Ripped

by Lisa Edward

  “No, I’m going to dance.” I made my fingers dance in a circle on the table. “I’m dancing.”

  “Oh, lovely. A performance?” His eyes lit up.

  “No, just a waltz, with Pierre.”

  “Oh, I think it’s over there.” He pointed in the direction of the bathrooms.

  There was no use carrying this conversation on any longer. I nodded, smiled, and then allowed Pierre to lead me onto the dance floor.

  “You’re so tense,” Pierre remarked as he placed his hand on the small of my back. “Relax, Jasmine. We are only dancing.”

  But I couldn’t relax. I knew all too well what his expectations were of me, and my head was filled with James Bond-style plans to escape them. From tying the tablecloths together to fashion a rope so I could leap from the rooftop, to lighting a fire in the ladies’ bathroom to create a diversion, one ridiculous idea after another ran through my mind.

  I couldn’t wait for the evening to be over, but on the other hand, I dreaded the ride home and what Pierre would proposition. At least there was safety in numbers, and with more than one hundred people present, I felt secure that Pierre would be the perfect gentleman. His reputation was far too important to him to risk my making a scene.

  As the night continued on, I had to admit I let my guard down and enjoyed myself. Fascinating people had gathered in one place, and the majority of those I spoke to seemed suitably impressed that I was of the artistic variety and not purely a lover of the arts. So many looked upon me with starry eyes as I explained my transition from Boston to New York, before telling me that they too had danced or been involved in some other art form in their younger years. It made me view them through fresh eyes. These people were me in forty years, when the cheers from the adoring crowd were simply a distant memory. I would be here at this ball, meeting young dancers, painters, and sculptors, all vying for time in the spotlight.

  “Are you ready to go, Jasmine?” Pierre’s arm wrapped snuggly around my waist and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.

  I had been speaking for nearly half an hour to Janice Durbridge, a particularly interesting woman who was the owner of a gallery in Chelsea. Her daughter, who was fifteen years my junior, was apparently quite a talented ballerina and so I was relaying my experiences, highlights, and pitfalls to Janice.

  “It was lovely to meet you, Janice. I’ve really enjoyed our chat.”

  She smiled warmly. “It was an absolute pleasure. You know where to find me.” She leaned in for a brief hug, and genuine warmth radiated from her. I was sure that if I ever needed anything, she was someone I could call upon for guaranteed help.

  Within ten minutes after sliding into the limo, I knew that we were not heading in the direction of my apartment. “Where are we going, Pierre?” I asked through gritted teeth.

  “For a nightcap, my angel.” He held my gaze firmly. “I trust that is all right with you.”

  It was make-or-break time. If I said yes then I sealed my fate and would be doing the walk of not only shame, but absolute humiliation in the morning. But if I said no I would no doubt be booted from the car and from the production. My gut churned as I fought back tears. I’d already lost the love of my life; my career was all I had left that brought me any joy.

  Sighing, I felt I had no choice. “Yes, all right.”

  Pierre’s condo was spectacular, and I was sure if my legs weren’t shaking and my heart drumming out a prestissimo rhythm in my chest I would have taken the time to really appreciate his style and flair for minimalism. As it was, the only thing I managed to really absorb was the view. From the penthouse suite, the view of the Hudson River at night was breathtaking, and I bided my time gazing out the window to take a few deep breaths and calm my nerves.

  Even though I had agreed to accompany Pierre back to his apartment, I didn’t want to be there and wasn’t entirely sure I could go through with what he had planned. Baxter was ever-present in my mind. His gray eyes that held me captive; his smile that could brighten the darkest of days; his voice that lifted my heart with its melodic warmth. He may not have been in my life anymore, but he was forever in my heart.

  Through the reflection of the window, I watched Pierre mixing drinks before removing his bowtie and loosening his shirt buttons. My body tensed and I willed it to relax and just accept the fate I had chosen. It wouldn’t last long, and heaven knew I wasn’t the first girl to be in this position. Relax, just relax, I repeated in my mind over and over, but the gnawing on my lip until the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth confirmed to me that this just wasn’t going to work. I had to go home. I had to call a cab and … but where the hell was I, exactly?

