by Anthology
I glared at her. “Stop talking about money all the fucking time,” I told her, reaching for the bathroom door. “It makes you sound like a gold-digger.”
“Fuck you, I make my own money-”
“I said it makes you sound like one. So knock it off.”
I closed the bathroom door behind me with a slam, listening to her fiery words through the heavy wood.
“You can fuck yourself tonight, Shaw. I’m leaving.”
I waited for her heels to clack through the entryway and for the front door to slam before I climbed into the hot shower and closed my eyes.
And, suddenly, I thought of her.
But instead of her face, I saw Lark’s.
Part of me wanted to feel disgusted as I pictured her lithe figure, her long legs, and her supple body beneath my hands.
Her breasts were real, so fucking perfect beneath her modest dress.
My soapy hand slid over my hardened erection. Just the thought of her tight, dancer’s calves detonated the most explosive orgasm I’d ever had.
I groaned, driving into my hand. I thrust into my open palm and thought about the way that she felt in my arms as I hugged her on the stairs.
Small. Needing.
Looking up at me as though I was all that she was waiting for.
I growled with my release, trying not to psychoanalyze my need for her.
Panting, I reached for the shower nozzle, adjusting the temperature to stand beneath the scalding hot water.
I’d never had such a strong reaction to a fantasy before, and I tried like hell to fight the guilt that came rushing forward. Lark was different, and I was obviously attracted to her.
There was something about her that was so innocent, and it turned me the fuck on.
“Fuck,” I hissed, pressing my forehead against the cool tile as the water ran over my back.
. . .
In the weeks after our dinner, I dove into planning my practice.
My mother had agreed to become a silent partner, and I had tons of work to finish before my office doors opened. Kelly was busy at the hospital, and I continued to see patients as part of a group that I worked with.
My mother’s wedding day was fast approaching, and by the time the night of the rehearsal rolled around, I could barely focus on work.
Lark was a quiet force in my mind, a fantasy that refused to quit.
I wanted to know more about her history, about John’s first wife and how she died, to better understand their daughter. I practiced a million different scenarios to convince her to talk to me as a patient, but I knew that I needed to gain her trust first.
I wasn’t surprised when Lark wasn’t waiting downstairs with John and my mom, and after taking Kelly’s coat, I gestured to the stairs.
“Should someone go get Lark?” I suggested, shaking Carter’s hand as Selene ambled into the room from the kitchen.
Selene scowled dramatically. “I finally had the grand tour, and there’re about ninety-five stairs between us and that attic.”
“I’ll go,” I assured her, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead before climbing the stairs.
I imagined the soft ribbon of her ballet slippers tied all the way to her dancer’s calves, feeling like a complete asshole as I reached to adjust myself.
When had I turned into some kind of sexual lunatic? She was about to be my stepsister- sort of- and had voluntarily shut herself away from the world.
I had always spent my life looking for someone to fix.
As I moved up the narrow staircase to the attic, I expected the twinkling notes of Chopin or the strings of Vivaldi.
Instead, I heard salsa.
The Latin music played from a speaker against the wall, and I gripped the railing, backing into the shadows as I watched her move.
The little, black dress that she wore was wrapped around her long neck in a halter top and stopped just above her knees. Her hair was a waterfall of gold, cascading down her shoulders as her hips moved.
Fuck, could she move.
There is no trace of ballet in her steps as she slid across the floor, lifting her arms high over her head as her hips followed the music.
Rhythm.
No voices. Her movements seemed to combine a steady stream of urban and modern dance, and she dripped with silk and sensuality. She drew her fingers along her neck, down the sides of her breasts, and then finally rested them at her hips as she rocked to the beat.
She smiled into the mirror.
I realized then that she could see me, and I smiled back, too stunned to move.
“Is it time?” she asked, turning to face me with her hands high over her head.
I should have walked away.
I should have simply nodded and turned back to the stairs, letting the strange little princess in the Victorian attic undulate her hips to the salsa music.
Stepping toward her, I wrapped my arm around her waist, dropping low to rumble low in her ear.
“There’s a little time to finish the dance.”
She stiffened, but I wouldn’t let her. I flattened my hand against her lower back, pressing my fingers into her hip as she tried to slow down.
“No one’s ever danced with me before,” she said, flattening her palms against my dress shirt.
I spun her around so that we both faced the mirror.
Those glistening eyes of hers widened and cut through the shadows like lights.
The song was ending, and I pointed at her through the mirror. “Stay there. One more song.”
She managed a nod as I moved to the speaker. The music app on her phone allowed me to easily search for what I wanted.
In seconds, the hot, Latin music poured through the speakers.
She listened for a moment, waiting for me to cross the floor to her again.
As the easy beat permeated the small space, she closed her eyes, her body moving in almost exactly the same way as it had been only moments before, only slower.
“I like this,” she murmured.
