by Finn, Emilia
I like women, and I like sex, and there’s no reason why I shouldn’t just state that shit up front. I won’t hide who I am, gaslight her into thinking I’m a gentleman, and then flip the script later on.
That wouldn’t be fair to her. And it definitely wouldn’t be as fun.
For months, I’ve been eating at Ginnie’s diner, filling up, fueling up, and hoping the beautiful brunette with impossibly long legs would drop by and mention how she’s horny too.
But nada. For now.
Checking my phone as a last-ditch effort for distraction, I check my emails – none from Ace – and scroll my texts – none there, either. Then with a flimsy I tried shrug, I roll off my bed and pull my boots on. I gave the universe a chance to save her. I provided the universe a billion opportunities to send me in a different direction, but here I am, sliding my feet into my boots and praying I find her bent over her bed in crotch-less panties while she changes the sheets.
Dropping my phone into my pocket – because, despite my cravings, I know my job, and there is nothing on this planet more important than Kane’s life – I head toward my front door and into the hall. Jogging up the stairs, the beat of her music only grows louder as I approach. It’s an odd tune, like inspirational music, no lyrics, but a deep bass that hammers inside my chest. It makes me curious why she would listen to something so contradictory, why she’s listening to something with no lyrics. And because no one ever accused me of being polite, I skip knocking and go straight to sliding my picks into the lock.
I won’t hurt her, I swear I won’t, so she has no reason to worry.
Closing my eyes and concentrating, I tweak her lock – left, right, in, click-click – and unlock the front door. The first thing I notice as the heavy timber cracks open is how her music blasts my ears. It’s so much louder than in the hall. The second thing I notice is the warmth in here that I don’t have in my apartment.
And then it hits me: it’s not that she’s never here, and it’s not that she’s never noisy. It’s that she has this place insulated to within an inch of its life. I live in an ice-box one flight down, and she lives in a tropical paradise up here.
What the fuck kinda bullshit is that?
I close the front door with a quiet snick and step into the living space as sweat beads on my brow. I’m freezing down there, so I wear two or three layers of clothes around the clock, but in here, I have to shed my coat straight away or risk dying of heat stroke. I tug my beanie off and run a hand through my short hair, then, moving further into her apartment, I stop when I catch sight of exactly what was in my fantasies.
But better.
So much fucking better.
She’s not in sleep shorts, but in a leotard with a soft, see-through skirt that floats to her knees.
Her hair isn’t hanging loose, but in a tight bun on the top of her head.
She’s not wearing cotton socks today, but real-life, legit ballet slippers as she twirls by her windows. The city splays out in front of her as though she’s dancing for all six-hundred-thousand residents.
I was coming here with a rock-hard cock and a plan to ask for ten minutes of her time. I’d leave again with a load taken off my… shoulders, so to speak. She’d be pleased. I’d be ecstatic. And we could go on with our lives.
But now I see her when she doesn’t see me. Her eyes are closed, her right arm extended as she does a slow spin on the very tips of her toes.
Because I was always the kid who needed to try shit for himself, I push up to my toes just so I can feel what she feels, but drop down again in an instant.
She makes it look so easy, though I doubt it is. She moves her arm around so it almost looks like she’s plucking grapes from a vine. One grape, lift, extend, elegant as fuck. Then another. Her head is back; her eyes remain closed, and the muscles in her calves fire up and do their thing.
Fuck me, please, little dancer.
I glance around her apartment and smile at the way her music booms perfectly – she’s set the acoustics up so that the music is almost a living thing. It fills every inch of space of her apartment; it swirls, but it’s not tinny.
I cast an eye over a bright yellow couch on one end of the living room, a flat screen TV opposite it, and what must be her prized stereo system beside that. I see no wires, but I see speakers set up in every corner. She’s gone high-tech. Following the line of the room, I glance over a large, V-shaped desk that bears three large monitors and two keyboards. It’s all switched off, the screens black.
We live in the shitty end of town, in shitty apartments, and she says she’s in customer service. But her insulation, heat, tech, and ballet slippers tell me she might have a trust fund she doesn’t mention.
