Soft Limits

by Brianna Hale

  “I never gave you a chance, and I should have. But encouraging you to be little and innocent wasn’t a trick. With all my heart, I promise you that. It was because I thought it made you happy and that...that feeling when I held you in my arms was a sense of contentedness and completion like I’ve never known before.

  “I shared things with you, told you things...” But he groans and there’s a sound like he’s scrubbing his hands over his face in frustration. “I can’t believe I’ve done this again.”

  My ears prick up. Again?

  “I kept things from Marion, too. I’ve read the manuscript you wrote. I know what she told you in your interview with her. She was quite tactful, and I didn’t deserve it. What she was saying between the lines was that I shut her out of a good portion of my life and it hurt her. It was easy for me to make excuses at the time. She wasn’t a performer. She wouldn’t understand. I never tried to help her understand, though, and I should have.

  “You seemed to get it, though, without me needing to try. I suppose it’s because you write. I told you things, shared things...but I still kept secrets from you. It comes down to the fact that I’m not good at sharing my flaws. I’m talking about the real stuff. The deep stuff. Fear of being a failure. Of being just a voice and having nothing more to offer.

  “That’s why I want to thank you for finishing the book. You put everything in there. All my triumphs and all my many, varied failures and soon they will be out there for people to read. Thank you for writing it. I don’t want to be afraid of any of it anymore.”

  There’s ten seconds of silence and I listen to the sound of his breathing.

  “Goodbye, Evie.”

  The piano cuts in again and I stare at the ceiling and allow the music to wash over me. We’ve been honest with each other, truly honest, and now that I understand why he did the things he did I can forgive him. I never knew that honesty could cause so much pain, but I think it’s good pain. Healing pain. We’ve pushed each other past our limits, both of us kicking and screaming, defying change. But in the end it’s been the best thing for us. We can now put all the hurt and anger behind us and move on.

  Except...as the days pass and Christmas bleeds into New Year, I can’t stop thinking about him. I read a book and I want to tell him about it. See a beautiful picture, hear a song, and I want to share it with him. Mum and Dad keep their distance as I haunt the house on my days off, though my sisters, when they’re home, watch me like disapproving hawks.

  Or, at least I think my parents are avoiding talk of Frederic. Until Dad calls me into his study one day a week after New Year. He holds out his tablet and I see lines of text. “Frederic sent this to me.”

  My stomach lurches at the sound of his name, and I look at the tablet without taking it. “You’re talking with Frederic? I thought you and he, well, he kept secrets from you, too.”

  Dad’s smile is thin. “Frederic and I have been talking. I don’t like to hold professional grudges and he was very humble and apologetic when he reached out.”

  I can’t help a stab of jealousy. So Frederic’s been talking to Dad. I glance at the tablet and say, “What is it?”

  “He said it explains things better than he was able to on some recording or other, but if you prefer, he’ll take it out.”

  “Take what out? Of what?”

  Dad just looks hard at the tablet and then at me. “It won’t bite, I promise. I’ve read it myself.”

  Unsure what this could be, I take the tablet and read at the top, acknowledgments. Oh. For his book. But it’s the writer who usually writes the acknowledgments, not the subject. Frowning in confusion, I read on.

  I’m bucking a trend here, writing this myself. This is usually the part of the book where the writer lists all the people who have helped her during the writing process. Evangeline Bell is doubtlessly full of thanks for her editor and the people she interviewed. You’ll have to find your own way to thank them, chérie, because these pages are mine.

  A biographer usually sits outside her subject’s life, looking in, but Evangeline Bell became a part of this story and to say merely thank you is, to paraphrase Rochester, blank and cool. She came into my life as my career was ending and she witnessed my swan song firsthand. Unlike a swan it was neither elegant nor beautiful. It was, in fact, a shameful fucking mess. A mess of my own making, and no one else’s.

