The Fated Dance: Bound to the Shadow Dancer

by Leeann Whitaker

  I plonk myself down onto the black padded chair as he goes into the open kitchen area. I fiddle with a white napkin and peer around. Before me, I see a garden through the glass, with white roses and wild flower. It’s not in keeping with this modern house. It’s a secret garden with nooks and crannies. To my right there’s a lounge area that’s home to a huge well-worn, u-shape brown couch. And I see a shelving unit beside a massive flat screen TV. Each shelf full and neatly ordered. He must love the movies, his DVD collection is unlimited.

  “Here… I’m unsure whether you’ll like this.” He places a small rectangular plate before me. “Ravioli drizzled with truffle oil,” he adds. “If you don’t, it’s fine. I can get you something else,” he fusses.

  I look down at the plate. I’m not going to tell him how hungry I really am, and that I will probably demolish this serving within seconds. This will most likely be the best meal I’ve eaten… ever. It smells wonderful, and my belly is bubbling ready to sample.

  I wait as he places the first piece between his red lips. My turn. I delicately slip the pasta into my mouth and my taste buds come alive. I close my eyelids for a moment and open, to see he’s finished his serving, and is now content on watching me eat mine.

  “Good?”

  Shit. I’m making a fool of myself. I nod lightly, and this time cut the last piece of ravioli in half, so I don’t appear a greedy pig.

  “So,” I say, attempting to be more sophisticated. “What are you doing in Berkley?” I wipe my lips on my napkin.

  “The Bellview hotel… I’m overseeing the renovations.”

  “It’s yours?”

  “No, my fathers,” he breathes out. “He likes to buy things… like the painting. Feeds his god complex.”

  I sigh with a smile, remembering the only time I have ever stepped foot in that hotel, at just eighteen years of age. A happy time, when I was pursuing my dreams. I received a standing ovation for my part dancing that night. And it was the last performance my dad watched me in before he died.

  “What is it?” he cocks his brow.

  My heart skips a beat. “Nothing,” I smile, nervous. “Can I ask you a serious question?” I purse my lips.

  “Go ahead.” He leans against the backrest of his chair.

  “I don’t understand why someone like you would even consider going into Venus.” I pause. “Do you not have girls throwing themselves at you?”

  He sniggers, then goes real quiet with his head down. I wait, wondering if I’ve offended him in some way. He sniffs, then peers up from beneath his brow.

  “I… I don’t know what to tell you.” His shoulders shrug. “That big pink neon sign drew me in,” he grins. “I guess I was just being curious.”

  “So you’re not a regular at places like that?” I ask, skeptical.

  His eyes wrinkle as he smirks. “No… I’m a total newbie, and hope,” he swallows down. “I don’t have to go in there again.” He gets up and takes away the empty plates.

  All day I have been telling myself not to like this guy. To be very careful, and not believe a word he says. I even have my pepper spray in my clutch bag, just in case he tries it on. Thing is, he’s really sweet, and his whole persona is screaming out lonely. A guy who has gone through some form of misery in his life. Maybe it goes to show, money isn’t everything. You could have a bank balance most would envy, yet still be unhappy.

  He comes back through and places a dish the smells appetizing before me. I inhale deep and my mouth begins water. He shuffles between the table and chair to sit.

  “Lamb?”

  “I love lamb.”

  It’s quiet as we eat, and the unease I felt when I walked through that door has lessened slightly. I don’t know if it’s the music, or the wine. But I no longer feel like I’m about to be asked to do some dirty deed for money. I guess this guy is legit, and does have a normal job lined up for me. Perhaps admin, or something that concerns entertainment at the hotel. Though, a normal ad on the net would have been a more appropriate way of finding a good candidate.

  I place the last small piece of succulent lamb between my lips and let out a satisfied breath. I hate to admit it, everything about that meal was scrummy. All those months living off macaroni cheese, frozen pizza, or pasta with some random jar of sauce poured over for flavor, has deadened my taste buds. What I’ve just eaten was a treat; top-notch restaurant food.

  “So, you like to cook?” I ask.

  He laughs under his breath. “Truth,” he huffs. “I got this delivered.”

