“Miss Rose?” The expression on Ryan’s face told me he was putting two and two together. “And the name of your company would be…”
Oh, God!
“The Royal Latvia Ballet.”
Ryan’s jaw dropped to the floor, but before he could utter a word, his tipsy mother chimed in.
“Ah! Willow Rose! Of course! I knew you looked familiar. Darling, I’m sure I’ve seen you dance in Europe.”
“I-I don’t perform anymore,” I stuttered, Gustave’s presence suffocating me.
“It is such a pity. I have been trying to woo her back.” He eyed me lasciviously, leering at the ballerina neckline of my little black dress.
Beads of sweat were clustering behind my knees and nausea was rising in my chest like a tempest. Gustave was getting to me. Already casting a wicked spell. I needed to get to a bathroom quickly.
“Excuse me, but I need to use the restroom.” I was thankful that only words spilled out of my mouth.
“Willow, there’s one down the hall.” Ryan’s concerned voice drifted into my ears as I dashed out of the packed living room, hoping to find a bathroom quickly in this sprawling apartment. Thankfully, I came upon one just in time. I raced inside and falling to my knees, I lifted up the toilet seat. Holding back both my long braid and Ryan’s dangling pendant necklace, I wretched until there was nothing more I could throw up. My knees weak, I stood up and staggered to the sink, glimpsing myself in the mirror. I looked wretched, nothing like the glamorous woman who had arrived here only minutes ago. Turning on the faucet, I rinsed my mouth and then splashed cold water on my face, not caring if I washed off my makeup. How many times had he done this to me? That was his power. His invincible super power. To make me fall apart. Make me undone. Haphazardly twisting my braid into a bun, I made my way to the door on my Jell-O-like legs. Cranking it open, I got another surprise.
Mira Abramovitch. Or should I say Abramobitch, which is what the other dancers called her. My archrival. The girl who coveted every part I got and did her best to sabotage me. We’d competed against each other since we were in pre-school. Or more precisely, she’d competed against me. With the support of her wealthy, power-driven mother, who was set on her daughter becoming the world’s foremost ballerina.
I literally froze, ready to puke again.
She was skinnier, blonder, and more intimidating than ever. Her platinum hair was tied back in a tight chignon and glittering diamonds dotted her ears. Her bony hands were splayed on her hips, which jutted from her body-hugging fuchsia dress. Every muscle and bone protruded. It was no secret in the ballet world that she was a major bulimic. Rumor had it she used laxatives to purge and could stick a finger down her throat deeper than a dick.
If she was surprised to see me, she didn’t show it. Her predatory cat-green eyes met mine. A slow poisonous smile snaked across her face as she gave me the once over.
“Hello, cow.”
Cow? Yes, recovered from my breakdown, I was at last back to a healthy weight, thanks to my therapy, nurturing father, and Ryan. But by most standards, I was still as thin as a rail.
“Moooooo!” she snickered.
Anger rising in me like bile, I tried to brush past her, but she blocked the door with her outstretched sinewy arms. I was too weak to jostle her.
“Hey, bovine, you look like you’re ready for the slaughter house,” she snipped.
“Please…I need to go,” I rasped, my throat raw from vomiting.
“No bitch,” she barked back. “You need to know I’m Gustave’s girl now. He’s cast me in the lead of The Firebird. I’ll be performing it tomorrow night.”
The part I always wanted to play. The role I was born to play. The role for which I’d endured tendinitis, shin splints, blisters, sprains, and sleepless nights. And last but not least, Gustave’s wrath and passion. In one desperate heartbeat, I yearned to be a ballerina again. Gustave’s ballerina. Gustave’s puppet. Gustave’s Firebird.
Another wave of nausea rolled through my chest as Mira continued to block the doorway.
“And by the way, I fuck him now. He’s amazing.”
My jaw dropped. I couldn’t stop myself. On my next breath, a stream of vomit flew out of my mouth, landing all over Mira.
“Oh my fucking God!” she screeched, looking down at the damage I’d done. My puke was all over her bony chest and the bodice of her dress.
