Waking Kiss

by Annabel Joseph

  Rubio came sweeping back and we pranced through the last few lifts. I felt lighter this time, or maybe we were getting used to each other. “Jesus Cristo,” he muttered. “You whale.” Maybe we weren’t getting used to each other. His hands bruised my thighs with a death grip and he bit out something else in Portuguese that I was glad I couldn’t understand.

  One last pose to this set of dances, and the gracious, swoon-like bow. He held my hand, dipped down into reverence like silk. Applause bloomed and rose to a roar of sound. Wow. This was fame, glory, adulation. It wasn’t adulation for me, of course. I understood that, but a smile still stretched across my face. Rubio was furious—I could feel it in the rigid set of his arms as he led me offstage. We waited in the wings as the corps, minus one member, moved through the formations of Act Three’s final number.

  “Where is Mariel?” he spat.

  “She got hurt. I had to fill in.” I’d lived so long with the injunction against talking to him that I didn’t dare say more.

  He moved past me, advancing on Mr. Thibault, who’d joined us at the side of the stage. “Why?” he barked, flicking a finger to indicate me. “Why this?”

  “There was no one else. It was an issue of time.”

  “She is…” He threw up his hands as if adequate criticism escaped him. “Terrible balance. She kicked me.” He glared at my offending toe shoes. “The noise of her. I will never forget.”

  “She got through it.” Mr. Thibault looked briefly at me, tension hardening his blue eyes.

  “Come,” Rubio ordered, holding out his hand. “Finale.” We joined the company onstage for the closing tableau, and I executed my final graceful arabesque as we gazed adoringly at one another. It was all I could do to maintain the necessary eye contact. In the glare of the stage lights his eyes were black as the depths of hell.

  The music ended and the audience exploded into applause. I felt more like a side of beef than a ballerina as Rubio hauled me through an endless series of bows. Roses flew at us like projectiles. “This is Mariel’s applause,” he snapped when I stayed a little too long en reverence, “and those are Mariel’s flowers.”

  “They’re your flowers too,” I said. “They’re well deserved.” His only response was an irritated snort. For my part, I’d never fake-smiled so long or so hard in my life, but I didn’t dare stop, not here at his side with flowers raining down and the spotlight on both of us like some waking dream. Rubio, Rubio, Rubio, bravo! The chants came from every corner of the theater while the living legend bowed and flashed his signature megawatt grin. Finally the curtain fell, bringing the performance to a close.

  My smiling, princely idol turned on his heel and walked away. Thank you, Mr. Rubio. I’ll never forget this. I didn’t say it. I wasn’t contractually allowed to say it.

  My fellow corps members surrounded me as Rubio stalked down the backstage hall spouting foreign expletives. He slammed his dressing room door with a resounding crash. “You did a great job, Ash,” said my friend Desiree, tucking me against her side. A few other corps dancers congratulated me and made wry comments about my big break, but they were just being polite. I didn’t feel happy or celebratory about my performance, especially after Rubio stormed off cursing. I didn’t know how I felt. Maybe numb.

  Desiree dogged me to the dressing room, where I surrendered Mariel’s beautiful costume to a stagehand.

  “I can’t believe how lucky you are,” she sighed.

  I made some vague, equivocal sound, throwing on a robe. She parked herself next to me while I removed my makeup. “How did he smell?” she asked. “Did he smell really virile? How did it feel when he smiled at you?”

  But he hadn’t smiled at me, not once. “It felt great to dance with him,” I lied, only because I knew that was what she wanted to hear.

  “How did his hands feel? Did they feel strong? Warm?”

  I put down my towel and gripped the edge of my carrel. “Des, can I tell you about it later? After I’ve processed it for a while?”

  “Sure. Hey, where are you going?”

  I waved a hand at her and ran for the bathroom. She trailed behind me. “Ash, what’s wrong?”

  I threw open the stall door and leaned over the toilet. Everything in my stomach came up.

  “Oh God, hon. You’re sick.”

  I retched again, an awful, grating sound. Tears oozed from my eyes. When I felt able, I reached back to shut the stall door.

  “I’ll go get help.”

