“Jen?” he wakes me from my trance.
“What happened to your hand?”
He clenches his jaw. “I dropped a bolt in the engine of my car, and my hand got stuck.” He removes his hold quickly. “So, do you want my driver to collect you?”
I hum, still not entirely sure about this. “I’ll be fine making my own way. I’ll see you on Friday, Grayson.” I stand up.
I leave Grayson at the Harbor Café and walk away in a daze. I like the guy, and I know that’s wrong. Distance has to be my best friend here. It’s the only way to prevent complication.
First Dance
Something has gotten into me; something I didn’t want. The moment my skin touched hers, it overwhelmed me with desires of the deepest kind. It’s crawled beneath my flesh and my every pore is infected by her. An addiction that is as frustrating as this illness. Unlike those asshole guys she’s used to, she probably for once in her life, has put the tiny amount of faith she has in me. Believing that I don’t want her physically. Believing my intentions are strange, but at least true. Now the reality is, I have become as false as those men, because I do want her. Will I do a thing about it? No. Why? Because I’m on the verge of expiry, and above all, I just need her to dance.
I jog in the blistering summer heat with sweat saturating my face as Swedish House Mafia blasts through my earphones. With a final burst of speed I arrive at my front door, gasping. I’m pushing every boundary. Pushing my body to feel a discomfort like I’ve never felt before. This is the one thing that I still have control of. The ability to rise to every challenge I set myself each day. To change my outer body, regardless of what’s happening inside.
I pull out my earphones and wipe my top lip with the sleeve of my gray hoody. I scowl and see that what is dripping from my nose, isn’t just sweat, but blood. I pinch my nostrils tight, hoping this isn’t some mad flare up in which I’ll need the blood vessels in my nose cauterizing again down at ER. In a panic, I quickly unlock the door while breathing erratically into my hand.
“Fuck!”
I hurry into the kitchen and pull off a handful of kitchen-towel. I hate this. If this disease could be seen in a physical form before me, I’d beat the living shit out of it. My liver isn’t swollen; I have no pain like last time. And my breathing is fine also, so my lungs seem to be functioning correctly. It’s as though this illness is rearing its ugly head in more devious ways this time, laughing at me. I won’t be sick- not today. Jen will be here in a few hours, and god, I need my fix of her before I change my mind, call her, and tell her the deal is off.
The latch on the front door clicks. It will be Henry, and I can’t allow him to see me stood here pressing this blood soaked towel against my face. He thinks I’m fine, and that’s how it needs to stay. I hurry into the downstairs bathroom as he closes the front door with his back to me.
I sit on the toilet seat with my head between my knees, pinching my nostrils tight. The blood that’s made its way down my throat irritates my stomach, and the taste of it makes me want to gag. Now I know why I received the look of horror from passersby. God knows how long I was jogging through the park resembling a damn zombie.
“Sir,” Henry calls.
I ignore him and very slowly lift my head, taking a huge breath. Like always when I have one of these sudden bouts my nose clogs up, and the only air I dare take in is through my mouth, in-case it triggers off another surge. I wait a few seconds to find it has thankfully eased. Gradually, I rise to my feet.
“Sir.”
I toss the bloody tissue down the toilet and flush, then quickly check there is no evidence left on my face in the mirror.
I unlock and open the door in frustration. Henry is loyal and one of the hardest workers I know. But just lately he’s rubbing me up the wrong way. He’s making my efforts to cover up what’s happening to me extremely difficult. He cares too damn much.
“Really Henry… can I not even go to the bathroom without you interfering?”
“Well, someone has to run things around here as soon as you’ve decided to stay off site nearly all week,” he grumbles, dropping a handful of paperwork on my desk.
Great, now I’m the bad guy. “Sorry Henry… I’ve been preoccupied.”
He removes his brown jacket, hangs it over his arm, and then rummages through his inside pocket to takes out his Blackberry.
“Well, that’s all well and good, but no one is able to get hold of you,” he says, sternly. “You’re not responding to the emails from your father, and your doctor has been trying to get hold of you.”