Next time a blizzard slams against our windows and I’m downstairs sleeping in every scrap of clothing I own, I’m dragging my sorry ass up here and mooching her heat.
I’m not too proud.
Instead of running forward and fucking her against the windows like I want to, I slowly move back until I stand against the wall. Sliding down over the top of a heating vent, I sit on my ass, let the heat defrost my balls, and I watch the show she puts on.
The music swirls in my blood.
In her blood.
It makes me smile that we’re both experiencing the same thing right now.
I was always the curious kid, the impulsive kid, the kid who was booted out of eighth grade science way too often because I couldn’t be trusted with a Bunsen burner. But above it all, my impulsiveness was born from curiosity. I wanted to know how something worked. Why it worked that way. What would happen if we tweaked it just a little bit.
I needed to understand the inner workings of whatever I was studying.
So now, instead of running at the beautiful Sophia, I sit back and figure out her inner workings. Her slippers are a soft cream color, lighter than her actual skin tone. Her tights are a matching cream, and her leotard a midnight black. Her skirt is baby pink, and her arms bare. Not a single hair falls out of her bun, but a few strands at the front, the strands she would consider bangs, stick to her sweaty brow and tickle her lashes.
Her arms seem longer today, her torso narrower. Dancing, in her element, she takes on this ethereal appearance that adds length to her every limb.
She’s tall and elegant here, though she’s only five-seven, maybe five-eight, when she’s that other girl in Ginnie’s diner with her purse slung over a chunky coat.
Fuck if I don’t love the contradiction.
I’m not sure regular prima ballerinas are allowed ink, but I doubt the chick willing to stab me for a piece of waffle gives a damn about rules. Sophia’s right arm is almost covered from wrist to bicep. It’s not heavy ink like mine, not a sleeve, but an intricate swirl of flowers and musical notes. Her art is delicate, pretty, where mine is crass and lacks subtlety.
Following the music, she spins, lifts her leg until her foot points straight to the ceiling – don’t be dirty, man. Pull it together and enjoy the dance for what it is – and when she releases, she spins and leaps. She’s a swan, or perhaps a dove. She floats, then touches down with the barest thump. Her trim legs are all muscle, from her bulging calves, to her defined thighs. I can count the tendons, the muscles, the veins. Her shoulders have definition too, but she hides it all under heavy coats in that diner, and shows the world only her eyes.
This isn’t the skill level of a hobbyist dancer, but of a girl who owns a legitimate graduate certificate from somewhere like Juilliard. Educations like that don’t come cheap, nor do they come easy. So why train so hard, why work until you can literally dance on your toes, only to find employment taking customer complaints?
“Holy fuck!” Soph slams back against the glass so hard, I worry she’ll fall straight through to the street. Hand on her chest, gun in her hand – where the fuck did the gun come from? – Soph points it between my eyes and stares with fear in hers. “You scared the shit out of me, Jay. Jesus, fuck! What the hell is the matter with you?”
> Her chest heaves, and her hand shakes. Moving forward on flat feet without lowering her piece, she stops at her desk and points a remote at the stereo until the music dies. It was an orchestra of bass and beauty, and now this apartment is dripping faucets and slamming hearts.
I don’t move a muscle.
I’ve had one too many guns pointed at my head to make the mistake of spooking a woman on the edge.
One leg stretches out ahead of me; the other is bent and holding my elbow as I watch her. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” Her voice lifts an octave or two as fear turns to anger. “Where the hell are your boundaries? My front door was locked. I’m a single woman living in a big city all by myself; those locks were my comfort, you piece of shit. They promised safety while I slept. You just stole that from me! What the fuck is the matter with you?”
“I’m sorry.” Lifting one hand in surrender, I use the other to push myself up from the floor. “I was coming up to say hey, but you couldn’t hear me knock. Your music was too loud.” Yeah, that’s honorable, asshole. Put the blame on her and her music. “I swear, I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m not here to hurt you.”