  I smile. “Oh, well compliments to the chef.”

  While straightening his back, he brushes his hand over his hair. He drops his napkin onto his empty plate and blows out. There’s clearly something he wants to say, but he’s having difficultly arranging the words in his head.

  “What?” My eyes narrow.

  “Can I ask you a question, and will you answer honestly?” he asks as nerves invade my gut. “Why work in a place like that?”

  Hell. I can’t go into the details of my tragic past, and how I have no choice at this present time. No one knows a thing about my parents, apart from those who now know it’s buried deep, and needs to stay that way. I have always been firm that it remains locked inside for a reason. I remember the sympathy others offered me well. It was awkward, and brought that heavy black cloak over me every time. I don’t need that feeling back.

  I clench my teeth together before parting my lips. “The money is good.”

  He shakes his head. “Fine… you don’t trust me.”

  “No,” I answer straight.

  “And how can you trust anyone when you work in a place like that,” he sighs. “Okay, let’s discuss the reason you’re here.” He inhales a large amount of air as a pink color rushes over his cheeks. “I would like you to dance for me,” he says fast with his gaze set solid on me.

  My eyes grow to full range. “At the hotel?”

  “No… here.”

  My lungs quiver, unable to draw a full breath. “And you cannot come to see me at Venus for that?”

  His nostrils flare as he lowers his head. Does he want me all to himself? Is this just a way of luring me in? With good food, and for once in my life decent male company, which is now clearly all just some façade he’s playing out.

  “Jen, I’m not the average man,” he gulps. “I don’t want to watch you for that.”

  “Then why?”

  Jeez. I’ve never been so mixed up in a man’s company. My ex, Rory, was an utter mind mess (due to his weed habit). Grayson Crane however, is proving to be a conundrum of huge proportion. Do I want to solve him? I’m unsure.

  He pushes out his chair, stands, and moves over me. I peer up, when really I should be running out of that door. There is something that’s making me want to stay. He’s compelling me somehow, and I can’t fight it.

  “Please, come with me,” he holds his hand out.

  I lock my eyelids tight. My subconscious is telling me to use my experience working with low-life, to spot the dangers. But my heart tells me there is more to this man than meets the eye. He doesn’t want to hurt me. He needs this, and badly. And I, well shamefully, I need the money.

  I stand up, without taking his hand. Human touch in my line of work is forbidden, for me anyways.

  He approaches a beech wooden door beside his DVD collection. I freeze on the spot and involuntarily gasp out, fearing he is about to show me his bedroom. He opens the door and turns to look over his shoulder.

  “Jen, I’m only asking you to look.”

  I bite down my teeth and close my eyes. Then nervously, one slow step at a time, I walk through the doorway.

  First, I see myself in a wall of mirrors that has a dance bar all the way across. The large room has a deep red color on the walls, with stenciled black butterflies in swirls of gold. And the flooring is professional, wooden, and sprung. This is unbelievable, and extremely strange. I amble in further, toward an odd looking chair against the wall. It reminds me of a
royal throne: black and elaborately carved, with a damask cushion covering. The arms of the chair twirl and end with an ornamental scroll.

  I wonder if he’s a dancer. Why on earth would he have a room like this in such a nice house? He must be.

  I frown. “You dance?” I watch his immobile reflection as he stands in silence by the door.

  His jaw pulsates and his eyes focus on me in the mirror only. He’s not answering my question, just gazing shrewdly. I huff and walk toward the horizontal dance bar. It’s been so long since I warmed up using one. Now, I’m used to a sticky vertical metal pole that men get their kicks from. I run my hand over the varnished pine and smile. Oh wow. How can an inanimate object such as this, cause this wild fire in my belly?

  “The room is yours… you can use it as you wish,” he says. “All I ask is, you dance for me on Fridays and Saturdays.”

  Oh god. This is beyond bizarre. This room is my dream room. And if it were in a real dance studio or gym, then it wouldn’t bother me at all. But this is Grayson Crane’s house for crying out loud.

  “You dance then?” I glare.

  “Unfortunately not.”

  “Then why this room?”