I blink with a nod, and grab myself a beer from the fridge. “I will deal with my father… and Jenkins. And I will be back on site first thing Monday,” I firmly state.
“I don’t want to meddle here, but are you sure everything is okay?” he stares while studying me closely.
I tip a good quantity of beer into my mouth avoiding eye contact, preparing to outright lie again.
I swallow. “Everything is fine, Henry. It’s Friday, go home and spend it with your family.”
“Okay…. you have this month’s spreadsheets on your desk that need looking over.” He makes his way to the door.
“See you on Monday, Henry.”
***
I’m showered, shaved, and changed, waiting for Jen to arrive. I fasten the top button on my shirt and sit at my desk. I open my emails while brushing my hand over my damp hair to see my father right there on screen, glaring at me.
To: Grayson Crane
From: Winston Crane of Crane Energy Corp
Subject: Correspondence
Grayson
I have on numerous occasions contacted you, and each time you have been unreachable. I would like my weekly report on progress made on the renovations. You stated when I gave you this position your competence in overseeing all work done. As you are aware, at this present time I am in Dubai on business. I will be expecting to speak with you first thing Monday. Not Henry.
Winston Crane.
I clamp my jaw down and type the words:Father, go fuck yourself. I immediately delete of course. No one tells Winston Crane what they think of him. No, they just cower down to his goddamn feet. I hate my own Father. Though, I guess he did do me a favor by not asking me about my test results. He’s clearly forgot and his PA hasn’t reminded him. Suits me. The less I have to deal with him the better.
The doorbell rings. I glance at the time on the screen to see it’s seven-forty pm. She’s here, and early. I switch off the monitor with a feeling of discomfort inside my chest. I haven’t felt nerves like this since my interview with Professor Longridge at Oxford University.
I dash up the steps, take a breath, and open the front door. Her eyelids widen and her poor bottom lip is being attacked by her teeth, anxiously. Even though it is an evocative sight to see, the wetness of her mouth shimmering upon her lips, it’s my job here is to make this flow smoothly.
“Jen,” I move aside to let her through, stealing a lungful of her secretly.
She stands at the top of the stairs, still in apprehension. I wanted this, and I’m responsible for making her feel awkward. I would be chivalrous and tell her she is no longer needed, if it wasn’t for the burning need to see her body move overbearing me.
“Jen, can I take your jacket?”
Without a word or expression, she slips her black jacket from her shoulders to reveal her dancewear. Immediately I boil, studying her long legs up to the fluid curve of her hips. The top of her bare shoulders are coated with cascades of her wavy hair; hair that lies delicately over a black skintight vest. Damn these primitive urges. I want her. I want to touch her skin, inhale her scent, and do things to her body that will fulfil my needs.
She turns, holding out her jacket, and catches me ogling. I promptly look away and free her hands, releasing a frustrated cough.
“I’ve brought my iPod,” she opens her hand to reveal the flower covered device. “Have I to just?” she says quietly, pointing to her room.
“Yeah… sure.” I make my way down the steps and she cautiously follows.
I flip on the light switch to the mood lighting I would like, soft. My body remains in the doorway as she hovers by me slowly. She freezes in the center of the room, waiting for me to disappear.
“The docking station is in the corner,” I explain to her timid reflection. “My song choice is track seven.”
She tilts her neck side to side as she makes her way over to the speakers. Her warm-up has begun already. I would like to stay right where I am and watch. But as soon as her eyes hit me, I know my place is behind this door. For now anyway.
“I will call you when I’m ready,” she sighs.
I look down and watch my shoes move out of the room while closing the door.
The music sounds through the wall. Her first track: a predictable number. A number I’d associate with the line of work she’s in. I pace the room with my imagination bombarding me with wild choking images of her. Then the track sounds out of my choice. I could have chosen the classical number she danced to all those years ago. But for today, her first time, I’ve chosen something more contemporary that she’ll be familiar with: Emeli Sandé
I’ve strode the length of this room over a dozen times, and now it’s all gone quiet. My pulse is rising to the stratosphere, picturing her dance in there. The door handle finally jiggles, and instantly I stop moving as her head peers out.
