Kings of Midnight: Book One of The Midnight Saga

by J Q Anderson

  “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah.” He kissed my forehead. “How was your run?” He looked glorious, his eyes were a clear blue, the color of the shallow ice of a glacier.

  “Good.” I waited for him to say something about the conversation with Julián. But he just kissed my lips chastely.

  “I made coffee.”

  “Sebastián I heard your conversation just now,” I said as he turned to get dressed. He stopped for a second, then reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head.

  “What about it?”

  “Maybe you should go home for a while.”

  “Camila,” he said, running his fingers through his wet hair. “This is where I want to be. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “But it sounds like you’re needed. I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

  “Sweetheart.” He pulled me into his arms. “I love our life here. I have no interest in going back to Buenos Aires. I’ll fly down to pick up some of the projects, and I’ll work from here.”

  “You’re doing this for me, and I don’t want that.”

  He exhaled. “At first I was. But now I like it here. I really don’t want to leave.”

  That night, I lay next to Sebastián as he slept peacefully. I tossed around, restless, recapping his conversation with Julián that morning. Julián had a point. He was still a Palacios, a King of Midnight. He would always be tied to their net somehow.

  Maybe being here was best. I stared through the window at the neon sign from the deli across the street, and thought of those late-night shipments, clandestine cargoes that would never be tracked by paperwork. Here, Sebastián was just a normal guy. No bodyguards, no Don Martín, no Medinas. And I understood giving it all up to be with his girl, in this hallway of an apartment a million miles away from home, was the only way he would be free.

  While I was at work that week, Sebastián painted the old walls of the apartment, built new shelves and a bookcase, and re-sanded the old wood floors, all at a minimal budget. The projects he brought from the studio in Buenos Aires started bringing some money, but I insisted we saved it for a bigger apartment. Besides, manual labor seemed to make him happy. In just a few days, our dingy studio had been transformed into a beautiful mini-loft where every space was usefully repurposed with a designer’s eye. Our landlord was stoked and even offered to hire Sebastián on a cash basis to redesign some of the other units.

  When I came home one night, I was welcomed by the mouthwatering aroma of empanadas that Sebastián was pulling from the oven.

  “You remembered.” I raised my eyebrows in excitement. “That’s why you asked me to get wine?”

  Throwing the dish towel over his shoulder, he shook his head in amusement. “How can I forget the day when a gorgeous, suicidal girl fell into my arms in the middle of 9 de Julio Avenue?”

  “I was not suicidal! I was rescuing one of Anna’s shoes.”

  “Hmmhm.”

  “They cost a fortune!”

  “So naturally, you dove into traffic.”

  I unwrapped the scarf from my neck and threw it at him. “You’re infuriating. You just…don’t understand. Some things are worth diving into traffic for.”

  He grinned. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  From the corner of my eye, I spotted a little table set for two in our tiny balcony. I squinted at him. “I only forgive you because you’re so disgustingly romantic. And all I did was get this cheap bottle of wine.” I slid it into the freezer.

  He pulled me into his arms. “Everything I need is right here.” His mouth found mine, and I wrapped my arms tightly around his waist. His ripped back muscles flexed under my hands. All this remodeling work he had done at the apartment was a bonus.

  After a dinner of empanadas and salad, we sat side by side with our feet up on the balcony railing. Sebastián poured the last of the wine into my glass. It was a very expensive bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and the last from the few he had brought from Argentina. It was crisp and delicious. Realizing there wasn’t enough to fill his glass, I stood.

  “You stay. I’ll get the other bottle.”

  In the kitchen, I pulled the Chardonnay I had bought at the liquor store on the way home. I filled his glass, and we toasted to happy moments in Manhattan. As he took a sip, Sebastián’s mouth curved in distaste.

  “I’m sorry.” I smiled guiltily. “It’s bad, isn’t it? But the wine at the Greek brothers’ is so expensive. It was all I could get for ten dollars.”

  He refilled both our glasses and raised his. “To happy moments and bad wine.”

