by Lola Keeley
Bed is easy to fall into, under the window just like she’s getting used to. Anna slips beneath the sheets, and oh, they feel so nice, way nicer than usual. She’s going to sleep so well. Just let there be time between now and morning. A blink, one more, and it all fades away.
The sounds of the street below filter in weakly, meaning Victoria has left a window open overnight. Well, probably better than running the A/C for hours, and the bedroom doesn’t feel stuffy at all. She starts to pull the sheets back, wrinkling her nose at having slept in her clothes again, when a strong arm wraps around her torso and pulls her back across the mattress, as though she doesn’t weigh an ounce.
If that’s a squeak Victoria just allowed to pass her lips, then it’s a completely indignant one.
“Listen,” she rasps, not exactly unfamiliar with the one-night stand. “I’m sure it was special, but the door’s over there.” Except why would she be in her clothes? And why does the pillow under her head smell of someone else’s coconut shampoo? None of her regular mistakes would wear anything so…
“Morning,” her bedmate rumbles into the space between Victoria’s shoulder blades. “Are we having a sleepover?”
“Anna?” Victoria hisses and it all comes back in an inglorious technicolor wave of tears and alcohol and exhaustion. “I thought I left you on the couch.”
“Wait…Victoria?” Anna sits bolt upright so fast she almost pulls Victoria with her. Only at the last possible second does she release her comforting grip. “How? No, hold on, I was… But Irina. Oh God, what?” She’s breathing too fast, the words coming out in jerky little fragments.
Victoria may not be a morning person, but she’s going to have to summon her leadership skills to salvage this.
“Maybe you got cold,” Victoria suggests, extricating herself from the sheets and wincing as she stands. Coffee and some painkillers are necessary, and soon. “Either way, are you over your little family drama?”
Anna just glares from where she’s still tangled up in the sheets, hair down and adorably mussed. It’s incredibly difficult not to jump back on there and make what they both suspected come true in short order.
“Your little Russian soap opera won’t distract you from the work we need to do?”
Anna grabs one of the smaller throw pillows that would usually be tossed from the bed before getting in and clutches it to her chest. There’s something to be said for the fact she doesn’t bolt, although she’s as dressed as Victoria still is, and every bit as rumpled. Then, to Victoria’s abject horror, Anna sneezes.
“Sorry.” Of course Anna follows it with a shamefaced apology. “I’m sure it’s not a cold. It’s dusty or something.”
“My bedroom is not dusty,” Victoria retorts, offended at the implication. “Just because I don’t bring every fling into my personal domain doesn’t mean I’m tucked up in here like Miss Havisham, counting my cobwebs. It may have something to do with sleeping in rain-damp clothes.”
“Oh.” Anna sniffs, considering her next move. “Well, I should get going. In case, you know, germs.”
It’s hardly the only reason, but it’s one Victoria will cling to all the same. Her horror for getting sick hasn’t receded even in these years where there’s no performance to miss, no rehearsal to struggle to breathe through. For all her vices, she’s regimented in her shots and vitamins each year, banning any dancer with even dubious allergies from ruining one of her classes or rehearsals.
Clearly Anna has heard the rumors, judging by the speedy way she gets out of bed and edges toward the door without ever getting an inch closer to Victoria. From the doorway she offers, “Coffee?”
Victoria folds her arms and bites back the bitchiest response. The tilt of her head is enough to clue Anna in that no, she would not like a germ-laden mug of coffee.
“I’ll, uh, see you at the studio,” Anna says before darting down the hall to gather her things and stumbling back toward the front door without another word.
There’s a single, shining moment when Victoria realizes she can have what she increasingly wants. That she can ask Anna to stay for coffee, offer a veritable alphabet of vitamins, and maybe, just maybe, it would be worth risking health and sanity for just a little more of the comfort of the unexpected snuggling, if not the outright thrill of the infrequent kissing.
But Victoria stays quiet, listening to the door not slam, closed with thoughtfulness even in a hurry.