  He tilts his neck and looks at me from under his brow. “The truth is, I love dance… and I like watching privately.”

  One-on-one dance; that is exactly what the rooms in Venus are for. The rooms I have a strong aversion to. This must be what he wants. I do this for a living, and he just breezes into Venus, and plucks out some random girl to please him under his own roof. Well, that’s not me. Now that tiny bit of regard I did have for him has gone completely, and my self-respect once more has hit an all-time low.

  I drop my head with a sigh. I’m such a dork for coming here. He must think I’m easy and dumb. Jeez, maybe I shouldn’t blame him; look at the circumstances we met. He probably thought I would go for this with no questions asked.

  “Look, I must have given you the wrong impression,” I say, reluctantly moving closer to him so I can get away. “I really need to get back home, to my sister… she’s expecting me.”

  My view shies away as I go to pass by him, but he gently takes my wrist to stop me. His touch on me isn’t aggressive like I’m used to. It’s fraught and soft. He really needs this, and I’m beginning to feel bad for him. I breathe in and peer up. His eyes are hopeless, and I’m teetering on the edge of agreeing because I can’t take his grave expression.

  “I’m sorry,” he releases his grip and moves back in shame.

  I take a few seconds, watching as he leans his athletic body against the wall with his head down.

  “There are other girls that will gladly do this for you, Grayson,” I say, faintly.

  If he needs this so bad, I’ll ask Tina or Sara. I’m sure they’ll be here in a flash knowing who it’s for. I guess I owe him that much. I did come here stupidly with the wrong idea about this. He’s got his hopes up that I’d agree to be his private dancer.

  “Would you like me to find someone for you?” I ask.

  He hoists his obliging eyes. “Thank you, but no,” he exhales. “Would you at least consider the offer, and let me drive you home.”

  I should be gone already. I know I shouldn’t encourage him, but he’s been so polite toward me.

  “Okay,” I murmur with a gulp.

  What an Idiot

  I speed into the garage and skid to a standstill, narrowly missing the drywall. I get out and slam the door, hard. I’m an asshole. I made a damn mess of that. I bet she thinks I’ve got psychological issues on the highest level. I’m a fool for thinking she’d agree. It was the room that did it, bashed that final nail down in the coffin. That wretched optimism has screwed up my head. I guess Henry is right, I really have now lost the plot.

  I curl my fingers into my hands tightly. I would hit myself, but for now my black Range Rover will feel the brunt of my fury. I punch and punch, and those exact emotions I felt when I received the dreaded news, flood within me. Why is it so damn hard to achieve happiness when you’re being followed around by the fuckin reaper?

  Blood gushes from the tiny cuts that my anger has inflicted on my knuckles. But I carry on, and now I’ve managed to put the driver’s side window through. I wince and grunt, slamming my head down on the roof before sliding down to the floor in a heap.

  Men don’t cry do they? I’ve not once cried all the way through this goddamn illness. But now, I’m so furious with myself my eyes sting with rage. Why the hell did I ask her to dance? I could have offered her employment doing anything. All because of that night all those years ago. I’m so self-absorbed. I want that feeling I had at eighteen again, and I’ve lost my mind trying to get it.

  I’ve now come to the conclusion she is so much more than a dancer in some strip club. She has tragedy in her eyes, and because I’ve been blinded by what I need to feel, I didn’t consider her. To her, I’m simply a dirty perverted asshole. A rich asshole.

  I laugh to myself. Shit, this has to be rock bottom for me. I am the embodiment of despair. Henry would have a fit if he saw me now. ‘No time for feeling sorry for yourself. Pick up your bottom lip and brush yourself off,’ he’d say to me.

  I slide my head up the door to study the damage I’ve wreaked upon my new car, then I glance down at my shredded hands. I nod and heave myself up to my feet before my watery blood pools further on the shattered glass. I scoop up some hand-towel from Henry’s workbench, and wrap it around my wounds. I can fix the car, but my hands won’t be so easy to hide. Should I care what others think? No. The whole point of needing her and refusing treatment again, is because I don’t want pity, more pain, fuss, or false hope. I just want to live and die the way I choose. I guess for someone as screwed up as myself, that’s impossible.