  Standing, I moved to his lap and kissed him. “I love you, you know?” I leaned my forehead against his. He smiled and kissed me fervently, sending tingles everywhere. I would never tire of this, of him, and the way he made my body come alive as soon as he touched me. It was ethereal, even more so than the high dancing gave me.

  New York was our bubble of happiness away from the world. But as we lay in bed at night, I worried that this domestic life away from his studio might soon not be enough for Sebastián.

  Chapter 49

  The following spring, an early heat wave slammed Manhattan. Even the tourists flooding the streets sought relief inside museums and shops. The air was stifling, and without air conditioning in our apartment, my nights were restless.

  The stench of rancid garbage greeted me as I made a slow way up the subway steps, leaving the cavernous cool air behind. We had been rehearsing tirelessly for La Bayadère, and my muscles were tight and battered. Sidestepping a group of teens, I hustled inside the building hosting the Manhattan Ballet studios, desperately longing for the relief of the air conditioner.

  But the oppressive climate would not be limited to the weather.

  “People, gather around.” Andrew gestured as he walked in, followed by a young couple: a male and a female dancer I had never seen before. The air in the studio instantly changed, conversation ceased, and everyone stepped to the front, all eyes on the two newcomers. The couple’s expressions were stoic, their complexions pale and the lines on their faces well defined. She had red hair pulled tightly into a bun and all the features of a traditional ballet dancer: long neck, skeletal but muscular body, and the demeanor of someone who knew what they had been born to do. He was tall, languid, his posture perfectly straight, exuding confidence that perfectly matched his partner’s. The couple focused on Andrew, oblivious to the burning scrutiny directed at them.

  Jonathan, my partner, appeared next to me.

  “What’s this?” I whispered.

  “Hmm. Andrew’s new find.”

  “What?” I turned to him, and he shrugged.

  “Last year it was you, this year it’s Russian prodigies. Andrew likes keeping the pool fresh. Look at them, they’re preschoolers. Christ.”

  “People,” Andrew started again, “you’ve all heard the rumors, and I am now in a position to confirm them: Effective next week, Alphonse Bordieux, from Paris Ballet, will be the main choreographer. And that’s not all, I have more exciting news for you today. This is Mina and Nikolai. They’re just visiting us now, but they will be joining Manhattan Ballet as principals in the fall. Be warm, be helpful, and show them around. They’re our guests of honor this week. Now let’s get started.” He clapped once and everyone took their usual places, the new couple at the front. I looked around, breathing in short, shallow breaths. Nobody else seemed to care, or maybe they were used to it, because this was simply how things were. Nothing personal, move over, make room for the new. A sense of loneliness invaded me as I took my spot at the portable barre. It was just like my first day at the Colón, and for a moment, I was that girl again, with a lot to prove and a long road ahead.

  Andrew walked by me without pausing. His attention was on the new couple. It seemed as if he were only walking around so he could watch them from different angles. I told myself it was normal, he was evaluating them, but deep down I knew that over the last six months his initial dedication to me had slowly faded. Mayb
e this was how it was for all dancers at some point. When you know you’ve stopped learning.

  Andrew turned, this time facing me directly, and I purposely tensed my shoulders. I knew it dramatically affected my posture, and I wanted to see if he noticed. Back home, Madame used to torture me about it. Andrew smiled with a small nod and walked past me to the front.

  At lunch, Jonathan and I sat side by side on the steps of Lincoln Center, eating egg salad sandwiches. The sun was high and baking, but anywhere was better than inside the studio today, watching Andrew parade his new Russian pets around.

  “Who in the hell came up with an egg salad sandwich?” I tossed my half-eaten sandwich in a nearby trash can and wiped my hands. “I miss choripanes. I miss all the food in Buenos Aires.”

  “You were spoiled. This beats the hell out of the Marmite sandwiches I had in England.”