  Pierre’s sleazy demeanor was turned up ten notches as he silently glided across the floor toward the window where I stood.

  “Ah, here we are, little dove. Come take a seat beside me on the sofa.” He took my hand in his to lead me over, but my feet were firmly rooted to the ground. I couldn’t move. “Come now. Let’s not play hard to get.” A firmer tug this time that jerked my arm acted as a warning. We could do this nicely or we could do it roughly—either way it was going to happen.

  Sitting on the feather-stuffed leather cushions, I swallowed down the lump in my throat and took a sip of my drink. What was it? Scotch? Rum? I had no idea, but it burned my throat and I choked down a cough before taking a bigger gulp. Pierre’s arm slid around my shoulders across the back of the couch, and it took all my effort not to pull away. He leaned in. The brush of his cold fingertips down my neck sent a wave of ice straight to my heart. If this was going to happen I needed to put up a wall right now, protect my heart, guard the little piece of my soul that would always belong to Bax and keep it safe, pure and whole.

  Pierre placed his glass on the coffee table, then with two fingers, tried to prise the drink from my hand. I gripped tighter, not wanting to let go, believing that somehow this piece of crystal could act as a barrier between Pierre and me.

  “Come now, Jasmine. This scared-little-girl act isn’t fooling anyone.” He forcibly removed the glass from my hand and placed it on the table. “You saw tonight that I have standing in the arts community.” Lips that felt like a wet fish brushed my neck, making me shiver. “We could do great things together, with your talent and my contacts.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to take my mind somewhere else, but the only place I wanted to be was beside Baxter, safe in his warm embrace.

  “Now then …”

  Pierre’s phone burst into Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 in C Minor, a fitting ring tone for someone of his breeding. He leapt up like the couch was on fire and ran to the phone that sat on the kitchen counter.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. With any luck it would be bad news, really bad news, and he would have to fly back to Paris instantly and I would be saved from the biggest mistake of my life. His voice rose, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying as it was all in French. Storming past me, he spared a split second to glance at me from the corner of his eye before opening the balcony door. The cold air whipped through the apartment, sending a wave of goose bumps up my legs before the door was closed again behind him and I was left alone inside.

  This was my chance. I pulled my phone from my purse then searched the apartment, poking my head into every room until I found what I was looking for—the study. Surely there would be a utilities bill or something with the address on it so I could call a cab and then sneak out before Pierre was finished with his call. Pierre’s mahogany desk was spotlessly clean apart from an old-fashioned lamp, fountain pen set, and ink well. Damn, there had to be something in a drawer maybe, or in the filing cabinet. I circled the desk to find a set of drawers and commenced pulling them open from top to bottom until I found a filing drawer full of documents.

  Bingo! This had to be what I was searching for. File after file was pulled onto the desk and I scattered papers around, looking for something that would get me out of there, but as I shuffled the documents something caught my eye.
These were documents, contracts, and bank statements all pertaining to When the Ship Comes In. I scanned down the list of names with my finger. Tiffany, Becca and myself were all on there and next to each name was a dollar amount. I leaned in closer, trying to understand what I was reading. I hadn’t been paid a tenth of what was beside my name, and I doubted any of the others had either. I didn’t understand what I was reading, but my gut told me this was important. Grabbing my phone, I flicked to camera mode and took a photo of the page. Scanning the next page rang more alarm bells, and yet the next, and the next. Bank account details for Switzerland. Credit card statements in various names, and directed to the same post office box address. There was money coming in and going out again so quickly it made my head spin. I didn’t have time to read and absorb it all now, so I clicked off photos of each page and then carefully sorted the papers back in order and neatly filed them in the drawer.

