by KL Donn
“I’d like to stay, though,” I protest quietly. I know I’ll never win, and we’ll head back to Hollywood, and the lights and smog and so many people. But, for once, I wish my opinion mattered.
“Well, tough. We don’t always get what we want in life.” I’m brought to an abrupt stop as a hand reaches out gently across my belly, holding me in place.
“Let her go,” the masculine voice growls behind me, and I fail at containing my shiver.
“I will not!” My mother's nails dig into my skin, getting tighter with each passing second, and when I feel the skin break, I whimper. “Knock it off, Marilyn,” she hisses.
“You can take your hand off the girl, or I’ll take your hand off your body.” Never in my life have I seen my mother so speechless or pale as her fingers suddenly let me go.
He doesn’t.
He holds me tighter.
Tenderly bringing my arm back to my body, he inspects the new damage mixed with the old as my mother blusters about his threats to Duke. The poor man looks like he’d rather run away.
“Remove them from my property, Duke.” I begin to take a step forward at the rancher's demand when he stops me. “Not you.”
My eyes close of their own accord, and I want to ask so many questions, but I can’t formulate the words. Hearing my mother’s scream as she’s herded back to the car, I sigh a breath of relief. I don’t remember the last time I spent more than a shower length away from her. I need space. Perspective.
I hate the pageant life, and I need to get away from it. From her. I need distance from a life I never wanted, and I won’t get that if I continue to allow her to control my every move.
The problem is, she’s beaten me down so thoroughly that my confidence has dissipated, and I don’t know who I am anymore.
Shaw
Marilyn Monroe Kingsley.
What a fucking name.
When they arrived here, with her mother’s attitude and her agent’s indifference, I told Duke no and to send them all away. As soon as I heard Mari quiet down, I pushed past them all and ran around the back of the house just in time to listen to this alluring creature ask the animal who hurt her.
It was at that moment, I knew she was staying. But the other two had to go. I wasn’t putting up with their shit for any amount of time. And after witnessing the way the mother, Helen, spoke to and treated her daughter, I also realized she needed protection from more than just some stalker.
They’ve been gone for an hour now, and Marilyn Monroe Kingsley has been sitting on the ground next to where Mari cries into the sky. But she’s silent now. The girl gives the bovine some sense of calm, and maybe it’s because she can feel Marilyn’s pain too.
“Marilyn,” I call down from where I’m sitting on the porch. She doesn’t move. “Marilyn Monroe!” I call again, and her eyes pop open.
She blinks a few times before her tentative gaze finds me. Standing, she wipes her butt off and comes over.
“Uhm…” She’s hesitant to speak, and I’m on the edge of my seat to hear her voice. “I don’t want to sound rude.” She begins to bite her bottom lip, and I realize I was correct. Her voice is soft and lyrical. Perfect for a pageant princess.
“But…” I say the word, hoping she’ll finish her thought.
“Well, could you call me Monroe, please? Only Helen calls me Marilyn, and after years of listening to her scream it, I’ve come to dislike hearing it.”
“I can do that.” Her eyes smile, but her mouth doesn’t move, and I cock my head, debating on asking more about that, but I can tell there is more to this girl than what's in the file I’ve been reading for the last hour. “Monroe, would you like to come inside for something to eat?” Glancing down at my watch, I see it’s mid-afternoon, but I haven’t a clue when she ate last.
“I’d rather stay outside if that’s okay?” I hate how unsure she is about speaking up.
“That’s fine. I can get Rita to bring something out for you. I have a few phone calls to make, so I’ll be inside if you need me.” She nods her head and strides back to my pitiful cow.
It’s almost hilarious that they both share the same name. They’re both extremely vulnerable creatures, and both have very light hair. If I didn’t know any better, I'd think Marilyn belonged to Monroe. And I think they’d both like that very much.
Shaking my head, I walk inside to find Rita in the kitchen making both dinner and a plate of cheese and crackers. “She’s a beautiful girl.” The woman doesn’t look up from what she’s doing.