“You do,” I replied, not quite a statement or a question as I stood behind her again and flattened my palm over her belly. She backed against me as I began to echo her movements with my hips. She tried to resist, but I held her tighter in my hold. “Just dance with me, Lark.”
She gave in. I could feel the moment that she relented, and fuck if I didn’t instantly get hard as her hips rocked with mine.
I could dance. I had every confidence that I was dancing with her, not teaching her, but some part of me craved the way that she submitted to my every request.
She trusted me already.
Her eyes opened again, and this time I met them through the mirror, sliding my hand up along her sternum as she gasped for air.
Her hair brushed my arm, and I held her away from me as I fought for control.
Too. Fucking. Wrong.
“I like this song,” she called, her voice wavering. “I never heard it before.”
I released her waist, gathering her hair to one shoulder. “I have a lot to teach you, ballerina.”
She laughed, the musical sound of her amusement more pleasing than any smile she’d ever given me.
“We’d better go downstairs,” she said, turning her face up to mine. “We have to eat and make more awkward conversation.”
Her pink, pouty little mouth begged to be kissed.
A million thoughts ran through my mind that fully convinced me that I needed psychiatric help.
She’d never been kissed.
Or held.
Or fucked.
She was perfection.
Her smile. Her eyes. Her laughter.
Her hips.
She continued staring at me, and I finally cleared my throat, nodding.
“I’m impressed. You can do more than work that barre over there,” I told her.
She grinned, blushing to a color that stirred my appetite.
After
endless minutes of silence, a shadow fell over her blue gaze.
“Sometimes the world is so cloudy,” she whispered, as though reluctant to share such a vital piece of information with me. “Sometimes I see my reflection, and it’s blurry... and I hurry and look away before I can focus. I don’t want to see myself.”
I knew to ask more clarifying, open ended-questions. I knew how to listen.
I was a licensed and qualified psychiatrist, and I’d finally gained her trust.
And instead of treading lightly, I said the first thing that came to my mind.
“I see you clearly.”
My words hung in the air between us.
Her frightened eyes filled with tears, and she turned for the stairs, running ahead of me and leaving me standing there staring after her.
Spring arrived overnight.
I was present for my father’s wedding, but after the photographs, I slipped back into the safety of the house.
I stayed in my locked bedroom, not wanting to chance Shaw coming to look for me again and avoiding the reception at all costs.
When I caught him in the shadows of the attic watching me dance, I thought I was imagining him at first. All of my dance partners had suddenly become him, so when he materialized from the darkness and touched me, I’d nearly fainted when I realized that he was really there.
He danced better than I imagined him dancing. I could tell that he knew what he was doing, and he had the ability to command my body with just the slightest pressure from his fingertips.
I closed my eyes and pressed my face against the pillow.
No. After all of these years carefully spent keeping myself out of the way of people, of strangers, I was suddenly inundated by this entirely new family that I had no control over.
Shaw had Kelly, and whatever adolescent illusions my starving mind had created about him, I needed to focus on staying away from him as much as possible.
I was thankful that we weren’t kids and I didn’t have to share the house with him.
There would be late nights, games and parties, births and marriages, and I’d inevitably have to see him again and again.
Whatever had possessed me to open up to him with the thoughts that I’d kept to myself for so many years continued to plague me. That overwhelming need to talk to him, to dance with him, and to let him touch me, consumed my every thought.
I was probably certifiable and he had to know that. I could see him get lost in his own thoughts as I confessed my deepest worry, and of all the things he could have said, he chose the words that reached into my heart and held me tighter than I’d ever been held.
I see you clearly.
No one saw me clearly. I was an apparition. A tiny ballerina on a spring, dancing in a music box and hiding from the dark.
. . .
The days after the wedding were filled with preparation for the “family honeymoon,” Melanie and my father’s idea of a great way to blend our grown families. I was on spring break from my online classes, thankful for a reprieve from my heavy workload as I continued toward my music degree. I’d chosen an area of study that required me to never need to leave the house.
And I had an ear for music.
The Caribbean cruise slash honeymoon loomed before me, and though I’d made my father all the promises that I could, I knew the morning we were set to depart that there was no way I’d be getting on an airplane.
My new family was gathered in the front hallway as the airport shuttle arrived and began loading our luggage.
“Please, Lark-”
“Dad, I’ll be fine here. Really. Gina left plenty of meals in the freezer and I am perfectly capable.”
Shaw and Kelly picked that moment to arrive, and I glanced their way. Shaw was deep in conversation with someone on his cell phone, and Kelly was impatiently urging him to hang up.
“I guess I’d better get used to this if I’m going to be a doctor’s wife,” she commented, sending a purposeful look my way.
I blushed, for no reason and every reason, quickly turning back to my father.
“We have to go, sweetheart. I don’t have time to convince you. Please just take care of yourself and if there’s an emergency-”
“There won’t be an emergency, Daddy.” I kissed his cheek, patting his back as he drew me into a hug. “Just have fun.”