Tears form in her eyes. Real life, tear-my-guts-out, kick-my-own-ass tears, but she refuses to let them fall. “You stole something from me just now, Jay. You fuckin’ stole my safety, and about ten years of my life.”
“Your home is still safe, I promise.” I keep my hand raised in surrender but step toward the gun like I’m not scared. “No one else would be able to pick your locks the way I did, I swear. Plus, I’m on the fourth floor; no one will come up to see you without having to pass me first.” I stop when the barrel of her gun rests against my heart. “I’m sorry. I was curious about your music, let myself in, then got carried away watching you dance. You’re so good at it.”
She stares into my eyes for a full minute. Her hand shakes, and the barrel of her gun taps the dog tags tucked beneath my shirt. She wages a silent war in her mind. Trust him, or shoot him like a mongrel dog and get him out of her life. “I’ve been dancing since I was three.”
Her voice shakes, and to make a point, she doesn’t lower her gun. But she acknowledges my words.
“You’re really good at it. Like, better than I expected.” I run a nervous hand through my hair. I have no clue why I’m nervous; that’s not who I usually am, but I have a real-life fucking ballerina holding a gun to my chest. And she’s so pretty. “Ah… I’m genuinely impressed by what I just saw, and believe it or not, that doesn’t happen often.”
“Well…” She gives a snooty little sniff. “I graduated high school early and had a full ride scholarship to a prestigious dance school.”
“I can tell.” Slowly, I push her gun to the side. One. Slow. Inch. At. A. Time. “I could tell you dance just by your body, but fuck, Soph, I didn’t realize you were that good.”
When the gun clears my chest, she drops it on a sigh so her arm rests along her thigh. “I’m the best. I’m the best at everything I do.”
I step closer, because her eyes continue to sparkle with fear despite her arrogance. Stepping in until the toes of my boots touch her ballet slippers, I pull her forward until her forehead rests in the center of my chest. “I’m sorry for scaring you, Soph. I swear I am. I won’t ever sneak up on you again; you have my word.”
“Don’t come into my apartment without my permission again.” Clearing nervousness from her throat, she gives up fighting my hold when I blow hot air against the top of her head. Drooping with a sigh, she throws her arms around my hips and turns her face so her cheek rests against my heart.
“Your gun wasn’t really loaded, was it? Your daddy give you that and tell you pointing was enough to scare them off?”
“No.” One-handed, she pulls the shiny PK380 back, ejects the magazine with a flick of her finger, then racks it once and pops the round from the chamber. “It was live, and you’re really fucking lucky you didn’t die.”
Chuckling, I fix my arms so they wrap around and secure her against my body. I’m still horny as fuck, but her fear gives me something else to focus on. It’s another piece to the puzzle that is Sophia Solomon the Wise and Peaceful. “Thanks for not shooting me. I can’t deal with more right now. That shit hurts like a bitch.”
Startled, she pulls back and stares into my eyes. Hers are narrowed, her brows pinched close together. Transferring her useless gun to her left hand, she brings her right thumb up and presses just below the scar on my forehead. “I rarely see you without a hat or beanie. You hiding this?”
“Ha.” Stepping back so her perfumed scent can’t cloud my judgment anymore, I walk toward the wall to collect my beanie and drop it on my head. Fixing it low over my brows and covering the still tender scar on my forehead, I stop with a scowl and study her trim body. She lifts to the tips of her toes, then drops down with barely a sound. Lifts. Drops. It’s like she has nervous energy to work off the same way I do. “It’s a long-ass story, Soph, and even if I took the time to lay it all out, you wouldn’t believe me anyway.”
“Believe what?” Clasping her hands together and clutching at the gun, she lifts and gives herself an extra six inches of height, then drops so her toes point to the sides.
She’s consistently contradicting herself; sweet ballerina…with a gun. “What wouldn’t I believe?”
“Nothing. You can keep dancing if you wanna.” I poke my thumb over my shoulder and actively try to annoy her… or turn her on. Whichever works. “I can just sit here and jack off while you’re doing your thing.”