  Only three people knew about my voice disorder in those final months and Ms. Bell wasn’t one of them. I was certain that to speak of it would be to bring calamity down on my head, as a Shakespearean actor fears to utter the name of the Scottish play. We’re a superstitious lot, theater folk, and strange, too, preferring to wish actual bodily harm on each other rather than luck.

  I feared pity most of all. I feared slowing down. I feared my life coming to an end. I am a singer and I am happiest when I am surrounded by music; not listening, but making. I’ve never been good at being idle.

  Ms. Bell, a singularly accomplished, kind and wise person, never flattered me with platitudes. If I asked her opinion she gave it freely and honestly. If I had confided in her at the time then I’m certain that my career would not have gone down in flames as it very publicly did, me trying to do too much at once and in the end achieving nothing. It’s my keenest regret that I didn’t put my trust in her as she did in me.

  And now? The tunnel has closed in around me, and the light is gone.

  Or is it? A glimmer is visible in the darkness. A chink of possibility that would have been disregarded if not for someone very special who saw what was at my fingertips all along. It is a refrain on the evening air in Paris. It is keening notes strung out within the pages of an old book.

  It is hope.

  Frederic d’Estang

  Paris

  I finish reading with tears dripping down my face.

  Dad’s standing at my side, uncertain. “Does it explain things at all?”

  I stare at the tablet, wiping my face. Hope. I’ve given Frederic hope? I gave him those books because I wanted to show him that music could still be part of his life. I didn’t realize that it would mean so much to him.

  “Yes, it does. It does more than that.” I look at the bottom of the page. Frederic d’Estang, Paris. He’s so far away from me, the English Channel separating us. I remember the lines from Jane Eyre that he quoted beneath the Eiffel Tower. If that boisterous channel come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly.

  It has snapped, and I’m left only with a wound that won’t heal. Tears fall over my cheeks, faster now. It’s really over. I feel it now, and I’m utterly bereft.

  Dad takes out his phone. “Shall I call him in then?”

  I look up in confusion. “What?”

  “He’s out in the lane if you want to see him.”

  He’s out in the lane. I shove the tablet back at my father and run down the hall, flying out the door and across the snow-covered gravel. There’s fifty feet to the road but I cover it in seconds, not caring that the only things on my feet are slipper socks. I come out at the end of the driveway and see him, leaning against a car. He’s swamped by a heavy black coat, his hands deep in the pockets and his breath fogging the air. When he sees me he starts forward, his face uncertain, but hopeful.

  I throw myself into his arms and clasp him about the neck, still weeping. His body is reassuringly solid beneath the bulky coat. He’s really here.

  “Minette, shh, it’s all right,” he says, stroking my hair.

  But I’m not crying from sadness. I’m crying because there’s nothing else in the world I wanted more than Frederic in this moment, and here he is, impossibly, beautifully here. I look up at him, studying his face. “I gave you hope?”

  “You did, ba—chérie. You gave me so many things, but you ga
ve me hope, and I tell you, how I’ve needed it these last few months. It’s all I’ve had.”

  I notice that he stopped himself from calling me baby. Too intimate? The last few months haven’t been easy for either of us, but I think he’s right. Hope has kept us both going; hope for him that he still has music in his life; and hope for me that I am brave enough, strong enough to face things and become what I need to be.

  Touching his lips with my fingers, I whisper, “If we can give each other hope, then maybe there’s hope for us, too.”

  He kisses me, swift and fierce and with the full force of his feelings behind it. When he pulls away, leaving me breathless, his face is hard and determined. “I want you as mine. Properly mine, no time limits, no conditions.”

  My heart expands hearing him say those beautiful words, but the practicalities still worry at me. “How would that work? You have your life and I have mine.”

  “Things have changed. I am a free man, chérie. No productions to call me away to Europe or Canada. I only need two things: you and a piano. If this island is your home, then it is my island, too.”

