by Logan Belle
Her cell phone vibrated, and she had every intention of ignoring it. But she saw that it was Mallory, and Nadia knew she had to at least answer the call.
“Hello?” Nadia said, trying to modulate her voice so it didn’t sound as if she was about to jump off the balcony.
“Hey—I just wanted to check in on you. Did you go to the after-party?” Mallory said.
“Oh, no. I wasn’t really in the mood.”
“Nadia, I told you—don’t be so hard on yourself. The first time I went in front of a crowd, I was just a stage kitten, and I froze.”
Nadia knew that story—and it was hardly the same thing.
“Yes, but it was because you saw someone from your day job in the audience. Your boss! You had a reason to lose your bearings. I didn’t. I have no excuse.”
“You don’t need an excuse—you’re doing something new. Now get yourself out of your apartment and go stop by Justin and Martha’s and be with the other girls. You shouldn’t be sitting home alone.”
“Oh, I’m fine. I’m just tired, really. And you shouldn’t be worrying about me—you have so much to celebrate tonight. Tell Alec I said congratulations again. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Nadia turned off her phone and tossed it across the couch. She nudged the cat off her lap and got up to pour another drink.
She envied Mallory—not for her ability to perform where she herself had failed, but for having someone with whom to share her success. Maybe Nadia wouldn’t feel like such a failure if she weren’t alone. But then again, being with the wrong person had been worse than being alone. And right now, the thought of her ex-fiancé was only slightly less painful than the thought of what had happened tonight at The Painted Lady.
Jackson, her former fiancé, had at one time been her instructor, a masterful choreographer whose talent and ambition reminded her—perhaps too much—of what she had read about Max Jasper. She’d moved into his Upper West Side apartment. They’d set a date. And then he’d scored a huge job: He would be the choreographer on a major motion picture directed by Sofia Coppola about the Kirov Ballet. The lead actress was Emma Stone. The supporting actress was a Mila Kunis lookalike rumored to be having an affair with the film’s director of photography. That rumor was false: She was having an affair with the film’s choreographer.
Three months later, Nadia suffered her fourth acute facture of the fifth metatarsal in her right foot. Her doctor repeated what he had told her after the second fracture: Her foot had a structural weakness that, had it been identified in childhood, would have prohibited her from pursuing a career in ballet. She should not be dancing in pointe shoes. Of course, she’d chosen to ignore that information. Until the last injury, when the doctor had told her if she broke her foot again she might never recover full use of it.
Nadia carried her drink into her bedroom. Her aunt had offered her the use of the master bedroom, but Nadia felt more comfortable in the guest room, even though it had two twin beds instead of one larger one.
Nadia set the bourbon on her nightstand and shed her clothes carelessly on the floor on her way to the bathroom connected to the guest suite. She turned the shower to a temperature just shy of scalding and immersed herself in the sharp needles of water. She noticed the reflection of her body in the glass stall. It was still surprising to see the changes in her figure even after just a few months of not following the rigorous ballet schedule. She knew other dancers would be alarmed to see a hint of fullness in their breasts, or roundness at their hips, but Nadia was okay with the changes.
She soaped up her breasts, pausing for a minute to caress her nipples. She felt a slight stirring between her legs, and she continued to play with her breasts, closing her eyes, letting the hot water assault her back and shoulders.
When the stirring between her legs turned into a sharp throb, she moved her hands down to stroke her clit. She dipped her middle finger inside herself, listening to her body’s cue to move it in and out, first slowly, then with sharper motions. She steadied herself with her other hand against the glass, and as she found her rhythm rubbing herself, she was startled by the mental image of Max Jasper. She was so annoyed with herself for thinking of him at that inopportune moment she almost lost the building swell of pleasure between her legs. But when she stopped fighting the direction her mind was taking her, the throbbing in her pussy grew more intense as she imagined that Max’s hand was the one rubbing her engorged lips, teasing her clit, dipping in and out until, as the first wave of an orgasm broke, she turned to face the water, opening her legs to let the needles of water play on her swollen cunt. She experienced spasms of pleasure that left her spent, almost crouching against the steamed glass.
She swept the tangle of wet hair away from her face and straightened herself to stand tall under the showerhead. Her body felt light and relieved of all the tension she’d been carrying for days, if not weeks. It was unfortunate she’d let that arrogant jerk Max Jasper intrude on her fantasy, but she wrote it off as the mind’s doing strange things under stress.
She decided she would order some food after all.
Justin Baxter took a step toward Gemma—that’s all he needed to get his arm around her waist and pull her close to him.
She braced herself with her arms bent at the elbows, her palms pressed to his chest.
“You’re not going to throw me in the pool, are you?” she said.
