He’s pissed at me? “I didn’t start anything with him. I didn’t complain.”
He shakes his head. “That’s the fucking point, Honey. You never complain. But you let him touch you. I saw it.”
I didn’t let him do anything. As if it’s up to me. “If you want me to complain every time someone cops a feel, that’s going to be all night long.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Anger? Regret? Then he snorts and looks away. “You’re done too.”
What? My heart skips a beat. I need this job. Travel is the most dangerous thing we can do. Two girls on the bus would mean attention. Someone to remember us when my father sent people asking. And I knew he would. He’d never give up. “I didn’t do anything,” I whispered.
I didn’t complain. That should have been enough. It was what I’d been trained to do.
“For tonight,” Blue said gruffly. “You’re done for tonight. Can’t dance like that anyway.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about until I feel a drop trail down my cheek. Only then do I realize I’ve started crying. Which means my mascara is surely running. I must look awful. My throat tightens. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
Blue just grunts.
I almost run off the floor, all too conscious of the eyes on me. There are always eyes on me. Everything is a performance. I don’t even bother changing out of my sheer bra and panties. I just tug sweatpants and a tank top on and push out the door, my eyes hot with tears. But I can’t go home like this. Not yet.
The more I feel exposed, the more I need to be alone.
So I make a turn around the building and grab the fire escape. Metal creaks as I haul myself the four feet off the ground and climb the rest of the way up. I dump the duffel bag without preamble and move into a plié. Grand plié. Over and over, fast enough to trip and fall, but I don’t care. I want to fall.
“Honey,” a low voice says.
And I do trip. I’m lucky I don’t twist my ankle, but I manage to take the brunt of it on my palms. Then a strong pair of hands is helping me up, dusting the grime off my pants, inspecting my torn palms.
“Jesus,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I look up at him, face shadowed in the moonlight. He’s so beautiful.
And so cruel to make me want him.
I push away, ready to go back down the stairs, but I slide on the loose gravel that collects on the rooftop like snowdrifts. My body pitches forward, far enough over that I see the glistening street and let out a shriek. Then strong hands grasp my waist and pull me back—hard. I’m flush against a wall. Not made of brick, this wall. It’s muscle and will, steady strength and heartbreak.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice low and rough like the floor we’re on.
I’m still breathing too hard, my heart beating too fast. I was so close to falling. And the scariest part is the relief I would have felt.
“You’re always afraid, aren’t you?” he murmurs against my ear.
I can’t see his expression; I’m still facing away from him. His hands are still on my hips. But I can imagine his eyes when he says it, that mix of curiosity and reluctance. As if he’s intrigued by me but he doesn’t want to be.
I can feel him thinking instead. He’s trying to figure me out. He’s trying to burrow inside me until he sees how I work. But it will never work, because I’m not real. I’m smoke and mirrors—a magic trick. If he looks too closely, I’ll disappear.
I pull away and face him.
He’s a study in textures—the shadowed stubble on his jaw, the dark pools of his eyes. The worn leather of his jacket and the thick denim of his jeans. He is his own planet, terrain to be explored, mountains to climb and oceans to drown in. My fingers itch to touch him, though I’m not sure where I would start. I think his hair, because I want to know if he can be soft there, at least. Because the rest of him is so hard.
But I don’t touch him. “What do you want?”
He looks away and
He shakes his head. “That’s the fucking point, Honey. You never complain. But you let him touch you. I saw it.”
I didn’t let him do anything. As if it’s up to me. “If you want me to complain every time someone cops a feel, that’s going to be all night long.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Anger? Regret? Then he snorts and looks away. “You’re done too.”
What? My heart skips a beat. I need this job. Travel is the most dangerous thing we can do. Two girls on the bus would mean attention. Someone to remember us when my father sent people asking. And I knew he would. He’d never give up. “I didn’t do anything,” I whispered.
I didn’t complain. That should have been enough. It was what I’d been trained to do.
“For tonight,” Blue said gruffly. “You’re done for tonight. Can’t dance like that anyway.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about until I feel a drop trail down my cheek. Only then do I realize I’ve started crying. Which means my mascara is surely running. I must look awful. My throat tightens. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
Blue just grunts.
I almost run off the floor, all too conscious of the eyes on me. There are always eyes on me. Everything is a performance. I don’t even bother changing out of my sheer bra and panties. I just tug sweatpants and a tank top on and push out the door, my eyes hot with tears. But I can’t go home like this. Not yet.
The more I feel exposed, the more I need to be alone.
So I make a turn around the building and grab the fire escape. Metal creaks as I haul myself the four feet off the ground and climb the rest of the way up. I dump the duffel bag without preamble and move into a plié. Grand plié. Over and over, fast enough to trip and fall, but I don’t care. I want to fall.
“Honey,” a low voice says.
And I do trip. I’m lucky I don’t twist my ankle, but I manage to take the brunt of it on my palms. Then a strong pair of hands is helping me up, dusting the grime off my pants, inspecting my torn palms.
“Jesus,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I look up at him, face shadowed in the moonlight. He’s so beautiful.
And so cruel to make me want him.
I push away, ready to go back down the stairs, but I slide on the loose gravel that collects on the rooftop like snowdrifts. My body pitches forward, far enough over that I see the glistening street and let out a shriek. Then strong hands grasp my waist and pull me back—hard. I’m flush against a wall. Not made of brick, this wall. It’s muscle and will, steady strength and heartbreak.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice low and rough like the floor we’re on.
I’m still breathing too hard, my heart beating too fast. I was so close to falling. And the scariest part is the relief I would have felt.
“You’re always afraid, aren’t you?” he murmurs against my ear.
I can’t see his expression; I’m still facing away from him. His hands are still on my hips. But I can imagine his eyes when he says it, that mix of curiosity and reluctance. As if he’s intrigued by me but he doesn’t want to be.
I can feel him thinking instead. He’s trying to figure me out. He’s trying to burrow inside me until he sees how I work. But it will never work, because I’m not real. I’m smoke and mirrors—a magic trick. If he looks too closely, I’ll disappear.
I pull away and face him.
He’s a study in textures—the shadowed stubble on his jaw, the dark pools of his eyes. The worn leather of his jacket and the thick denim of his jeans. He is his own planet, terrain to be explored, mountains to climb and oceans to drown in. My fingers itch to touch him, though I’m not sure where I would start. I think his hair, because I want to know if he can be soft there, at least. Because the rest of him is so hard.
But I don’t touch him. “What do you want?”
He looks away and
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