  “No. Desiree—”

  But she was gone and I didn’t feel strong enough to stand up yet. I gripped the edge of the seat, unsure if I was crying from sadness, nerves, or throwing up so hard. I heard someone in the bathroom whisper, “She wasn’t that bad.”

  Asshole! Whale! The words, with his accent’s inflection, sounded over and over in my ears. I retched again and I think I brought up some of my stomach lining. I felt devastated, completely emptied out. I heard a crisp knock on the stall and Mr. Thibault’s voice.

  “Ashleigh, when you’ve finished vomiting, I would like to have a word.”

  I bunched up a handful of toilet paper and held it to my mouth. “Are you going to fire me?”

  “I have no plans to fire you.” His French-inflected words were low and reassuring. “You haven’t practiced the role of Aurora. I appreciate your attempt. It was adequate, things being what they were.”

  Out of everything he said, I only heard two words. Attempt and adequate. It was a kind way of saying my performance sucked. I wiped my mouth again, dried my eyes, flushed the toilet, and opened the stall door. He held out a bottle of blue-tinted sports drink.

  I flinched and shook my head.

  He had bottled water in his other hand. Like I said, he was a good company director. I opened it and took a drink. “I’m sorry I didn’t do better. I’m sorry my shoes were loud. I wasn’t prepared.”

  Mr. Thibault smiled, his brow crinkling behind wire-rimmed glasses. “None of us were prepared. I never saw such a fast costume change.”

  “How’s Mariel?”

  “I don’t think the injury is as serious as we feared.”

  “Will they save the flowers for her? From the curtain call?”

  He patted my arm. “I’m sure they’d mean more to you than to her. They’re collecting them right now to donate at the hospital. Before you leave, run and fetch an armful. Take them home and put them in a vase for a job well done.”

  I felt a sudden impulse to hug him, and squelched it just as quickly. One did not hug the tall, slim, ultra-reserved ballet director. I didn’t believe even Rubio could hug him. I showered quickly, dressed, and packed up my dance bag, but by the time I reached the stage someone had already gathered all the roses. Then I noticed a small pink one shuffled under the edge of the curtain.

  I tucked the rose into my bag and headed backstage, past the entourage of pretty women and well-dressed men spilling out of Rubio’s dressing room. They weren’t dancers. He had a posse. I tried to duck by, only to come face-to-face with The Great One himself.

  “Ah, look,” he said, opening his arms to me. “My partner. Such beauty and grace.”

  His voice dripped with sarcasm. I might have cowered. It wasn’t my finest moment. I was afraid he’d see the rose in my bag and take me to task over it, maybe call me an asshole again. His friends barely spared me a glance before turning back to their conversations, half in English, half in Portuguese. I opened my mouth to say good night, only to be pulled into the crook of his arm.

  “You come to the party, eh, girl? Come on.”

  I was about to refuse when I glanced into the half-open door of his dressing room. The tall man from backstage was hanging out in there, leaning against the far wall. In a weird, flashback-y way, I remembered the feel of his fingers brushing over my ankles as he untied my shoes. I hadn’t really taken it in while it was happening, but I remembered it so vividly now.

  I had no business partying in my condition, but it might be the only opportunity to talk
to the guy and express my thanks. I let Rubio sweep me along with his group, past the milling eye-contact-restricted dancers, past Mr. Thibault, who raised one finely manicured eyebrow. He seemed to ask, What on earth are you doing?

  And honestly, I didn’t know.

  Chapter Two: Lifestyle

  The babble of British-English mixed with Portuguese thickened as the limo crawled downtown streets to the glitzier part of London. Rubio had settled beside me on one of the velvet-upholstered benches, but now he ignored me completely. I couldn’t say at that point if he was still my idol. In a sad, sick way I think he was. I made silent excuses for him as I stared down at my hands. My loud shoes had annoyed him. The theater had broken his contract, making him dance with me. I was heavy to lift. He didn’t like surprises. I made up a lot of excuses for him because I didn’t want to admit my long-time object of adoration was an obnoxious jerk.