  My heart raced. I knew from the knot in my stomach that Pierre was doing something undoubtedly shady with the funding for the production, but what it was I wasn’t sure. Still, I had to find a letter with the address for this condo so I could leave. Poking my head through the doorway, I quickly checked on Pierre. He was still on the balcony, his free hand waving animatedly in the air, his voice rising so loudly it could be heard through the double-glazed door and windows. There was still time and only one file left. Closing my eyes, I said a silent prayer that this would contain what I needed. Slowly, I pulled open the file to find an electric utilities bill. My body physically relaxed; I had what I needed.

  Pierre never saw me leave, or at least if he did, he was too caught up in his phone call to care. It was freezing outside as I waited for the cab but I welcomed the cold as it stung my cheeks, the wind whipping through my hair until it loosened tendrils that covered my face and stuck to my lip gloss.

  Never again would I put myself in that position. Regardless of the outcome my escape may bring tomorrow at rehearsals, I vowed to myself to quit the production before I ever let Pierre lay a finger on me again.

  AS USUAL, there were a few stragglers hanging around outside the door that led from the alleyway into the club. Keeping my head low, my beanie pulled down to cover my ears, I strode past without making eye contact. There was always that awkward moment after banging on the solid black door when I had to wait for Jerry to open up and let me through, and the ladies would start to close in like hyenas circling their prey.

  I thumped again, harder this time. “Open up, man,” I yelled, spying one particularly scantily clad blonde coming in for the kill.

  “Hey there. Are you a stripper here?” she purred.

  “Uh-huh, yep.” Where the fuck was Jerry?

  “Do you do private shows?” She was up in my face, her tits pushed so high they were keeping her ears warm on this chilly evening.

  Finally, the door opened, and Jerry’s scowl turned into a toothy grin when he saw who it was.

  I turned as I stepped through the doorway to glance back over my shoulder at the type of girl who got all dressed up to hang out in an alleyway. Was this really what my life had amounted to? I guessed one day I would be desperate enough to take up the offer of someone who was willing to wear so little clothing that she was at risk of hypothermia, but not tonight. Shaking my head in her direction, I felt the need to instill some parting advice. “Everyone deserves some respect, and the person it has to come from first and foremost is yourself.”

  As soon as I stepped foot inside, I could hear the cheers and whistles for Danny the policeman as I made my way to the dingy dressing room to get changed and pumped up. Most of the other guys had been on already and were mixing with the ladies out front, picking up numbers and weighing up their options on who to take home for the night.

  “There you are,” Captain said as he stuck his head in the room. “You’re late again, but I’ll build the vibe to give you time to get ready.”

  “Thanks man,” I said to no one, as he’d already left as quickly as he’d arrived.

  My costume was pulled on, and I dropped to the floor to do a set of push-ups, followed by fifty crunches to make my abs pop. It was the ritual we all went through before every performance, but my routine was a little different because after the muscle-building exercises, I stretched, taking myself through a dancer’s warm-up. Starting at my feet I worked my way up until every muscle was ready for a performance that far exceeded the little bit of dancing I’d be doing out on the tiny stage in about fifteen minutes’ time. But I didn’t care; it was habit and after everything I’d already lost, I refused to give up this one tiny piece of my past that reminded me of where I had come from. I wasn’t a guy with a few sexy moves who could take his clothes off to the beat of a song, I was a dancer. A trained-for-fucking-twenty-years dancer, who could leap five feet in the air and do an eight-revolution pirouette. The people out there may not have cared how good I was, but I did … and so did Jaz.

  Jaz had always believed in me even after I had long given up on myself. She had seen something in me that no one else had and had pushed me to keep trying, to give it just one more shot because in her eyes, I was too good to stop. I sat on the floor, my back against the wall, my arms hooked around my bent up knees. I missed her. I missed her so bad that my chest physically ached with the thought of her, which meant it ached twenty-four/seven because I thought of her every single second of every day.

  “You’re up,” Captain told me with a bang on the wall to gain my attention. “Go get ’em, man. They’re all yours.”

  They may have been all mine, but I wasn’t feeling it at all.