“You’re despicable,” she spits. “Why are you here, Jay? We aren’t friends. We aren’t anything! You’re literally a dude I saw in the diner a couple times, you said hey, and now you seem to think we’re pals.”
“We are pals.” Crassly, I slide my hand inside my jeans and fist my cock. “I’m hard as steel and desperate for you, Soph, and lucky for you, you don’t even have to touch me if you don’t wanna. Dancers can touch their toes, right?” I lift my chin. “Go back and do your thing. Bend over and show me what you’ve got; I’ll take care of the rest. You’ll hardly even notice me here.”
“No!” Storming forward on flat feet, she shoves me back against the wall with a deep grunt. “Get out of my apartment! We’re not friends. We’re not fuck buddies. We’re not anything except whatever weird bullshit you made up in your head the past week or so. You were not invited in here, so go away!” Frustrated because she weighs so little and can’t budge me, she smacks my arms so hard, I swear the handgun chips my bone. “Did you get that scar because you forced your company on the wrong girl, Jay? Snuck into the wrong apartment and weren’t so lucky that time?”
Jessie’s fight against my hold replays in my mind. Her screamed No! and kicking legs play on repeat until I swear I can literally feel her in my arms. “Kinda. There was a lot of noise and screaming that night.”
Soph’s eyes narrow to slits at my implied confession. Any normal, functioning, not-a-dumb-shit woman would take this moment to reload their gun and get me the fuck out.
Of course, she doesn’t let me down. “Get out!” She smacks my arms and shoves me toward her front door. “Get out of my apartment, Jay! Get out, and never come back. If you do, I’ll shoot you. I swear I will.” She swings her front door open until it slams against the wall and the heat rushes out. “We’re not friends. We’re not family. We’re not even pen pals. If you see me in the hall, pretend I have a contagious disease.” She smacks my arm again when I clutch at the doorframe like a child. “Go back and sell your fake fridges. Take your troubles – because I know you have them – and get them the hell away from me.”
“Soph! It’s freezing out here!” The cold bites into my skin and reminds me my jacket is on the floor inside. “Sophia! I’m not playing.”
Her dark brown eyes twinkle with a mixture of fear and anger. Perhaps a little dare and lust thrown in for good measure. “I’m not playing either, Jay. I don’t have
time for you, so go away and don’t come back.”
She doesn’t care if her neighbor dies from the cold overnight. She doesn’t even care that I’m just looking for someone to spend my time with – we don’t have to fuck. We could eat and watch TV.
But without another word, she callously slams the door in my face so the breeze from the swing adds insult to injury and sends chills racing along my spine.
“Sophia Solomon!” I wrap my arms around my chest. “It’s cold, woman, and this is neither wise nor peaceful of you! Get out here now.”
“I never said I was peaceful, Jay. You said it!” She thumps the door, perhaps kicks it, and makes me laugh despite the freezing cold. “Go get under your electric blanket and leave me the hell alone!”
“But I’m lonely,” I whine. “We don’t have to fuck today, Soph. Let’s just hang out, and then tomorrow, I’ll make you regret the non-fucking of today.”
Instead of a verbal answer, I hear the distinguished click-click of her reloading her gun. Point taken. Turning on my heels, I jog to the stairs and laugh because I’m cold, I’m horny, my life is probably in danger, but I’ve never in the history of ever been threatened by a ballerina before.
When I can finally go home to my brother, when he’s safe, and Jay can live again, I’m going to sit my ass on his couch, eat my gummies in lieu of having a beer, and I’ll recount the time a ballerina nearly killed me.
And because he probably won’t be inclined to believe me, maybe I’ll bring her along. Sit her on my lap. Hold her down until she stops fighting the attraction I know she feels. Then Kane can turn away while Soph and I fuck.
Because, I swear to God, if I don’t let off steam soon, I might explode.
* * *
“Sophiiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaaa.” Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. An hour after leaving the fifth floor, I toss my tennis ball at the ceiling and snicker like a child. “Oh, Sophiiiiaaaaaa. I’m cold, and the only way I can stay warm is to play tennis against my ceiling…” I let the silence hang for a beat. “Or fuck.”