“Yeah, she is,” I agree. Monroe is exactly the type of girl I shouldn’t be attracted to. She’s city; I’m country.
“I say she’ll stay.” I frown at the comment but ultimately ignore it as I head to my office, already knowing Rita will bring the tray of food out to Monroe.
Placing the file on my desk, I search over the photos of Monroe’s apartment again. Flower petals lay all over the floor with love notes scattered around the room. Her underwear drawer has been cleaned out, and photoshopped images of her and a headless man are framed and placed nicely on her dresser.
Whoever is stalking her is in love with her. Given that he broke into her apartment, I’d say he’s dangerous. He has access to her life. I’m not entirely convinced, though, that her mother or agent doesn’t have something to do with it. Especially after meeting them today.
I won’t lie, I had expected Monroe to be a complete diva. As soon as I looked into her eyes, however, I felt that she was different, and I knew my cold approach towards her would have to shift.
She hasn’t asked for anything since arriving. She hasn’t complained once about the atmosphere. The chill. The smell of manure from the livestock. By all accounts, Rita might be right, Monroe could come to mean more to me than anyone ever has.
The fax machine in the corner powers on, and as I see the pages spitting out, I know Duke is finished with his in-depth background check on their lives.
I have a file on Monroe about an inch thick, and what pisses me off is the number of emergency room visits. A broken arm one time, three concussions, stitches from what looks like a belt strap across her back, and so many more issues. The problem with every injury is that they occur in different states; therefore, no one is looking into them.
I am now.
Monroe has been a pageant princess all her life, holding a record for most winnings, and yet, she’s being abused. She's spent all this time surrounded by a variety of different people, I fail to understand how none of them knew what was happening to her. Especially when she was younger.
Picking up the phone, I call Duke. “What’s your read on the mother?” I ask as soon as he picks up the phone.
“Hello, Shaw, I’m fine, thanks,” he jokes.
“The mother.”
“She’s narcissistic. Riding off her daughter’s success. If I had my guess, she couldn’t do what Monroe does, and she’s forcing the girl into the pageant circuit.”
“I’m getting the same. She abuses her too. There are more than two dozen hospital trips. Alone, they’re innocent enough. An accidental child. Together, I have to wonder what the hell happens to these girls.”
His whistle through the line is loud. “You talked to her about it?”
I snort. “No. She was barely able to ask me to call her Monroe. She hates Marilyn.”
“You too, huh. The mother and agent are on their way back to Hell-A, so tell her to relax. Read a book. Enjoy the countryside.”
“Oh, she is. She and Mari are glued to each other.”
“No shit?” Duke was with me when I bought the heifer from the auction. She’d been there to be sold for slaughter, and I bought her on a whim.
“Yeah. They’ve gone through something only the other can understand, obviously. I’m going to leave her to it for now. Rita’s got a feast going in the kitchen. I guess we’ll see if she’s ready for country life after that.” Rita moved up here with me from Texas after my parents retired. Her southern cooking followed.
>
“That you will, my friend. Look, lay low, relax, see if she’ll open up to you, and I’ll continue with the dozens of background checks for people in her life.” I don’t envy him that part of the job right now. Being in pageants her whole life, I imagine there are hundreds, if not thousands, of people to go through.
“Call me if anything stands out.”
“You know it.”
Pushing Monroe’s file to the side, I stare at her mother’s for a minute before opening it. I already know I dislike the woman and that whatever I’m about to find out will not make me like her anymore. If anything, I think it’ll move her to the top of the suspect pool.
Monroe
“You know,” a loud female voice says, pulling me from my daydreaming, “she rarely stops her bellyaching until she’s moo’d herself hoarse.”
Standing as the woman brings a tray of food closer, I wipe the grass from my rear-end and wait for anything else she has to say.
“Shaw asked me to bring this out to you.” Shaw. So that’s his name. It suits him. “I’m Rita. The housekeeper extraordinaire.”