Still shrieking and cursing, she let go of the doorframe and dashed to the sink. Seeing my window of opportunity, I fled.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Ryan
My hand still reeling from his intense handshake, I studied him. Though I hadn’t written a book in over four years, that’s what writers did.
Gustave Fontaine.
Though several inches shorter than me at perhaps five ten, the man projected power and exuded sex. He was lean and swarthy, with a headful of unruly black hair and a dark layer of stubble dusting his face. His lips were full, his nose carved like a Greek statue’s, and his eyes the color of steel, razor sharp beneath his dense brows. Dressed in a sleek, obviously expensive black suit that showcased his muscular build and a black high-collar shirt, he reminded me of a sleek black panther ready to strike. A mixture of madness and animal magnetism flickered in his irises as he tapped the shiny black cane he was holding. A tense silence filled the air between us. His gaze held me fiercely, and I’m sure he was likewise sizing me up. Without warning, he broke the ice.
“So, you fuck her.”
A statement, not a question. I was taken aback. That sure wasn’t something I was expecting from some asshole I knew for less than five minutes.
“Excuse me?”
He stabbed the tip of his cane into my shin. “You heard me. You fuck Willow?”
The indignity of him! Rage surged inside me like mercury. I could feel my blood heating.
“None of your fucking business.”
A smirk crawled across his lips. As if I’d given him his answer.
“Do you give it to her hard? The way she likes it.”
As his words whirled around in my head, he poked my shin again with his cane. “Do you fuck her in the ass? Slap it a few times to make it rosy pink? Bite her nipples until she whimpers? Pull out of her until she’s begging you for more?”
Ready to explode, I clenched my fists by my sides so I wouldn’t strangle him or punch him out. The last thing I needed was to get into some bloody fistfight with my mother’s guest of honor in front of all her society friends.
“Excuse me, I need to find my girlfriend,” I gritted out, putting special emphasis on the possessive adjective.
To my surprise, he laughed. “I’m surprised Willow is even attracted to someone as ordinary and vanilla as you.”
Willow was all sweetness. A deliciously sensuous fuck. What didn’t I know about her? How could she ever be with a dick like this?
“She should be on the stage dancing, not wasting her time with some pedestrian prick. She’s made for greatness. And for fucking greatness. She’ll never stay with you. Never!”
Clenching my teeth, I saw Willow heading our way. She looked wan and disheveled, and her steps were unsteady. I wrapped a protective arm around her as she met me.
“Ryan, I want to go home.”
Gustave held her hostage in his steely eyes. “Willow, I am your home. The ballet is where you belong.”
I swear he had a hypnotic effect on her. Her eyes glazed, she swayed a little on her feet.
“C’mon, baby, let’s go. I’ll just say goodbye to my mother and I’ll take you home.”
About to whisk a dazed Willow away, a pencil thin but stunning blond woman intercepted us. A horrific smell permeated the air around her. Her catty eyes narrowed at my girl.
“Fuck you, Willow Rosenthal. You’re going to pay for what you did to me.”
Gustave wrapped an arm around the irate woman. “Calm down, my princess.” Then, he focused his fierce gaze on us. “Perhaps, we’ll see the two of you tomorrow night.”
My nostrils flared and my muscles clenched. After Charlotte, Gustave Fontaine was the last person on earth I ever wanted to see again.
TWENTY-NINE
Ryan
It was Friday nights like this that I wished I still had my driver, Marcus. It was fucking raining, and everyone and their mother was hailing a cab.
Shortly after Allee’s death, his daughter, the result of an affair in his special ops days, gave birth to a son. It was Marcus’s first grandchild, and he wanted to be with them. When he asked for vacation time, I told him he should move to Michigan where they lived. Though my longtime driver and friend was one of my lifesavers during my darkest days, it was time for him to retire and take the hefty retirement package my family had put away for him. Reluctantly, he gave in, but we agreed to stay in touch, with me promising to visit him one day.
After a fifteen-minute wait, the doorman on duty finally got us a cab. In the backseat, I held Willow close to me. Her head resting on my beating heart, I stroked her hair as the cab wove in and out of the insane traffic heading downtown. It would likely take close to an hour to get to my loft if the traffic kept up. A ton of questions were burning on my tongue, but I asked her only one.