  “I miss fresh pasta shops, Freddo's ice cream, and dulce de leche. I really miss dulce de leche. In Argentina, we put it in everything. There’s nothing like it.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be as good if it wasn’t forbidden.” Jonathan winced. “Having dulce de leche whenever you want sounds much more tempting if it comes with a price tag of letting your boyfriend go back to being Tony Soprano.”

  “Yeah. Except Tony was violent, fat, and a brute. Sebastián is sweet, handsome, eats with his mouth closed, and doesn’t have a closet full of two-toned, short-sleeved shirts.”

  “Yes to all. But I still had a crush on the total mindfuck that was Tony. He was a fat thug, but his sense of chivalry made you pull for him no matter what. Your beau, though… Bloody eye candy.”

  “You should see him in an Armani suit.”

  “I’m perfectly happy watching him shirtless, fixing stuff around your flat. Besides,” he said, taking the last bite of his sandwich and crumpling the wrap, “he could make a fucking burlap sack look sexy, babes.”

  I laughed.

  “But what was it really like? I mean, being Sebastián Palacios’s girl?”

  I shrugged. “In many ways it was really nice. We would walk in anywhere, and people would actually move out of the way to let us in because they knew who he was. They respected him. I don’t think he’d ever stood in line anywhere before he moved here. But then, there were also the bodyguards, the guns, his father.”

  “Must be some change.”

  “Yeah. I don’t fully understand yet how he was okay giving all that up.”

  Jonathan nudged my shoulder. “Because he loves you. You two have the real thing. He’s a lucky bastard and he knows it.”

  “And yet, here I am, back on square one. You know, I never thought about it until now…”

  “Thought about what?”

  “I came in last year just like them, Andrew’s Russian preschoolers. Why did I think I was special? I mean, is it always like this? Do you ever really feel like you’ve made it?” I tore a corner of leftover bread and tossed it at a pigeon nearby. “Will there always be a skinnier, younger, red-haired Russian breathing down your neck?”

  “Do you really want me to answer that?”

  I shook my head. “I miss home,” I said, staring at the new pigeons gathering in anticipation of more leftovers. “I always thought that once I got to New York, it would all fall into place. That all the insecurities I had as a dancer would just…go away. Because being here, doing what my mother didn’t get to do, would mean I was a real dancer, you know?”

  Jonathan smiled, shaking his head. “Let me guess, you still feel the same. No matter how many times your name is up there.” He nodded at the sign announcing the upcoming opening night for La Bayadère with Jonathan and me as the leads.

  “Exactly.” I took a swig of my bottled water and wiped the sweat gathering on my forehead. “At home Madame kicked my ass daily. God, she would just be on me some days like a goddamn virus…there was no hiding from that woman.”

  “Funny, the things we end up missing.”

  “Yeah. What’s really funny is how miserable I felt then. I didn’t get it. I thought she hated me. And now, I would give anything to get that kind of attention. ‘Navarro, zat is not your color, girl.’” I let out a long sigh. “Plus I’ve been here for almost two years, and you’re still my only friend.” I leaned over and rested my head on his shoulder. “You’re my rock, Jonathan.”

  “I’m going back to London in the fall,” he blurted.

  I straightened immediately, searching his eyes. This was a joke, right?

  “Royal offered me a position as principal, and I said yes.” He turned to look at me. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re serious,” I said, mostly to myself. A flashback of Marcos telling me he was going back to Buenos Aires almost two years ago slammed me like an avalanche. It had been a crucial point in my career because it had meant I would have to go forward alone. No Nata, no Marcos to lean on. Just me.

  “Say something.” Jonathan reached for my hand and interlaced our fingers. I leaned my head back on his shoulder.

  “Dammit. Congratulations.”

  That week a guy in a hoodie followed me all the way to the studio. I brushed it off, but the next day he appeared out of nowhere and followed me again. It creeped me out, so I asked Sebastián to start walking me to work.

  Jonathan waved at me one morning as I walked in.