Ducking early morning traffic as she darts across the road, Anna feels hungover although she barely had anything to drink. Crying has a similar effect, and that she definitely did do a lot of.
Irina.
Should she call, should she text? The harsh light of morning has washed away some of the grief that bubbled up, and there’s a question of what it means, given that the sisters never really knew one another.
No, it means something. Anna knows her mother would think so, and that Irina already agrees on some level. There’s no need for a replacement, not as a grown adult with a life and a career. Still, that possibility for connection is so alluring. That Anna’s own love of ballet might somehow be innate, and any talent she has along with it. She often asked her mother why she didn’t dance ballet herself, after loving it so much. Her mom had simply hugged her close and shushed her each time. “Not everyone can be a ballerina, Anna.”
But maybe the little girl who grew up to be someone who Victoria Ford wants to make into a star isn’t the only dancer on her family tree after all. Anna needs to know more. How her mother ended up in America as a child, while Irina ended up in Moscow. Did they harbor Parent Trap-style fantasies of reunion? Did they miss each other as surely as Anna missed Jess when they were in separate cities? There’s so much to uncover, and not for the first time Anna is crushed by the unfairness of her mother not being there to ask.
Anna tries calling Jess as she barrels into her own apartment, ready to change and head right back out to warm up, where Victoria will hopefully keep her distance. As much as Anna is delighted at the accidental closeness they’ve shared yet again, she knows her head is too full to even begin to deal with that situation properly. Victoria deserves someone who gives her their whole attention, and it’s going to take a massive effort for Anna to turn that on her work first and foremost.
Voice mail again. Dammit. This time Anna leaves an actual message, despite the rants Jess subjects her to about how voice mail is pointless. “Sis, you’d better call me back fast because boy, do I have some news for you.”
“Teresa.” Victoria waits at the Starbucks closest to the Metropolitan Center, knowing her pianist is a creature of habit. “You’ve done well in sticking to other rehearsals. Eve is an acceptable replacement.”
Two sentences are enough to send Teresa into a tailspin, almost tipping the venti black coffee over her knockoff Burberry coat.
“Victoria! You’re here!”
“I have been known to fetch my own coffee on occasion.” Victoria props herself on a high stool at the window, plausible deniability as long as Teresa doesn’t join her. She’s smart enough not to try.
“So you need something?” The spark of hope that it’s something more could be detected from space, and Victoria can’t help but pity Teresa for that. All these younger, brilliant women, convinced their worth lies in being desirable, when they should be focused on their talent.
“I need to know what Rick and Liza are up to next. Which I’m sure you can achieve.”
“Do I get to ask why? It might help find out the right things.” Teresa’s instant loyalty, even when so badly tarnished, always leaps right to the fore.
“I have decisions to make.” Victoria knows anything more will be blabbed, and she mentally picks through a few red herrings before discarding them as unworthy. “And I need a little insurance in case my season doesn’t go as planned.”
“Is there a reason to think it won’t?”
“Hmm?” Victoria feigns not having heard, but Teresa at least is too seasoned to fall for that one
and waits her out. “Oh, no particular reason. But you know how people can be.”
“Some people, yes.” Teresa preens. Her own obsessive devotion doesn’t put her in that bracket. “And if I do this spying for you, does it mean I’m forgiven?”
“You always have to push, don’t you?” Victoria’s irritation stops her thought process like a record scratch. She sees the wounded expression and decides to make peace, at least for as long as she needs this particular ally. “Although yes, I suppose it would.”
“Oh Victoria, thank you!” Teresa squeals, drawing attention from the line of people waiting for coffee. She leans in to kiss Victoria on the cheek, lips still foamy from her drink.
Victoria squirms away, but as she turns her gaze back out of the window, she realizes her timing really has deserted her.
Travel mug in hand, jaw dropped, Anna Gale is starting right back at her, having seen everything that just transpired. Victoria moves to go after her, blocking out Teresa’s self-satisfied babble, but Anna takes off at a sprint. With those long legs, Victoria would have struggled to keep up even at peak fitness.
