My life goes on.
Or at least that’s what I’d like to believe a week later.
In my attempt to gather myself together, I pretend that my life does go on. That I didn’t witness a murder, didn’t kiss the murderer, then fantasize about fucking him and come by his stimulations. Twice.
Because that orgasm when I was drunk? Yeah that wasn’t entirely me. I was merely adding a little friction to the avalanche he’d already caused by playing with my nipples.
I can blame all that on how sensitive they are or how drunk I was, but the fact remains that I was turned on by him, by his presence and calm savageness.
But that wasn’t all. I asked him to fuck me.
In my drunken state, I nearly begged him to take what he wanted. Yes, I thought it’d hasten the process for him to leave me alone, but a hidden part of me craved that depravity.
Maybe too much so.
I suck in a deep breath as I land in Ryan’s arms. It’s our last move for today’s rehearsal and I’m ready to go home, snuggle up in a blanket, and listen to some music. Hopefully, I’ll fall asleep without my pills.
And without having any nightmares.
Ryan’s fingers slide up my hip, feeling me up as he puts me down.
He always does shit like this, touching me when he shouldn’t. Stroking me as if my body belongs to some sort of exotic animal he wants to study.
“Let me go,” I grit under my breath.
“It’s part of the choreography, sweetness.”
“No, it’s not.” I push him away, but he digs his fingers into my hipbone.
“We’re supposed to act as if we’re in love, so how about you become a bit more cooperative?”
“It’s called acting, Ryan. It’s not real.”
“True acting is derived from real life.” He licks his lips, subtly grinding his erection against my belly. “You should try it sometime, life.”
I elbow him, disgust coiling at the bottom of my stomach. I’m such a hypocrite. I’ve been dreaming about a damn killer since he left my apartment a week ago, yet I feel nothing but disgust for my dance partner.
But Ryan has serious behavioral problems. No matter how much I push him away, he takes it as an invitation to come back for more.
While I respect him as a dancer for his flawless posture and technique, I loathe him as a human being.
He leans in to whisper in my ear, “You’re supposed to trust me since I always catch you, sweetness.”
“While acting.” I try to push him away again.
“What’s going on here?” Hannah, his latest acquisition, barges between us, glaring at me.
Ryan lets me go with a smirk. “I told you we’re only acting, Lia. No need to feel it so much.”
Everyone’s attention slides to me, some snickering and others horrified, while Hannah looks like she wants to strangle me.
I point at Ryan’s semi hard-on that’s visible through his tights. “I think it’s obvious who was feeling it.”
I turn around to leave, catching Stephanie shaking her head at Ryan. I told her the other day that I’m growing uncomfortable leading with Ryan, and she promised to talk to the producers and Philippe so that we’re not paired for the next performance.
But I have to put up with him for Giselle and consider it a sacrifice for the sake of art.
“Where do you think you’re going, chérie?” Philippe, who was too busy with the staff to pay attention to what happened, loops his arm in mine.
“Home.”
“Non, non. Not tonight. We promised we’d go out for drinks for team spirit.”
“I’m tired and I need some aftercare.” Because as much as I hate to admit it, my ankle still throbs. Dr. Kim said it’s fatigue and gave me muscle relaxers, but I’m paranoid as hell about using my legs when it’s not for the purpose of ballet.
“Do the aftercare here and then join us.”
“Philippe…”
“I’m not taking no for an answer. We miss having you among us outside of rehearsal.”
He’s the only one who thinks that. And maybe Stephanie, because she rocks.
I peek at all the glares shooting my way because of Philippe’s obvious favoritism. He calls me his star, his muse, and the lead of his every masterpiece. Something that has dug the hole deeper between me and the other dancers.
If he wasn’t openly gay and happily married, they’d say I’m sleeping with him like they do about the producers.
“Come on, change the mood.” Stephanie takes my other arm. “You’re stressed. I can feel it.”
She can say that again. I haven’t been able to sleep, probably since…well, since Adrian walked into my life.
Not that my sleeping patterns were better before him.
“Oui, oui. Stress is not good for my muse.” Philippe clutches my chin between his fingers and gently shakes it as if I’m a baby.
You know what? A night out is better than overthinking until I collapse in my empty apartment. All I have to do is stay with Philippe and Stephanie.
“Fine.” I smile a little. “I’m in.”
“You won’t regret it.” Philippe rolls the R exaggeratingly with his accent.
I go to my dressing room, making sure to lock both doors, then I take a quick shower and place bandages on my ankles as I sit down to blow-dry my hair and put on makeup. I opt for a soft glittery eyeshadow. It’s been a stupid obsession of mine since I was a little girl. Glitter and beautiful things. They signify hope, I guess. That’s what I’ve wanted all along and the only thing that’s kept me going.