  “Okay, it’s been a week,” he said. “Enough already. As much as I love watching your hot boyfriend’s arse leave every morning, you need to get a grip.”

  “Leave me alone. I’m fine.”

  “You lost weight again, I can tell. You’re messing with my balance.”

  “I always thought Sebastián’s bodyguards were a pest. Now I miss them.”

  “Leave it to you to protest two bouncers flanking you like you’re royalty. Maybe I’ll get myself one in London.” He grinned.

  “Screw London.”

  He reached for my hand and tugged me down so I would sit next to him. “Stop all this whining,” he said. “You’re not going to get mugged, and this is not the end of us. It’s a step forward for me and for you. It’s time to grow again. And you never know, we may partner again someday.”

  “You’re right. But I’ll miss you.”

  We never talked about Jonathan leaving after that. In the midst of so much change at work, we both needed something to stay the same. We dove headfirst into the season with an unspoken promise to make it our best.

  Inside the walls of our studio, time moved with the precision and predictability that gave Manhattan Ballet its reputation. To the world, we were a well-oiled machine of professional dancers, a family with solid ties, a unit. But what they didn’t know was that we were really a group of well-trained strangers. Our bond didn’t extend beyond what was written in black and white on our contract for the year. At the Colón, we sweated, bled, hated, and loved together. We constantly measured ourselves against each other. We may have not always been the big happy family we portrayed on stage, but at least we were aware of each other’s existence. Everyone’s presence was acknowledged one way or another. Americans were less dramatic and less socially intense than Argentineans. Here, we didn’t hang out after work. Most dancers took college classes or worked to pay for Manhattan’s astronomical rents. An image of Marcos and Nata making plans for hitting clubs after work flashed in my mind, and I smiled. But as I looked at the dancers vacating the studio, my smile faded, and I wished I was back at home.

  As I stepped out into the evening, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and searched for the number I wanted.

  Chapter 50

  I stood at JFK with my arms wrapped around Jonathan’s neck. The ballet season was over. It was time to say good-bye.

  “Let go. You’re going to give me a neck cramp,” he said.

  “I can’t. Don’t go.”

  “You’ll be fine.” He pulled away. “Liam will be your partner next year.”

  “I hate Liam. He has bad breath.”

  “You’ll learn from him. Give him a chance.”
He took my face in his hands. “Take care of yourself. Go take a holiday with your knicker-scorching boyfriend and forget about all this for a few days. And when you come back, don’t get lost in all this cosmopolitan bullshit. You know who you are. Here or on the moon.”

  I walked into my little loft feeling beat and aching for a cool vodka tonic, but the sight of a suitcase by the door stopped me cold.

  “You going somewhere?” I looked up at Sebastián as he approached, his face pale and somber.

  “My father had a heart attack. I’m going home tonight on the eleven o’clock flight.”

  An hour later, Sebastián had us both packed. Whatever awaited, I wanted us to be together. Besides, the July heat threatened to swallow Manhattan whole, and I couldn’t wait for a break from it and to be surrounded by familiar faces. The thought of reentering the Palacios turf made me a bit anxious, but I couldn’t wait to go home. At the Colón, the season would be in full swing, and I could go see as many performances as my time in Buenos Aires allowed. I wasn’t due back in New York for another two weeks, when I would meet with Andrew to discuss my contract renewal.

  Sebastián carried our bags downstairs, and I was doing a quick last-minute check before I locked up when my phone rang. The familiar voice greeted me, and I sat on the stairs, holding my breath.

  Chapter 51

  The flights to Buenos Aires for that night were sold out, so we had to fly to Montevideo, then drive to a nearby airport, where Julián’s jet waited.

  As soon as we landed at the small private hangar outside Buenos Aires, I felt in my bones that I was back at home. The morning air was damp and heavy, mixed with the smell of fresh hay. The place was a modest ranch in a remote, rural area. Outside the hangar, two bodyguards waited, casually dressed in jeans and white T-shirts and leather jackets, both armed with handguns tucked at the waist. Home sweet home.