  I study his green eyes, feeling a smile blossom on my face. “You really mean that? You’ll be a French-Canadian in England, and put up with our mediocre coffee, too much rain and barely enough pâtisseries?”

  He considers this, a smile plumping his mouth. “I’ll make my own coffee, and take you to the continent for sunshine, and find a way to do without pâtisseries. But it won’t matter, because I’ll have you.”

  Kissing me again, he pulls me tightly against him, his tongue running over my top lip, making me groan, and then delving into my mouth. How I’ve missed his kisses. I’m growing drunk on them, my tolerance lowered after so many months’ abstinence.

  “It is Thursday, my love,” he murmurs against my mouth, his voice turning dark and seductive. “Unless your schedule has changed then you are free until Sunday night, are you not?”

  I nod. I am free, and safe in the circle of his arms.

  “Then may I suggest we go to Paris? I have missed you in Paris, minette. I love you in Paris. In fact, I love you everywhere.”

  His words curl around me like sunshine. I imagine holding his hand while we shop for fruit and vegetables in the market. Lying on the sofa holding Christine while he plays the piano. Held tightly in his arms after a ferocious bout of lovemaking while our hearts thunder against each other’s.

  “I love you, too, Frederic. Yes, please, take me to Paris. What will we do there?”

  He tucks my hair behind my ear and rubs his thumb over my lower lip. “Well, we will eat, and drink, and talk. We will go to bed. All the things you should do in Paris. How does that sound?”

  “Perfection.”

  “And I want to play you everything I’ve been working on since you’ve been gone.”

  I straighten suddenly, thinking about his music. “Oh yes, that reminds me. You’ve got Montoni’s march backward. It should crash in wildly at the beginning, not the end, then ease up and start to build. He makes his presence felt from the moment he appears, the villain of Udolpho.”

  Frederic gives me an appraising look. “Is that right?”

  I nod seriously. “It is. His little figurine was telling me so the other day. I’m sewing a whole set of Udolphins. Montoni has your wickedly green eyes.” I bite my lip, wondering if this will hurt him, because he’ll never play Montoni now, nor any villain or hero ever again.

  But Frederic just smiles. “I have no doubt at all that you’re right. You know, all your Gothic novels kept me going through my recovery. They were filled with you. Your handwriting in the margins. Your sticky notes. All the things you love. I had you with me, and it healed me.” Noticing me looking worried, he puts his head on one side. “Minette?”

  “But are you sad, Frederic? Now that you can’t sing anymore?”

  He thinks for a moment. “At first, but then I realized I was looking at it all wrong. Do you remember what I said to you when I was trying to convince you to take the writing job? I want to pay things forward. The wonderful thing is I can still do that. Coaching and composing, that will be my life now. Let others play the Montonis and Frollos and Rochesters. I had my time, and I’m proud of it.” His mouth twists into a smile. “And it seems I haven’t burned all my bridges in the theatrical world. That score I’ve written called Udolpho? It’s being turned into a show in London. I signed the contract yesterday. Your father very graciously forgave me, and he brokered the deal.”

  I gape at him. “Frederic, that’s wonderful news! I couldn’t be happier for you. Which theater? Who’s writing the lyrics? Who do you think will play the leads?”

  But he waves my questions aside. “Later. I want to hear about everything you’ve been doing. The stories you’ve been writing. The books you’ve been reading. I want everything, minette. Everything that you are, because I’ve missed so much and it’s all precious.”

  Hearing him call me minette makes my heart turn over with longing. It’s not just Frederic that I’ve missed. A little uncertain, I ask, “Do you want me to be little with you, like before?”

  He hesitates, his face becoming serious and his green eyes dimming. “Only if you do. I understand if it hurts too much, after what happened.”

  I think back to his acknowledgments. Frederic was the light in the darkness for me, too, healing the hurt and shame that Adam had inflicted and helping me discover who I am. We could be content without that part of the relationship, but I, at least, couldn’t be happy. “I want that, daddy. Everything that we had before. I need that.”