“Ready.” She quickly disappears.
With quick but hesitant steps, I make my way into the room.
Half of me is being ruled by my requirements, telling me to be a man and enjoy watching her body. And the other half, my heart, tells me to stop this before things get out of control. Regardless of all doubt, I take up my position in the chair.
She stands with her back to me and her head down. The music begins and her chest inflates. The beat is deep and slow, and I have to admit, damn hot. My legs bob restlessly as she bends her torso over. Her lengthy legs are in a flawless line, and her perfect ass draws my dirty gaze. Hell. I’m rousing painfully. I’ve not been this tightly wound and hard for a long time.
She places the palms of her hands on the floor as her legs slip out. She’s down and stretched out into an effortless splits, circling her hips. There’s flexibility, and then there’s this. This is tease beyond all my fantasies, and she has no qualms in doing it to me. She is dancing like she’s alone; her and the deep beat as one.
Now, she lifts her body onto her left shoulder, rolling as fluid as a gentle wave crashing on the shore near my feet. I cringe. She’s too close. Right before my open legs, elevating her whole body up onto her elbows, vertically. My frantic prayers are finally answered as the song begins to fade.
I silently slow my raging breaths as she sits in position in the center of the room. She cradles her knees to her chest, ready for song two. Her arms rise above her head, then her hands clench the air down into her chest. She flips onto her knees and curls into a ball. Her mind is in the music, feeling every word and emotion as she flows up to her feet like silk. She spins on pointed toes as her fingers stretch out to me. The sensations of the first time I saw her dance come back to haunt me, as she plays out the pain within the lyrics. Jesus, I had no idea how hard this would be. She makes a dead man feel alive.
As she slinks her body, striding in dream like movements, it’s so clear to me that she’s been through some kind of hell. I shuffle to the edge of my seat. I know I shouldn’t be trying to get closer, but I’m being moved by her deeply. She shouldn’t be throwing her life away pleasing guys like me.
She pounds on the mirror and her long hair swishes as she drops to the floor, back into the same position she started. The song dies away, and is replaced by a tense silence. I watch her scrunched up body gasping, and it is torture. Do I stay here; applaud and rise to my feet; or try and talk to her.
She inhales and jumps up to her feet to slip her white sneakers back on. All the pain she demonstrated in her dance, has been replaced with detachment. I gaze gormlessly, as she takes her iPod out of the docking station.
“Tomorrow then?” She walks to the door, cold as stone.
I swiftly stand up. This is purely a professional relationship to her, and it’s supposed to be the same for me too. I am a fool for thinking this was a good idea. She’s on my bucket list. No, she is my bucket list. What kind of sick twisted idiot does that?
“Yep… tomorrow.” I smile briefly as she leaves.
I stay in the room until I hear the front door slam shut. Keeling over, I inhale and groan out. I was right. If I want punishment, a different kind of pain, then this sure is it.
I flick off the lights and close the door to the studio. I glance at the table I placed her earnings on. It’s gone. Good. She deserves every dime, and more. So much more.
The God Awful Truth
I’ve been thinking about the amount of money I found when I opened that envelope. Who pays someone one thousand dollars, for half an hours work? Grayson Crane, that’s who. I’m not going to say I was relaxed performing alone for him. It was the weirdest situation I’ve ever been in. But once the music began, he didn’t matter so much. And for a short amount of time, I felt what I once did when I danced years ago, liberated.
He was, I have to say, the perfect customer, and he let me do my thing without interruption. No frisky fingers, no jeers, and no dirty comments. I was also surprised by his choice in music. For me, dancing to that song was like a pressure valve being opened. It was a thoughtful song. Not slutty or intense. It was like he wanted to appreciate me. Strange as it sounds, he made me feel like a somebody, and now I’m more confused than ever. I’ve got these stupid feelings for him growing and taking over my senses, and I don’t know how to stop them.