  Down the opposite bench, the lock-breaker sprawled in his seat, his button-down shirt open at the top, revealing a triangle of bronze, lightly furred chest. He’d been handsome backstage, but here in the muted glow of the limousine he was gorgeous, all long legs and sexy hair. The woman beside him laughed at something he said and pressed her ample cleavage against his arm. I felt a stab of jealousy. Why not me? Where was my ample cleavage, my ability to throw my head back and flirt and bandy words around with a suave, handsome man like Mr. Lock-breaker? I was quiet and awkward, skinny and merely adequate in so many ways.

  “Get your bag off me,” Rubio said, pushing it over into my lap. “Why you bring your dance bag? You won’t need it for the party.”

  My rose chose that moment to shift inside and poke its petals from the top. I moved my hand to hide it, but not fast enough. He pulled it out. “Ah, bad girl! You stole Mariel’s flower.”

  He was kidding, teasing me, but like an idiot I shook my head.

  He crowed with laughter. “Why you even care about flowers?” he asked. “You a romantic, girl? Such a beautiful rose…”

  He said it with a mock dramatic flourish, waving the bloom in front of him. He brought it to his nose and took a giddy sniff. Then he opened his mouth, closed his straight white teeth on it, and started ripping the petals out like a rabid dog. I watched, traumatized. Everyone howled at his antics as pink petals flew everywhere. He gnashed a few between his teeth and spit them out with exaggerated coughing and choking sounds.

  It was silly to feel upset. It was only a rose, but it was a rose from my Princess Aurora performance. It was special. I had planned to take it home and dry it, frame it between two panes of glass and keep it forever so I could tell my grandkids about the time I danced with The Great Rubio. Or the Not-So-Great Rubio.

  He handed me back the half-bent stem, bored with it now. I put the broken stalk in my bag because it was all I had left. I stared out the window, feeling hurt and humiliated even though no one seemed to care about my shredded rose past the thirty seconds or so it had been in his hands.

  A moment later he nudged me away so a bosomy, big-mouthed woman with purple-streaked hair could sit beside him. I stared past her knees at the carpet of petals on the limo floor. The reek of her perfume triggered nausea again, not that I had anything else to bring up. The ride came to an end a couple minutes later. Rubio and his friends poured out, heading for a gated, towering white house set back from the curb. Wow, Rubio had an amazing place. The perks of stardom. I dawdled and exited last. Mr. Lock-breaker waited by the door to assist me.

  “Thanks,” I said, sliding from the car. He pulled me up while I stared at his hands. Big hands. Huge feet. Six-foot-four at least, maybe six-six. I was short so it was hard for me to judge. I looked up at him and his eyes widened in recognition.

  “Oh, it’s you! I almost didn’t recognize you without the…” He gestured toward his face.

  “Garish makeup?”

  “Yes. And the tutu.”

  I glanced down at my department store cardigan and faded black leggings. “We aren’t allowed to wear them home.”

  “Too bad,” he joked. “They look really comfortable.”

  Handsome and funny. I shouldered my rumpled dance bag even though no one else in this crowd had dance bags. No one else had a scrubbed-clean face and wet black hair pulled up in a messy twist. Might as well do what I’d come to do so I could bail out of here. “I meant to tell you earlier in the dressing room…thank you. I’m sorry I was so short with you.”

  He shrugged. “You seemed pretty frantic. I understood.”

  “I don’t know how you unlocked that door but I’m glad you knew how to do it.”

  “I work in security. I know some tricks.” He leaned closer to me. “I told you everything would be okay.”

  Everything was not okay, not to me, but I smiled at him like it was. A male voice that sounded a lot like Rubio’s called from the house. “Wilder! Come on, man! What you doing?”

  He looked back at me and thrust out his hand. “Liam Wilder. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Ashleigh Keaton.”

  His clasp was warm, his handshake firm. His stance was relaxed but his gaze held an intensity that unnerved me. “I’m glad you’re here, Ashleigh. It’s been too long since I’ve talked to an American girl.” His voice was silken, deep with a slight lilt. He nodded back toward the door. “You ready to go in?”