  No Choice

  Well, that car has to be one of the lushest things I’ve ever sat in. Sure beats Dad’s old clapped-out Volvo. The journey however, well, how do you describe silence. He was very courteous when we did pull over. Didn’t attempt to touch me, or talk me around. Simply smiled and said goodbye. So I did the polite thing, and offered him a brief wave as I watched the car disappear from sight. It was the last time I’d see Grayson Crane. I’m not disappointed for me, more for him. However, now I need to put that whole weird encounter behind me, and get back to the real world.

  I turn my key in the lock and I push, but for some reason it’s been dead-bolted from the inside. I swear, if she’s up to no good in there, I’ll kill her.

  I pound my fist on the door yelling. She knows the rules. No one is allowed through this door without my say so.

  “Flick, open the damn door,” I yell through the letterbox.

  A light comes through the net hung over the glass panel. Flick unlocks the door and pops her head out as though she’s just got out of bed. She can’t pull the wool over my eyes. Does she actually think I was born yesterday? Not once has she ever put the dead-bolt on the door. She doesn’t even care about security. It’s my job to check the house every night. Boring routine tasks like that don’t interest her.

  I push by her and go in search of any little perverts hiding out. Out of breath, I thunder into the kitchen, and immediately spot that the backdoor is unlocked. Whoever she’s had in here has long gone now.

  I scowl at her and sniff, picking up a strong worrying odor. I’ve smelt it before, and I know what it is straightaway. And she’s been doing it in our house. She’s invited god knows who in here, and has been smoking pot. I grit my teeth and glare.

  “Who’s been here Flick,” I yell. “That little shit, Jimmy?”

  She rolls her dopey eyes at me and turns to walk away. I race after her and grab her arm. She clumsily spins to me, all mellow with dilated pupils.

  “Don’t you dare walk away from me!” I squeeze her wrist. “You’re going to explain just what the hell you think you’re doing. Firstly, inviting that scum-ball in here, and secondly smoking that crap,” I shout. “Are you out of your damn mind?”

  She pushe
s my arm away. “Jen… screw you.” She staggers to the bannister rail.

  Again I race over and take her arm. “You ungrateful bitch,” I yell. “I work my ass off for you.”

  She sniggers, “That’s true.”

  “What are you trying to do to me?” I fight to keep the tears inside and remain firm. “What would Dad say?”

  She offers me a sarcastic grin, “Dad’s not here is he?” She yanks her arm back and climbs the stairs.

  I really don’t know how much more of this I can take.

  I make my way into the kitchen and notice the cupboard door where I keep my money is ajar. I shut my eyes and open, praying it’s still in there. Rising up on my toes, I reach high to retrieve my tin. The lid is loose, and right now my heart is pounding with unease. I quickly pull off the lid and look inside, to find it completely empty, apart from a one dollar bill.

  I slam down the tin, arch over the worktop, and gasp for air as my tears begin to fall liberally. That money was the only thing that was going to pull us out of this shitty mess.

  With my heart rate skyrocketing and my breathing repressed, I swoop up the tin in a hot fluster and march to the stairs.

  I fling open her bedroom door. She’s sitting on her purple quilt with her earphones in and eyes closed. I storm across to her and rip the wire from her head. With a jolt she bounces upright. I show her the tin and angrily pull out the one dollar bill.

  “Is this going to keep a roof over our heads?” I bark. “Is this going to feed us and keep us warm?” I toss the note in her face, fighting for breath.

  “Jen… I haven’t touched that money.” Suddenly she’s competent in pleading her innocence. “Jen.” She swings her legs from the bed as I pace the width of her room.

  “And I should believe you… why?”

  “Jen… I swear I didn’t touch it,” she appeals.

  “Well, we both know who did then don’t we?” I scream at her.

  “Jen,” she chokes. “I…I.”

  “Oh Flick, do you know what,” I snap. “Save it… I’m done with the lies. And I’m done with your need to make out I’m the bad one for keeping this shit together,” I shout. “I’m done trying.” I charge out onto the landing and slam her door.