?” Boh’s voice was hard. She knew gaslighting when she saw it—her father had been a master of it and now Boh had no patience or empathy for people who behaved like that. “Exactly what you wanted to? Put up with your whoring around? Your drug taking? Yeah, I know all about it, Genie. You treated that …” she cast around for a word good enough to describe Pilot, “that extraordinary man like shit. You took ten years from him. Don’t you even feel a little guilty about that?”
Eugenie gave up any pretense of amusement. “Get out. I don’t need an ethics lesson from a little mulatto whore like you.”
“And there comes the racism. You really are a one-trick pony.” Boh got up, wanting to be away from this vile woman as much as Eugenie wanted her out. “Just remember this … I’m on his side. I’ll fight for him, with him, against any crap you send our way. Not only that, but I’ll talk to anyone who’ll listen about how vile and disgusting you are.” She stalked towards the door but turned at the last minute. “Here’s some free advice, learn how to wipe your nostrils properly, and for the love of God, have a damn sandwich.”
Boh slammed the door behind her as she left, knowing that parting shot was bitchy but she didn’t care. Eugenie Radcliffe-Morgan was the most revolting person she’d ever had the misfortune to meet. The thought of her hurting Pilot any more … nope. Not going to happen.
Her adrenaline carried her back to Pilot’s studio, and when she saw him, looking up from his work and smiling at her, her heart pounded with love.
“Hey, I didn’t expect you so early.”
His smile faded when she told him about Eleonor Vasquez. “God, I’m so sorry, baby.” He put his arms around her and she leaned into his big body.
“I just feel so bad for Celine. Can you imagine, 50 years together and this is how it ends? God.” Boh felt the last of her adrenaline leave her body now and she slumped in his arms.
Pilot held her tightly. “There’s nothing I can say to make you feel better about this, baby, I’m sorry. But perhaps I can distract you?”
She tilted her head up so he could kiss her. “Please, Pilot, please …”
His lips crushed against hers and he lifted her into his arms. She stroked his face as he carried her to the couch where they had first made love. Boh smiled up at him. “I love you so much, Pilot, so, so much.”
“You’re my world,” he said as he began to undress her. “My absolute world.”
They made love slowly, enjoying every moment of their connection, the rest of the world meting away. As Pilot’s cock plunged deeper and deeper into her, Boh trembled and gasped for air, her nipples hard against his chest, her belly quivering with desire as he stroked it. Even when she danced, she could never feel this connected with her own body—he managed to make her feel both precious and unbreakable at the same time.
As they recovered, Boh looked at him shyly and told him how he made her feel. Pilot felt overwhelmed. “Wow. Wow.” He shook his head, burying his face in her neck. An idea came to him, as he breathed in the clean scent of her skin. “Baby?”
“Yes, my love?”
“May I take your photograph … right now? As you lie here, you look so beautiful … it would be the perfect finale. The way the light is making the sweat on your skin glow gold, your astonishing body …” He ran his hand down her belly. “You can say no if you want, absolutely no pressure.”
“Yes,” she whispered, almost as if she couldn’t believe she was agreeing to be photographed nude, just after making love. He kissed her gently. “Thank you. I promise, no one has to see them apart from me and you, if that’s what you want.”
Boh lay, her lithe body stretched out, covered in dewy sweat, and he took the shots, already knowing they would be spectacular. He loved the look in her eyes, sated, loving, sensual. When she looked at him directly with those beautiful brown eyes, he saw trust and devotion in them and it thrilled him. To capture it with his camera was one thing; to know and believe it to be genuine was something else entirely. Boheme Dali loved him as much as he loved her—he had no doubt and the realization almost made him break.
Instead, he concentrated on taking what he knew to be the best photographs of his career. It was a portrait of not just a dancer, but a woman, a girl growing up in front of him, with him. With his gentle persuasion, Boh posed for him, both in dancer mode and casual mode, wrapped in his sweatshirt, grinning up at him, or entirely naked in arabesque, en pointe, or at the barre.
He took closeups of her nude body, the peaks of her nipples, hardened by his touch, the curve of her soft belly with its deep, round navel—the shadows he got using his lights were exquisite.
It became not just a photoshoot, but an extension of their lovemaking, frequently stopping shooting to have sex again, both naked and laughing, playing with every prop they could think of.
It was the early hours of the morning before they stopped and finally dressed to go home. They walked hand in hand through the midnight streets of Manhattan, even though it was cold. “I love this time of night,” Boh said, “even in New York, there’s a special quiet to it.”
Pilot chuckled. “It’s weird but I know what you mean.”
As soon as he finished speaking, a car backfired and they both laughed. “Jinxed.”
“Ha. By the way, with everything, I forgot to tell you.”
Boh looked at him curiously. “What?”
Pilot grinned. “The realtor called. The loft is ours.”
Neither of them spotted the woman following them, watching carefully as they walked back to Pilot’s apartment. Her eyes followed them until they disappeared into his building, then she turned and walked away, disappearing back into the night.
Chapter Sixteen
Grace sat on Boh’s single bed and watched her pack her clothes. “I’m going to miss you, boo,” she smiled at
her friend.
“Me too. I feel kind of bad for leaving you in the lurch like this.”
“You’re doing nothing of the sort,” Grace handed her a stack of scarves. “When you first met Pilot, I kind of guessed this was the way it would go. You just seem so perfect for each other.”
Boh grinned. “I know, right? But still, will you be able to manage the rent?”
“Girl, stop worrying. If you can keep a secret, I have news. NYSMBC has offered me a teaching role next season.”
Boh stopped. “What?”
“I’m retiring from dancing, at least, for the most part. The stress fracture I suffered last year has made a reappearance and I’ve had enough.” She sighed. “Listen, I made principal at my own ballet company—what else is there?”
“Prima,” Boh stressed but then sighed. “But I can’t blame you.”
Grace studied her. “You getting stressed out about the showcase?”
“Yes and no. I’m concerned because Kristof isn’t himself, have you noticed? No temper tantrums, no screaming, no violence. He seems … subdued, if that isn’t too weak a word.”
“Maybe he’s finally kicked the drugs?”
Boh frowned and Grace chuckled. “Come on, did you really think he had quit? We all know how he fuels himself. How he passes the urine tests, I don’t know, but he does it.”
“Does the company know?”
“The deal was clean drug tests. He’s getting them, which gives Liz and the board plausible deniability. They need him, especially after the anonymous donor. I still wonder who that was, who his benefactor was.”
Boh made a noncommittal sound, still thinking about the clean drug tests. Kristof had been calmer, his eyes clearer, his temper restrained. Maybe he was clean, now. She was under no illusion that he wouldn’t revert the nearer the showcase got. Two more weeks. She, Vlad, Elliott, and the others had their roles down—it was a waiting game now.
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