Victoria drops her head toward her chest and sighs. It’s going to be a very long day.
CHAPTER 30
Anna only stops when she runs out of sidewalk, perilously close to the front end of a moving crosstown bus. A man behind her yells about watching where she’s going, and Anna whirls around to pick a fight. At the sight of her expression, he blanches, and she turns back around in disgust.
Seems nobody stands by a damn thing they say anymore, not even the proverbial man in the street.
Was it really only two hours ago she woke up in Victoria’s bed? The same woman who’s now hatching plans with her ex? The bitch who tried slicing up Anna’s feet? Maybe not even ex judging by the kissing in public places. Clearly Victoria has kept her options open, and Anna’s just the latest idiot who let a crush be mistaken for a genuine connection. There’s a reason some people add “Ice” in front of that Queen of Ballet title.
Her head of steam gets her to the Metropolitan Center in record time, and she charges up the stairs like the bulls of Pamplona are after her. She ignores Ethan’s wave, storms past Morgan, and instead of detouring to the locker rooms, Anna simply strips her outer layer as she walks. She’s pissed, and she really doesn’t care who knows it at this point.
Every swing of her leg is a kick as she starts to warm up in the half-empty studio. There are curious glances from the others who are milling around for morning class, but the unspoken rule is never to intrude on a bad morning, whether it’s a hangover or personal drama. Skipping the tendus because she doesn’t have to stick to every rigid, stupid idea, Anna starts to regret it as she barrels toward the jetés. Her hamstrings are quickly burning and she pulls up, breathing raggedly from the tension she’s been carrying in her chest.
She’s getting really tired of feeling this damn emotional. First a new family member, now a betrayal. Anna didn’t ask for her life to be turned into a network drama, and she has no intention of living out all twenty-two episodes of it. She is going to dance, and trust no one, and who needs to talk to anyone ever again, anyway? It’s not like she has time for a social life. In between rehearsal and performance, she has headphones. Problem solved.
Right up until she leaves for first rehearsal, taking the farthest stairs to make for a circuitous route. There’s a fragment of a song stuck in Anna’s head, some piece of Tchaikovsky she can’t immediately place, and it’s maddening. She’s trying to hum the tune to reach a point she recognizes, and that’s why she doesn’t see Victoria lurking by the door.
“I said to myself, what’s the most dramatic, adolescent-tantrum way of dealing with this?” Victoria drawls, pushing away from the wall and inspecting her manicure. “Short of going straight to bed—and you have too much work ethic for that at least—I hedged my bets on you going for high-school avoidance tactics. Imagine my joy to be proven right yet again.”
“Are you done with your monologue?” Anna doesn’t have to kiss up to her heroine anymore. Teresa is covering that duty for all of them. “I have places to be.”
“My rehearsal? Good luck having it without me.” Victoria steps between Anna and the door.
It should be a simple consideration, if Anna wanted to overpower her. Still, something in Victoria’s posture says don’t try it and Anna has had enough of making stupid mistakes for one year.
“Now, about this morning—”
“Kiss anyone you want!”
Victoria steps in closer, gently placing two fingers on Anna’s lips to shush her. The touch tingles in a way Anna isn’t prepared for, and she loses whatever thread she’d been pulling at in an instant.
“Mmmf?” Anna adds, just for the excuse of moving her lips against Victoria’s skin.
“We are not doing this. Soap-opera misunderstandings and needless drama? Not my style. When there’s a perfectly rational explanation, you’ll do me the courtesy of listening to it. You’ll trust that I have our best interests at heart, whatever you see me doing. Have I given you any reason to doubt me?”
Anna shakes her head fervently, dislodging Victoria’s hand in the process. “No, but—”
“But what? I need information, and using a snake like Teresa is the most reliable way to procure it. If that means I need some sanitizer for my cheek after seeing her, I’m sure I’ll live.”