  “Okay, Bax, this is it. This is what you live for. The spotlight, the cheering of the crowd. This is showbiz.” My pep talk wasn’t working. I felt so flat. The only thing I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and go to sleep, because in my dreams Jaz was still with me. She had forgiven me and the stupidity of my lost way, and we would dance together, whether it was on a stage or in our little apartment. She was in my arms, her warmth and belief in me making me feel whole again.

  The smoke puffed across the stage, and I held my breath for a moment so as not to choke on the fumes. I hated the smoke machine but it gave off that mysterious vibe and the girls seemed to get off on it, and Captain thought it was the best investment he’d ever made and insisted on using it every chance he got. The spotlight hit the back of my head, shining through the haze as the music built. I let out a huge sigh. What the fuck was I doing here?

  There was a line of girls at the side of the stage, my ‘targets,’ as we liked to call them. From where I was standing, I could see that tonight I had one girl who was wearing a sash that very proudly told me her age was twenty-one, three brides-to-be, and two older women who were most likely there with a bridal party. They looked harmless enough, and I sent out a ‘thank you’ to Captain for choosing my targets wisely, because I was in no mood for some handsy drunk chick who thought it would be okay to grab my junk and squeeze until my face turned blue.

  I needed to get into character, to be the sexy Commando that they came to see because right now, I was the sad, pathetic loser Baxter who had no prospects, lived above a pizza restaurant, and had fucked up his relationship and lost the love of his life. If they only knew, they wouldn’t be leering at me through alcohol-fogged eyes, waiting with bated breath for the first glimpse of flesh. They’d be running in the opposite direction from the tragic waste of space that I’d become.

  The music pumped, and my body moved through the motions on autopilot. At least my training as a dancer was of some benefit; I could perform this routine without any thought, and even dancing half-heartedly, it was still good enough for the crowd to cheer.

  Miss Twenty-One was up first and I could see Captain holding her hand, waiting for my signal to prompt her to take to the stage. My eyes scanned the audience, all the pretty faces distorted in their screams for more, their preparedness to take and take until there was nothing left to give. I could see from the corner of my eye that Captain was
waving, trying to gain my attention. I glanced over and gave him a subtle shake of the head. I didn’t want Miss Twenty-One or anyone else up on stage with me. One more night of being pulled and clawed at, licked and groped would seal my fate, and I would never be able to go back. So instead, I danced. Not the stripper dance I had rehearsed, but proper freestyle hip-hop. From popping and locking to break dancing, I threw in every move I could think of until the music stopped. And when it did stop, I was out of breath but still fully clothed.

  I had given it my all, but the crowd was not impressed.

  “Take it off. Take it off,” they chanted, their faces now distorted in anger. They hadn’t come to see me dance—they had come to see my chest, and abs, and ass.

  Shaking my head slowly, I bowed, blew them a kiss, and walked toward the stairs. “Sorry man, but I quit,” I told Captain as I passed him, not taking the time to slow or hear his response. It would take me five minutes to get changed, grab my stuff and get out of there, and it would be the last five minutes I would ever spend in that venue.

  “Can I see you?” It was a simple enough question but waiting for an answer had my stomach twisted in knots.

  There was a soft sigh from the other end of the phone, and I knew she was weighing up her options. “I … I guess so. Where?”

  A wave of elation washed over me, lifting my heart and painting a huge grin across my face. “Anywhere. Wherever you want, Jaz.”

  “Hmm, maybe the coffee shop on the corner, near our apartment.”

  Our apartment. She still thought of it as our apartment, and that gave me more hope than I’d thought possible only a few minutes earlier. If she was still thinking in our, us, and we, then all hope wasn’t lost after all. “I can be there any time. It’s your call.”

  “Okay, give me half an hour.”

  My legs wouldn’t stop jiggling, my knees rubbing the underside of the table where I sat as I waited for Jaz to walk through the door. It had been forty minutes since we’d spoken, and I’d already been in our booth for twenty of them. Checking my watch again, I had the unnerving feeling that she’d changed her mind. That I’d caught her off guard and she had agreed to meet me before she’d had a chance to think about it and realize what a bad idea it really was.