  Frederic makes a little groaning noise and wraps his arms around me tightly. “That has been the worst of it, these past months, worrying that I had damaged who you are with my thoughtlessness.” He pulls away and looks down at me, stroking my cheek. “Are you my sweet little girl?”

  My breath catches at the sound of his lustrous voice, which warms and excites me as much as it ever did. “Yes, daddy.”

  He smiles his wide, smoldering, dangerous smile, equal parts indulgent and menacing, his cobra eyes glowing. “Are you my kinky petite ange who wants to sit on daddy’s knee while he whispers all the sordid things he’s going to do to you?”

  I giggle, and rub the tip of my nose against his. “Yes, daddy.”

  “Then shall we?” He nods at the waiting car.

  I rise up on my toes and kiss him. “Oui. Let’s go to Paris.”

  * * * * *

  Read on for an excerpt of LITTLE DANCER by Brianna Hale, available now!

  Now Available from Carina Press and Brianna Hale

  He wants to be her Dom. He wants her to call him Daddy.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  LITTLE DANCER

  Copyright © 2017 by Brianna Hale

  Chapter One

  “Who was it? Who was the girl that missed her cue?”

  His thunderous face glares around the room, and I shrink back against the wall. The girls on either side of me inch away as if my guilt is catching. We are all terrified of Rufus Kingsolver.

  It was me. I’m the girl who missed her cue earlier, and then during the final number I pirouetted half a second too late. Now I’m going to feel the excoriating wrath of the theater owner.

  Let me just die now, please, I beg silently.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Mr. Kingsolver searching the face of every dancer in the room. He doesn’t know our names, but why would he? We’re only the chorus, and if he wants us for anything he just says you, and points.

  I should step forward and raise my hand, admitting my mistake like the grown-up I am supposed to be, but I can’t. When I’m in trouble it’s like I’m a little girl again, stammering and blushing and feeling like I’m going to vomit. I feel guilty even when I haven’t done anything wrong, like when Jaime’
s leg warmers were stolen. As soon as I heard her yelling in the dressing room I could feel the guilt shining out of my face like a lighthouse beacon, even though I hadn’t touched them.

  I hear the word I dread.

  “You.”

  Blood roars in my ears. I can feel everyone looking at me. I’ve got my eyes fixed on my fingers, which are twisted into a snarl.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” Mr. Kingsolver demands.

  I flinch, then drag my eyes upward. They start at his shoes. Large black leather shoes, polished to a dull sheen. Long legs in black trousers. A wide black belt with a silver buckle. A broad chest in a blue shirt.

  He’s young, surprisingly young to own a big theater in the West End. The other dancers and I have guessed his age at twenty-six or twenty-seven, which is only six or so years older than I am. His presence and manner make him seem much older.

  When I don’t answer, he raises his eyebrows as if to say, Well? I’m waiting. His eyes frighten me the most. They’re hard and blue, the same crisp shade as his shirt. I feel like I’m going to burn up from their intensity.

  No one moves. I’m holding my breath. I can’t be fired from this job. I can’t. It’s the one thing I have that’s mine. I exist only in the orbit of this theater. When I’m here, my legs clad in nylons, applying my stage makeup, I’m happy. When I’m onstage, and all there is, is the music and the sweet burn of exertion and the glare of the hot lights, I’m me. My parents don’t understand that. No one does, except maybe some of the other dancers. Though, they have other things. Boyfriends. Nightclubs. University. When I leave the theater I’m nothing, just another girl on hard cobbled streets and the under-heated train, and I count the minutes until I can come back to myself here once more. This is it for me. This is all I’m allowed to have.

  Mr. Kingsolver speaks in a low growl. “Make one more mistake,” he says, holding up a forefinger, “and you’re fired.”

  If I look away it will only make him angrier. I force myself to look at him even as he grows blurry in my vision from tears.