I slipped up the stairs, waving politely to them as they hurried to the shuttle. The tornado of relief mixed with anxiety began to smother me, and I hurried to my stereo, fumbling through my record collection.
“Well, we’re the black sheep of the family. Officially.”
I gasped, turning to see Shaw standing on the staircase to the attic. With a desperate glance out the high window, I pointed. “The shuttle is leaving!”
“I know. I can’t go. I have a medical emergency, and the realtor said the closing on my office space is hung up on some technicality. I can’t be on a cruise right now.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Did Kelly stay?”
He scoffed. “No, Kelly is off to the Caribbean.”
I nodded slowly, taking a deep, calming breath. “So you’re going to the hospital?”
He nodded, checking his phone again quickly. “Yes. But I wanted to give you my number first, that way you can call me if you need anything. Deal?”
I considered his offer carefully.
What would I need from him?
I fought off the torrid thoughts that took over my mind, shrugging. “Okay, that’s nice of you, thanks.” My cell phone was by the stereo, and I retrieved it, adding a new contact as he gave me his number. “Got it.”
“Good. Okay, see you later,” he called, already half-way down the stairs. “I’ll lock up behind me. John gave me a key, so call me if you need me.”
I stiffened.
Dad gave him a key? Why? I imagined my father learning that Shaw was staying and figured his immeasurable relief prompted him to hand over a spare key to his mansion.
As long as Lark is taken care of.
I traced my fingers over the edges of my favorite records and let the warm, spring sunshine stream through the window onto my face.
I’m his burden.
I changed into peach dance leotard and the matching tutu, insisting on throwing myself into a full routine. As I wound my hair into a bun, time skipped, and as I blinked, I was winding the laces of my slippers around my calves.
The dark clouds moved in, and I tried to settle on a piece of music.
It was too late.
Hours passed. Hours became a day. I never realized when I was slipping until I was so far gone that there was no crawling out of the well of terror in my mind.
“Genevieve, please don’t do it.
My mother held the gun against her temple, her mascara-streaked cheeks glistening with black tears. “I can’t do this anymore, John, I can’t feel this pain. Let me be free, please, just let me fly away.”
I jerked out of the memory, always resurfacing just before the gun went off. My mind was bricks upon bricks of mortared memories, sealed in the most dangerous places, leaving me with only pieces of what had happened when I was only six years old.
“Lark! Lark, can you hear me?”
I blinked, trying to focus on Shaw’s face. His hands were rooted to my shoulders, and he knelt on the bed next to me. I realized I was sitting against the wall, and his eyes were wild with concern.
“I can hear you,” I managed.
He held me firmly. “How long have you been sitting here?”
I turned my head, the familiar ache in my neck telling me that I’d been sitting in the same position for far too long. “What time is it?”
He met my eyes. “It’s five o’clock. PM.”
“You just left this morning,” I managed. “It’s only been a few hours.”
“Hours, Lark. An entire day. Follow my light,” he directed, brandishing a small pen-like flashlight. “How often does thi
s happen?”
“Does what happen?”
He slid his hand down my arm, his fingers resting over my wrist. I realized he was checking my pulse. “This state. Unmoving, no recognition of time.”
I shrugged, clearing my throat. “Can I have a drink of water?”
“Are you on medication?” he demanded.
I was locked in his dark gaze. He was incredibly close, and his cologne was making my senses spin. “I quit taking them after they shocked me.”
He exhaled slowly. “You’ve had ECT?”
I nodded.
He gently tipped my chin with his fingertip. “Catatonic depression?”
I sighed, turning my head away. “I just need some water.”
“You shouldn’t be alone. I’m staying with you tonight.”
I ignored him, cringing at my atrophied muscles as I made my way to the attic stairs. He followed close behind, never leaving my side as I walked to the kitchen.
“I’m a doctor, this is what I do. You know that, right?”
I threw open the refrigerator, reaching for a bottled water. “Yes, I know. But I’m not your patient. I’m not your anything. And I’m going to be fine, it never lasts long, and it’s been better since the... treatment.”
“Your father should have told me.”
“I’m twenty-one years old. It’s not his place to go around telling everyone that his daughter is a basket case.” I took a long drink of water, focusing on the wooden block of kitchen knives across the room. “I’m a burden to him.”
“Lark.” He closed the refrigerator with a snap, gesturing to the kitchen table. “Let me at least examine you. Please.”
I sighed, shaking my head defeatedly. “Fine. But I’m really okay.”
He gave me a doubtful look before disappearing and returning with a medical bag. “Blood pressure first.”
He proceeded to take my blood pressure, pulse, and then slid his chair directly in front of mine. “What are you doing.”
“Let me bend your arms. Keep them limp, okay?”
I did as he asked, letting him move them with varying degrees of force. “I’ve already been through this. I’m a diagnosed crazy person. You’re wasting your time.”