“Jen,” Flick knocks on my bedroom door.
I wiggle beneath my lilac duvet then flip it off my legs, letting out a deep yawn. “Yeah.” I brush my fingers through my knotty hair.
“There’s a package for you,” she says before dashing back downstairs.
I frown. I never get packages. Usually the only mail I receive are envelopes with the words- Final demand- stamped in bright red ink next to my name. I move my legs off the bed and slip on my flip-flops.
Flick stands at the bottom of the stairs, holding out a small brown paper wrapped parcel. I hurry down and snatch it from her. It’s cool to the touch, and there’s a folded note on the top with the words: Handle with care, wrote in black ink.
Flick fidgets beside me, breathing down my neck, waiting for me to open it. I move across to the sofa and sit. But she follows, more excited by the box than I. I slip the note from beneath the string and open it.
Jen
Do not panic at the contents of this package. It is by no means to be derived has having an ulterior purpose. I was out this morning for a spot of breakfast, and thought you may enjoy this. So enjoy.
Grayson
I scowl at the box. I shouldn’t really accept gifts from him. I don’t want to give him the wrong impression. I do find him very considerate, good-looking, and so far he hasn’t pushed his luck. He’s nice; real nice. And maybe he is beginning to get to me. Maybe I would like to dance for him like I’ve never dance before. Dance on him even. Oh god, I have to stop thinking right now. He pays me, and I have to stay detached, no matter how hard it is.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I haven’t told Flick that I’ve been promoted from pole to private dancer. She’d only have something spiteful to say. Something along the lines of, ‘I’m no different than a street hooker selling her body.’ Flick thinks money grows from thin air, and has a carefree attitude about any responsibility.
I pull on the string and open the box, to find a mouth-watering croissant filled with berries and cream.
“Is Grayson Crane that guy I’ve seen on the TV?” Flick asks, squinting at the note. “That suit who was on the morning news last week, going on about rising shares and shit?”
Oh this is
just great. I can’t lie to her. The evidence is right there in front of her face.
“Jen?”
“Yeah, the guy from TV,” I sigh, placing the box on the coffee table.
“Jeez, guys like him spend their time in Venus,” she squeals. “You want to be careful, he might be trying out the whole pretty women thing on you,” she giggles.
“Flick, shut your face before I shut it for you,” I snap.
“So… you not going to eat that then?” she hums, drooling over the box.
“No… here.” I hand it to her, and she’s more than happy to take it.
Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s sweet and kind, him thinking about me this way. But even though he still insists he has no motives, I’m finding it difficult to believe. I’m a pole dancer and it is my job is to turn guys on. And that’s how he found me. He has to have a dark side.
***
I’ve been fighting with my subconscious all day. Do I go tonight, or do I cut all ties and stay away? Is it really as bad as my mind is making out? It was only a pastry, not a briefcase full of cash. One more night, and if I still feel awkward about the whole thing, I’ll have to go crawling back to Venus with my tail between my legs. Though, after the dozen voicemail messages I’ve had from Phil, telling me to clear out my locker, I feel that groveling may not be enough.
I pull my gray jacket off the coat hook when someone knocks on the front door. I open up to see an old guy with silvery hair and brows, dressed in a brown suit, smiling at me. I feebly smile back. I have no clue who he is, so assume he’s probably at the wrong address.
“Ms. Conner?” he asks.
I scrunch my eyes, raking my brain, trying to figure out where he knows me from. I’ve not seen him in Venus. I would definitely remember dancing for someone old enough to be my grandfather.
“Yes,” I frown.
“My name is Henry, and I work for Mr. Crane,” he says. “I was wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time.”
I don’t usually let strangers into my house, but this guy seems harmless enough. And there was a worry in his voice I didn’t like. He moves to the back of the couch, taking a good look around the room.
The Fated Dance: Bound to the Shadow Dancer Page 6