  This incredible specimen was asking me to go in. Puhleeze, Ash. Forget it. I backed away from the invitation in his gold-amber eyes. “I better head home. I don’t think Mr. Rubio meant for me to come.” I looked around for a cab but this was a residential area. Nothing. That would have been too easy. I dug in my bag for my phone.

  “You’re not staying for the party?”

  “I’m not really in the mood. It’s been a long, crazy night for me.”

  His smile widened. “That’s exactly why you should stay. You look like you could use a few drinks.”

  I stopped searching for my phone long enough to grin at him in exasperation. “A few drinks would put me under the table.”

  Again Rubio called from the house. “Liii-am!”

  He sighed. “I’m being paged.” His voice took on a firm, compulsory note. “Come to the party. Otherwise I’ll feel obligated to see you home and we’ll both miss out on a lot of fun.”

  Was he flirting with me? I didn’t hang with many guys, and never guys who looked like him. What if I stayed at the party? In fifteen minutes he’d get bored with me and blow me off. The perfect ending to a soul-crushing night. “The thing is, I’m not really a party person.”

  “There’s no pressure to do anything,” he said. “It’s fine to just watch, or hang out. There are people who come here and never do anything at all.”

  I thought about Rubio’s laughing, chatting posse and found that hard to believe. “I’ll bring everyone down, just sitting around doing nothing.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” He jabbed a finger back at the house. “They’re a bunch of unapologetic attention whores. They love putting on a show. Come in, have a drink. Otherwise, literally, I’ll have to take you home and be all white knight about it.”

  I swallowed hard. He was definitely flirting. I could picture him as a knight, actually. I could picture him in a suit of armor, rearing back on a horse with a battle cry.

  “Um,” I said, pushing the knight-on-horseback imagery from my mind. “I don’t know.”

  Rubio yelled out the window again, but Liam ignored him and smiled at me. “The attention whores are getting restless.”

  “You’re not an attention whore?”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m more of a watcher type. I observe, I analyze. If I do things, it’s not for attention.”

  His answer captured my interest. If what he said was true, he was a lot like me. Maybe… Maybe this was one of those moments in life, one of those karmic incidents you had to embrace. Maybe the universe had put this man in my path for a reason. Maybe it wasn’t coincidence that he’d been there to unlock the dressing room door.

&
nbsp; Liam gave a little bow and gestured toward the house. Take a chance, said a small voice inside me. He could be the one. Even if he wasn’t, he was so sinfully, ridiculously beautiful to look at. If he ditched me inside, I’d call a cab and go home. No harm done.

  I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath for courage, and followed him through the gates and up the stairs to the heavy wooden door of Rubio’s house.

  *** *** ***

  I didn’t know what it was about Ruby’s dancer friend that turned me on so much. I didn’t care. I just wanted to play with her strong, sleek body and fuck her all night. It was partly her cute, bashful thing. I didn’t meet a lot of shy girls, but when I did they were almost always closet freaks.

  At the same time, she was a dancer, a performer. That intrigued me. I’d gotten an up-close-and-personal look at her trim ankles and sculpted legs when I helped take off her toe shoes. I thought it was pretty cool that she’d stepped in and danced a lead role at the last minute, even if Ruby ranted about her performance afterward. I thought her dancing was great.

  Or maybe I just thought her cute little ass was great. Either way.

  I took her past the bouncers and into my house, where the night’s festivities were in full swing. She hugged her bag to her side until I showed her an out-of-the-way place to stow it. I assured her that no one here stole shit, which was true, because none of my friends were suicidal enough to steal shit in my home.

  She looked around at the marble floors and ornate molding. The main floor of the house was one large open space in neutral tones, ivory and white and taupe, with a kitchen set into the corner. I entertained a lot so I had a bunch of leather chairs and couches and fancy end tables and four-foot-high urns my interior designer had picked out. Why did anyone need four-foot-high urns in their home? Fuck if I knew, but I had five or six of the things. There was a tall fireplace at the far end of the room, gleaming staircases in either corner, and an eclectic collection of art decorating the walls. I was proud of my place but I hated the way it echoed when it was empty. So I had parties, probably too many. One every Saturday, at least.