“Are you feeling better?”
“A little.”
“Are you coming down with something?”
“No.”
And then I got daring. “Does it have something to do with that asshole?”
She squirmed against me. “Please, Ryan. I don’t want to talk about Gustave.”
My heart squeezed. There was something between them, but she was shutting me out. Silence fell upon us as the cab hit Forty-Second Street and continued downtown.
Forty-five minutes later, we reached my loft. As I reached for my money clip to pay the cabbie, Willow lifted her head off my chest and scooted away from me.
“Ryan, I’m going to sleep at my place tonight.”
“Why?” I challenged, my tone sharp.
“I need to be alone.”
And dream about him? “Fine. I’ll have the driver take you there.”
“No, you can just get out here.”
“No fucking way. I need to know you get home safely.” Yeah, I was a gentleman, but this had more to do with me being a worrier. Allee’s short life had turned me into one. Plus, there was more than Willow’s well-being clawing at my mind.
“No, Ryan, please. I’ll be fine. Let’s just call it a night.”
Yeah, a fucked-up night. Reluctantly, I gave in and paid the cabbie enough to take Willow home. Opening the passenger door, I told him to watch after her and make sure she got inside her place safely. With the generous tip I’d included, he promised he would. Stepping onto the curb, I watched the vehicle head down the glistening wet street and turn the corner, disappearing out of sight.
The relentless rain beating down on me, I hurried to my loft and kicked the massive elevator door before entering the security code. Dammit, I shouldn’t have let her go home. We needed to talk. I could tell she was still attracted to that arrogant asshat. He had a sexual power over her. A magnetic pull. It was so fucking obvious. Like acid rain, a toxic mix of jealousy and rage seared every cell of my body.
Furious with myself and soaked to the bone, I pounded the corroded metal with my fist just before the door opened. As the lift ascended, my heart descended to the pit of my stomach. I’d learned a lot about Willow Rosenthal tonight. Professionally known as Willow Rose, she was a rising ballerina, who had some kind of kinky affair with her prick of a headmaster, which had ultimately derailed her career. I wanted to know what had gone down between them. Tomorrow, I was going to Google both Willow and the fucker and find out everything there was to know about them. There was still a part of me that was an investigative journalist.
Tonight, however, I was going to drown my sorrows with some whiskey. I was going to get drunk and hope that I wouldn’t leave my place to pick up a late night sandwich at Mel’s Famous. Willow needed her space, and I needed mine.
THIRTY
Willow
The cab let me off in front of my father’s deli. With the rain, I dashed inside. Not yet nine o’clock, it was still open and would remain so until midnight. It was a favorite hangout for the downtown after hours hipster set. While my father used to stay until it closed when I was younger, he no longer did, letting the business run smoothly in the capable hands of his loyal staff.
Usually when I was out late, I hung out a bit with the gang and grabbed a late night snack. But not tonight. I was drenched and chilled from the rain, and still shaken from my encounter with Gustave. Making excuses that I was tired, I headed to the back stairs. Taking off my wet shoes, I quietly crept up the steps, hoping not to wake up my father who might be sleeping.
When I got to my room, I immediately stripped off my soaked coat and then the rest of my clothes. Skipping a hot shower, I slipped into my bed, stark naked, and still shivering, snuggled under the covers. Turning off the light, I glimpsed Ryan’s book, which was still on my nightstand. Usually I read a few passages, sometimes even chapters, before I went to sleep, but tonight I couldn’t focus. Seeing Gustave had made my heart, mind, and body unravel. Physically and emotionally torn me apart. And damn Mira had only added to my misery. Poor Ryan had no clue.