As she hands me the tray of food, I finally speak. “Monroe, girl with no choices.” My sad but sarcastic comment isn’t lost on her, and her smile dims a little.
“Come sit over here with me. Marilyn will be fine by herself.”
“Her name is Marilyn?” Irony at its finest. Rita nods as we walk to the porch and sit at the outdoor table. “My first name is Marilyn,” I tell her as I reach for the bottle of water. Eyeing the tray of deli meats, cheese, and grapes, I crave popping one of those round berries into my mouth and savoring the sour burst of juice I know will come with the first bite.
But I can’t.
No sugars.
Not even natural ones.
“Marilyn Monroe?” Rita laughs like most people do before she inspects me. “Yeah, I can see that. Need a little more meat on your bones, though. That girl was something fierce regarding the female figure.”
With my professionally dyed platinum blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and pouty red lips, I understand why my mother named me after the icon. I even have the little mole on my cheek.
“I guess.” Sipping at my water, I recognize Rita as a real woman, not one of the fake ones I’m surrounded by daily. She has genuine life experience. And because of that, I don’t know how to talk to her. I’m not up to date on current events. I know nothing of the world. I barely graduated high school, and only finished with honors because it was required for the Miss California pageant that I won two years ago.
My anxiety and stress cause my heart to pound, and I can feel myself getting light-headed. I’m losing control again, and there’s only one thing that will help.
“Uhm, Rita, could you show me to my room, please?” Standing abruptly, I think I shock her before she nods.
“Aren’t you hungry, though?” She grabs the tray to bring inside.
“No, I ate on the flight, and I’m just feeling a little light-headed. I think I need to lie down if that’s alright?”
“Of course! Plane food is nearly as bad as hospital food. Dinner will be ready in a few hours. I’ll knock when it’s finished.” I force myself to pull my lips up in an expected smile as she leads the way through the house and up the stairs.
I feel horrible as I nearly slam the door in her face, but I need discipline. I need routine. I need to dance. Closing the blinds, I tear open my suitcase as I begin to strip and slip into my leotard that’s one size too small—it used to be two sizes too small—and lace up my pointe shoes.
Dragging my air pods out, I hit play on my practice list. It has fast-paced music to keep me moving and in shape. It’s the hardest on my body to keep up with, and as soon as the opening notes for "Tequila" by Dan and Shay play, tears begin to stream down my cheeks, and my body moves without thought.
One song turns to two then three, and I feel my muscles begin to quiver as "Shake It Off" by Taylor Swift comes on as number eight. Forcing myself to refocus my energy, I can feel sweat pouring down my body as my toes ache, and my knees fight not to buckle.
It’s not until I’ve run through the thirty-song playlist twice that hands lift me in the air, and we land on the bed with a soft thud.
Shaw is over top of me looking angry and no doubt swearing a blue streak, but I can’t hear a word he’s saying. After ripping the pods out of my ears, his stormy gaze darkens.
“What the fuck, Monroe? You’ve been up here for over two hours dancing like this?” I can feel his heart pounding against my chest, and I have this insane desire to lay my head against him and listen.
“Yes.”
“What the hell for?” I look away from his knowing gaze. “Uh-uh, look at me. Why are you doing this? Your body is not meant to withstand this kind of torture. Especially when you aren’t healthy enough to tolerate it.”
“I dance for six to eight hours every day. I’m well-equipped to handle the physical strain.” I lift my chin in challenge.
“And the mental one?” he bites back.
Shaw isn’t wrong. With this kind of rigorous workout or routine, I should be mentally stable, and I’m anything but that. I am barely holding myself together, and I think that’s why I do it, because ballet is the glue that keeps me together. It adheres all my little broken pieces together.
“I need ballet,” I tell him instead.
“Like I need another hole in my head.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I maintain my silence. It’s always been easier to remain quiet than fight and argue. I never am able to get my point across to people anyways. Usually, because they don’t want to hear it.