I paint my lips in a nude color and apply some mascara. The makeup is a lot tamer than what I’m used to for official performances, but it still gives me that confidence. The hope.
To say my life has gotten back on course would be a lie. I’ve been watching my apartment door since that day Adrian walked out, waiting for him to come back. I’ve watched the audience, too, but he hasn’t shown up in my rehearsals again. Not even once.
A part of my brain, the logical part, is somehow glad he’s left me alone, but the other part knows, it just knows that’s not the end of it.
Far from it.
If anything, that encounter might as well have been the beginning. I know he’ll come back, and this time, my life will be blown to pieces.
The cruelty of leaving me on the edge is too much. I want to scream and yell, but that won’t bring a different result. It will just happen as he planned all along.
I need to find a way to get rid of him, to purge him out of my life once and for all, because in the small time he was in it, he disordered everything. Including my damn dreams.
After putting on a simple black dress with a plunging neckline, I throw on my coat and wear my flats, then go to find Stephanie and Philippe. The others have already headed to the club, and those two waited for me.
The director drives the three of us to a club downtown, French music with a soft melody playing on the stereo. Stephanie sits beside him while I’m in the back alone.
“Wait and see, chérie. I booked the entire VIP lounge for us.”
“What are we celebrating?” Stephanie asks.
“Lia being the Giselle of my dreams, bien sûr. The producers went nuts after seeing your demonstration that first day.”
I tuck an imaginary strand of hair behind my ear. “Speaking of the producers, who was the new face?”
“The new face?” Philippe meets my gaze in the mirror.
“That tall man,” I speak casually, trying not to betray my need for information. In one of my sleepless nights, I googled Adrian Volkov and found some Russian dude’s Instagram and Twitter accounts, but they looked nothing like the Adrian I met.
It could be a false name he gave me, but I highly doubt it. Most likely, people like him hide their presence from the internet because it can expose or implicate them.
“Ah.” A light bulb seems to go off in Philippe’s head. “The Russian.”
“Yes,” I blurt, which gets me a look from Stephanie, who’s perceptive to a fault. I hope it’s not written all over my face or I’m not blushing to my ears.
Philippe pauses for a bit, lost in thought. “He’s one of the executive producer’s associates or business partners or whatever. Matt brought him in, if I remember correctly. Those with money have a lot of friends with money who have absolutely no appreciation for art.”
So even Philippe doesn’t know much about him.
“I heard he’s from the mafia,” Stephanie whispers as if not wanting anyone to hear.
My heart pulses harder as I murmur back, “He is?”
“I think so. Seemed like Matt was more scared of him than actually considering him a business partner.”
I let the information swirl in my head, thankful for Stephanie’s observations. I was too focused on Adrian to notice Matt’s behavior—or anyone else’s. “How do you know that?”
“Matt and his wife’s expensive tastes have been landing them in trouble. But to be involved with the mafia is something else. I heard life is worth absolutely nothing to them.”
She can say that again. Adrian certainly didn’t hesitate when he finished that man off.
“Now, hush, Stephanie,” Philippe scolds.
“Just saying.” She changes the music to Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto no. 2, ignoring Philippe’s sounds of displeasure.
I sink further into my seat, absorbing the information I just learned. So Adrian is from the mafia. It could be another rumor, but for some reason, I believe it.
The part that bugs me the most is his relation to Matt. I don’t think it’s a coincidence. But what else could it be?
We arrive at the club before I can find answers to my questions, not that they’ve been forthcoming when it’s about Adrian.
Stephanie and I loop an arm through each of Philippe’s as he makes a grand entry into the club called Blue Diamond.
Thumping music greets us once we’re inside. The place is packed with people drinking and grinding against each other. Blue lights cast a fantasy-like hue over them as the DJ works his magic with the latest trendy hits. Some of the ballet dancers are on the floor, too, dancing and shaking their asses. While many of us prefer classical music, others are chameleons and listen and dance to anything.
Philippe sways, twirling both Stephanie and me around, then shouts over the music, “Alors, smile a little. We have all night. Open bar, my treat.”
More like his husband’s treat since Blue Diamond is his. Which is why Philippe manages to book the VIP lounge whenever he wishes.
Steve, his husband, welcomes us with an exasperated sigh, probably because of Philippe’s show-off attitude. As much as the director is a drama queen sometimes, Steve is anything but.
He’s a big man with a trimmed beard and bulging muscles under his short-sleeved T-shirt from which tattoos of snakes peek through. He’s self-made and rose from underground fighting to owning this club and a few other chains across the States.
“Miss me, mon amour?” Philippe coos, tickling his husband’s beard.