I closed my heavy eyes, hoping sleep would claim me. But that was wishful thinking. Tossing and turning, I couldn’t get my encounter with Gustave out of my mind. Memories of my life as a ballerina swirled around in my head. Heated my skin like a fever. Consumed my being like a plague. Drenched with sweat, my heart beating in a frenzy, I threw off the covers and hopped out of bed. Turning the light back on, I darted over to the one bag I’d never unpacked. The one bag whose contents I couldn’t bare to look at until now. I threw it onto my bed and then with my shaking hand unzipped it. The grating sound of the zipper sent a rush of goosebumps to my flesh and I could hear my pulse thrumming in my ears. Hastily, piece by piece, I removed the contents and laid them out on the bed.
My black leotard.
My pink tights.
The roll of tape.
The toe pads.
And lastly, my peach satin pointe shoes.
Sitting down on the bed, I began the familiar ritual.
I taped my toes.
I slid on my tights over my legs and then slipped on the leotard.
I stuffed my shoes with the gel pads.
And then I coddled my square-toed shoes in my hands, as if they were a rare treasure, relishing the feel of the smooth satin and their elegant form. The shimmering ribbons slivered over my fingers like streamers. Every cell in my body fluttered. It had been a long time. Too, too long.
One by one, I slid them on my feet and wrapped the ribbons around my ankles. Rather than feeling alien to me, they felt so natural, like I was born wearing them. Like I’d never taken them off. And my tights and leotard fit like a second skin. With my heart in my throat, I stood up on my toes and bourréd my way over to my full-length mirror. At the sight of myself with my messy bun and long, sinewy legs, I let out a gasp. Yes, I was a little fuller, but that was me, the real me, standing before the glass. Involuntarily, I rubbed the sparkly ballet shoes charm hanging around my neck. Then, I smiled at my reflection, and my reflection smiled back at me.
Lowering myself to my heels, I grabbed the water bottle off my nightstand and with the turned-out gait of a dancer, I headed back downstairs, this time to the basement.
The brick building, which housed both the deli and our apartment, was built in the thirties, a time when city dwellings were built with basements. Originally, my father used it solely for storage, but when I took up dancing, he divided the large space into two rooms—one still for storage and the other he turned into a dance studio where I could practice. I hadn’t been down there since I’d come home. Not even with Violet. It held too many memories for me. But now, I was ready. In fact, as I descended the rickety stairs, it was if a magnetic force was pulling me to it.
The studio was exactly as I remembered it. Shiny, blond hardwood floors, recessed lighting, and mirrored walls. Affixed to one of the walls was a barre, where I’d practiced countless times. In the corner was a small table. On top of it sat an old fashioned, needle drop stereo player that had once belonged to my mother. Under the table was a box of albums, all classical pieces that I’d danced to. Wasting no time, I pranced over to the table, and after setting my water on it, I crouched down and sorted through the albums. They were arranged alphabetically by composer. I knew exactly what I was looking for. Quickly, I found both the Liszt disc and the Stravinsky. Carefully, I slipped out the Liszt one and set it on the turntable. I turned the stereo on, then gently dropped the needle onto the first groove. Liebestraum—his famous Love Dream. As the melodic strains of the piano piece filled the room, I began to stretch my torso and limbs in every direction I could. After several minutes, I was already feeling warm and loose so I made my way to the barre and started my very methodical exercise routine: a combination of pliés, tendus, degagés, and frappés. Grasping the cool, smooth wood with my left hand, I performed the mandatory exercises at different speeds, focusing on nothing but my turnout, posture, lines, and movement. It was if I were in a hypnotic trance; ballet and the concentration it required did that to you. From time to time, I glimpsed myself in the mirrors to check my form. As the piano piece ended, I concluded my workout with a grand battement, surprised by how limber I still was and how high I could kick up my leg.
Stretching my legs on the barre, I was warmed up and ready. Taking a break, I returned to the table. After taking a sip of the water, I lowered the Stravinsky album onto the turntable and dropped the needle to the center of the disc. The dance of The Firebird— the part where the Firebird takes center stage and performs a solo. I quickly moved to the center of the studio, and at the sound of the first familiar chord, my heart leapt into my throat. I swallowed hard. While I hadn’t danced to this piece in months, I knew every move like I was born dancing it. Every nerve in my body buzzed with excitement as if I were about to dance in front of The Queen.
Endless Love Page 14