“Our interests?” Anna’s brain finally catches up to the thundering in her ears.
“I’d say our fates are pretty intertwined at this point, wouldn’t you? I need you to keep my job. Is there a better insurance policy than that?”
“Right, but it sounded like you were kind of thinking about us as…a pair?”
“A couple?” Victoria fires back, danger in those three syllables. “Were you not listening to what I told you about distractions?”
“You’re the one chasing me down because I got upset about another woman. Were you worried it would affect my hero worship? Because I think we’re way past that, don’t you?”
“You’re not entirely wrong,” Victoria concedes with a long-suffering sigh. “Though honestly, I’m not sure what acknowledging any of this actually does.”
“I think it does this.” Anna closes the tiny distance between them, slipping an arm around Victoria’s waist. It’s bold, probably far too bold for a semipublic place where anyone could come up or down the stairs. The implicit danger of that makes Anna’s heart thud in her chest, or maybe that’s more to do with the hungry look Victoria’s giving her, gaze settling on Anna’s lips. With the slightest move on either side they’ll be kissing, but courage seems to fail Anna in that moment.
Usually Victoria can’t abide a lack of follow-through, but when the root cause appears to be Anna’s overwhelming attraction to her, Victoria’s ego decides it’s charming. That’s reason enough to reward Anna—and herself—with one hell of a kiss, one that banishes all memories of Teresa and anyone Victoria wants her to spy on.
“Don’t be jealous,” Victoria murmurs when the kiss finally, reluctantly ends. “Now come along. This ballet won’t rehearse itself.”
Anna looks appropriately punch-drunk, and follows without another word. There’s a moment, a brief flicker of insanity really, when on passing the janitor’s closet that’s halfway along the corridor, Victoria gives serious consideration to whipping out her master key and dragging Anna in there.
No. Focus on the work, not the body. And honestly, stooping to consider closets full of mops makes for a very offended sense of aesthetic. Why lust after someone fresh out of a Gentileschi painting—not Degas nor Manet—only to sully the beauty of it all with the most functional of spaces? Along with the list of other reasons it is resolutely not happening. There’s just no telling that to the tug of want that starts somewhere deep in her abdomen and radiates out. It feels tangible, something dark and grasping that wants to reach out and pull Anna close.
It’s only in forcing herself not to look at the d
oor that she notices Anna is favoring her left leg slightly. Too rough in warm-up? Or too distracted?
Thank God for a roomful of people, which might well be the first time Victoria’s ever held such a sentiment in her adult life. She’s especially pleased when Irina limps in with her Moon Boot and a crutch that’s more for appearance than real use. She’s healing, at last. All she needed was the time and the honesty to get there. It’s inspiration enough for Victoria’s opening salvo.
“Good morning,” she greets them with genuine warmth. These are the people who are going to get her over the line. Gabriel with his athleticism and charm, Delphine with her precision, Irina with her grit, and Anna with her fresh-faced ungodly talent and enthusiasm. Even the latest girl foisted upon Victoria, Morgan, is bringing something to the table. She’s willing to understudy any part without complaint, and in the Venn diagram of the three principal women’s skills, Morgan is the overlap without much in the way of dramatic extremes. It’s exactly what someone in her place needs to be.
“Does Nutcracker casting go up today?” Delphine asks. “Because I was really hoping to skip the rotation this time.”
“All in good time,” Victoria assures them. “And really, you should know to ask Kelly or David by now. In my studio time, we focus on my productions, understood? Even if the Sugar Plum snorefest does keep the lights on and the doors open for the rest of the year.”
“Oh, I think that’s a little harsh,” Rick interrupts, strolling into the room in his ripped jeans and overly tight tee. A look he could pull off fifteen years before, but today it’s just showing off where he isn’t as taut as he once was.
“What an unexpected surprise, Rick,” Victoria snaps, the briefest flicker of a concerned glance in Anna’s direction. “I was beginning to think you’d lost the address for the center.”