Steve pats his hand, then motions for us to follow him upstairs. “I told you to stop attracting attention.”
“Romance is really dead with you, mon amour. I should’ve gotten myself a French lover.”
Steve grunts. “As if anyone in the world would put up with your antics.”
“You do.”
“Begrudgingly.”
“I’m also putting up with your grumpiness, aren’t I?” He levels him with a stare as he hugs me to his side. “Anyway, I brought my muse. Take care of us.”
“Good to have you, Lia.” Steve’s words are warm, but his expression is the same as usual. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen him and he’s always been caring, even if it’s in a distanced kind of way. I just love his and Philippe’s old couple banter.
After he makes sure we’re comfy in the private VIP lounge upstairs, Steve leaves us to take care of management business. I sit with Stephanie and Philippe on a sofa that’s isolated from the others, which offers a direct view to the dancefloor below. The two of them order one shot after the other, but I only allow myself a glass of tequila because there’s no way in hell I’m getting drunk again.
It’s been a week, but I made more mistakes than I can count the last time I allowed the liquor to rule me.
I actively avoid the other dancers while I listen to my two companions’ conversation. The others know not to join Philippe’s table unless he invites them, so I’m somewhat safe. As soon as Philippe goes to the bathroom, or for a ‘quickie with Steve’ as Stephanie says with a scoff, Ryan comes over, dressed in trendy Italian slacks and a purple T-shirt. He sways on his legs a little, his focus on me. “Come dance with us, Lia.”
“No, thanks.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“She said no thanks, Ryan. Which part of that do you not understand?” Stephanie tells him with a smile.
His lips twist as he huffs and leaves.
I give Stephanie a thankful glance that she answers with a nod, obviously knowing that my complaints weren’t in vain. We continue watching the dancing crowd until Philippe comes back, practically jumping and with his eyes gleaming. He definitely got laid or got high. Or both.
“Let’s dance, mes belles.”
Stephanie stands. “I’m always game for some twerking.”
Philippe teasingly slaps her ass. “Work it, bébé.”
“I’ll just watch from here.” I smile.
“No way. You didn’t come all the way here to sit like a statue, chérie.” Philippe says as he and Stephanie drag me downstairs despite my protests. I move slowly, trying not to put pressure on my foot.
Philippe twirls me, then Stephanie, and then they both shake their asses, inviting me to join. I just laugh at the scene, feeling a bit lighthearted by simply watching them. They can be so fun together. No wonder they’ve had such perfect chemistry working with each other all these years.
I’m still not comfortable with the dancing, however, so I shout over the music, “I’m going to grab a drink!”
“Hurry back!” Philippe calls out.
I nod, even though I actually intend to go back upstairs and watch them make fools out of themselves. But as soon as I get there, I regret it.
The place is empty except for two ballerinas who are making out in the back booth, groping each other’s breasts. But that’s not what makes me want to bolt.
It’s Ryan.
He’s waiting for me at the sofa where we were seated when we got here.
His eyes are wrong. I don’t know what is it about them, but I dislike what I see in there. I turn to go downstairs and rejoin Philippe and Stephanie, but he grabs me by the arm and pulls me back so hard, I slam against his chest.
“What the hell, Ryan?”
“I thought you didn’t want to dance, but you did it so well just now.”
I try to wiggle my wrist from his hold. “Let me go.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll scream.”
He covers my mouth with his palm and pulls me to him, rubbing his erection against my stomach as he forces me to move with him. “Now, you won’t.”
“Mfahhm…” I attempt to scream against his hand.
“It’s just a fucking dance, Lia. Stop being a goddamn snob and do it.”
I don’t want to do it, because the way he’s looking at me doesn’t seem like it’s just a dance. The feel of his hard-on is even more disturbing than earlier.
“You’re such a fucking cocktease. Did you know that?”
“Mmmfop!” He’s still keeping me from talking, so I try to kick him, but he pulls away at the last second and steps on my foot, the sole of his shoe nearly crushing my bones.
“Ahhhhh!” I scream into his palm. No, no, no…
“Do that again and I will break your fucking legs, Lia. You’ll be good, won’t you?”
I nod, tears of both desperation and pain clinging to my lids.
“You’re going to come with me, nice and easy.”
I’m about to nod, just so he’ll get off my foot. Anything to protect it.
But before I can do anything, a shadow appears behind Ryan. Strong fingers wrap around his face and neck.
Fingers that only appear in my dreams these days. Fingers I would recognize anywhere.
If not for the searing pain from Ryan’s shoe, I’d think this is another dream, but it’s far from it.
The blue lights cast a scary glow on his face as he rips Ryan from me.
Adrian.