“Think of this as a vacation. Whatever you’re doing on the road, doesn’t happen here. No ballet, no prancing around like a piece of meat. Be yourself, Monroe.”
I flinch as if he physically hit me because I don’t have my own identity. I am living my mother’s failed life. I’m competing for her. Dancing for her. Smiling for her.
Pretending for her.
“You have no idea who you are, do you?” His gaze softens with sympathy, and I have to divert my eyes once again. Lifting himself off my body, I, at once, miss his weight. I didn’t realize at the time, but it brought comfort. Something I’m sorely missing right now.
When I feel his fingers untying the silk of my slippers before sliding them off my feet, tears stream down my face again. Not strictly because of his tenderness but from embarrassment. I know what he’ll see. My toes will be bloody, and my feet will have blisters. It’s never a pretty sight after such an intense session.
“Fuck. Monroe, is this normal?” I don’t look down at him as I shrug. “No more fucking ballet. Not while you’re here. You need to heal, woman.”
I nod my head to agree because I know he won’t stop until I do. But I won’t listen. He doesn’t understand the pressure. The intensity of having only one thing in my life that I can control. I need this like I need to breathe.
“Come on.” He pulls me up from the bed, wraps an arm around my waist, and slowly directs me to the bathroom in the hallway. Lifting me onto the counter, Shaw reaches into a drawer for a cloth.
It doesn’t take long for steam to billow up from the sink after he’s turned the water on. We don’t speak as he gently holds one foot above the heel while dipping the cloth in water and carefully washing the blood off my toes. I know he must have questions, wondering why I would do this to myself, but he refrains from asking, and I’m grateful.
Scars decorate my feet from the abuse they’ve taken over the years, and as I see the strain in Shaw’s features, I’m questioning everything about myself. I think that’s why I also open up to him about my training so easily.
“I was dancing before I was nearly walking.” It’s what I’ve always been told anyways. “My love for ballet expands beyond the pageants and my talent. When I dance, it’s because I’m free. The only time I’m free.” My eyes shift to the water swirling a light pink with my blood.
Shaw’s silence is unnerving. With anyone else I’ve ever met, I’ve never had a desire to fill the void. To speak my secrets. He’s changing all the rules on me.
“I trained with a Prima.” Ophelia Vasyli was intense, driven, caring. “She treated me like a little girl. Ophelia knew before I did that my love for the art was soul-searching. She had no idea what my life was like, but understood my story, nonetheless.”
“And what is your story, Monroe?”
My eyes lift rapidly to meet his imploring stare.
“I have no idea.”
Monroe
What is your story?
The question played through my head all evening and kept me up late into the night until exhaustion swept me under.
I still don’t have an answer.
Everyone has a story. A tale to be told. I don’t. I have pain. Obligation. Heartache.
I have the knowledge that I’m not good enough.
For a father who left when I was a little girl because my mother was obsessed with the pageant world and he couldn’t take it anymore.
For the mother who is present but wants someone more like her.
When I was younger, the pageants were fun. A way to bond with my mother and dress up like a princess. Around the time I turned ten and the prize money grew exponentially with every contest, it became less and less like a dream and more of a duty. No part of me enjoyed strutting around the stage in bejeweled dresses or barely-there bikinis. Being stared at and judged for my beauty.
I have to make a change. I have to figure out who I am. And maybe being here in Montana with Shaw, I can do that. He’s the only person I’ve ever met who doesn’t seem to care about what I look like or how I dress.
I saw the interest in his eyes yesterday, seconds before he grabbed me and kicked Mom and Claire off his property. It was that spark that had my belly quivering and my heart fluttering.
Perhaps, for the first time in my life, I can do something for myself.
Slipping from bed, I walk to my suitcase and pause when I reach for my ballet slippers and leotard. If I’m truly going to try and figure myself out, I have to break free of the routine and regiments of my old life. Starting with working my body to the point of exhaustion. Ballet can be a means of fun again. I can dance because I love it and not out of obligation.