He could barely think to answer her, being that close to her mouth, with her obscenely pillowy lips and that incredibly sexy gap between her two front teeth. He felt his cock get hard.
He pressed his mouth against hers, and she immediately met his tongue with her own. The urgency he felt to get inside her made it impossible to think. He ran his hand down her back, to her ass, then under her short dress. He pressed his hand between her legs from behind, and she shifted her legs to give him access to her pussy.
He knew this was wrong—that he should be texting Martha to join them up here. But he was afraid that would scare Gemma away, and he wanted to fuck her more than he wanted to stay within the boundaries of his “open” marriage.
She leaned against him as his fingers reached inside her, feeling his way to the spot that would give her pleasure. Her luscious mouth was wet and parted against his neck, and all he wanted was to make her come, to hear her moan his name. Once that happened, he could fuck her and give himself release.
His hand moved in a practiced way, but he couldn’t tell if she was close to a climax. He withdrew his fingers and unzipped her dress, which slid to the ground. He tugged down her panties, and she helped him get them off.
Her naked body was stunning—larger breasts than anyone would suspect seeing her in clothes, round hips, and a barely groomed thatch of blond pubic hair between her legs. Gotta love those foreigners—not yet consumed by the cult of waxing!
Justin guided her gently to one of the lounge chairs. He pressed her down on her back and parted her legs with his hands. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted someone so badly. He had planned on eating her pussy, making her come with his tongue, but he couldn’t wait. He took his cock out of his pants and positioned it at her entrance, feeling like a teenager who had to fuck a girl before she changed her mind.
As he thrust inside, her pussy was tight, and if he hadn’t known better he would have thought she wasn’t turned on. But she had to be. He licked and palmed her breasts, loving her body, wanting it in every way. And yet she was so still, it was maddening. She didn’t make any noise, and she did not touch him. Her hands lay at her sides. Alarmed, he looked at her face. She looked … bored.
“Are you okay?” he panted, making himself stop.
“Yes, fine,” she said. “Go on.”
She might as well have told him to just get it over with. What was with this woman?
Her apathy was thrilling. It made him want to degrade her.
He pulled his cock out and climbed up so he was on his knees, straddling her. For some reason, he had the urge to
jerk off on her—anything to wake her up.
He stroked himself, his cock looming over her flat stomach. He watched her face for any hint of alarm or disdain, but her expression was as placid and unchanging as if she was watching a mildly entertaining television show. He moved his hand faster and harder, his own pleasure forgotten. All he wanted was to see his cum on her flesh.
Sure enough, with a shudder and moan, he spouted cum on her like a spigot turned on too fast. She flinched only slightly, watching him now with what seemed to be mild amusement.
Justin, breathing heavily, looked down at this odd creature, and knew with absolute certainty, he was in love.
6
Max stared out of his office window to Bryant Park five stories below. He loved that view.
When he’d been able to fully fund his passion project, the upstart Ballet Arts dance company, his first task had been finding a building that would provide a managerial office as well as practice space. He scored it in a prewar gem of a building just off Sixth Avenue.
He’d had no problem finding dancers for the company; he had money and dance space—two things that were in short supply in the ballet world. Still, he dreamed of being able to found a school some day, as Balanchine had done with the School of American Ballet. Aside from becoming a legendary school, it served as a feeder for his company. But for now, Max had to be grateful for what he had been given to work with. And he was.
With a busy afternoon ahead of him, he couldn’t quite get focused. Something was nagging at him, and he hated to admit that it had to do with that woman last night. There was something wrong with the world when a talented dancer like Nadia Grant could suffer one injury and then be compelled to turn her back on everything she’d worked for. She obviously felt it was none of his business—the mere suggestion that there were other things she could do in ballet had elicited a “drop dead” glare that he was in no hurry to see directed his way again. And really, it wasn’t his business.
So why was he still thinking about her? For some reason, he felt certain he knew of her for more than just her accomplishments in the city’s dance scene.
He Googled her name. Sure enough, an array of articles popped up that seemed to have little to do with her work in the corps de ballet. The first headline read, “Dirty Dancing: Cheating Choreographer Gets the Boot from Live-in Love.” And then he realized how he knew her name: She was the dancer who had been engaged to that Hollywood sellout, Jackson Mandel.
The receptionist buzzed his desk. His first meeting of the day.
“Thanks, April. One more thing: Is Anna Prince in the studio?”
“Yes, I think so,” the receptionist told him.
Max headed down to the studio. This was going to be awkward. But he needed that phone number.
He found Anna and a group of half a dozen other dancers stretching at the barre in one of the smaller studios. He didn’t want to interrupt, but as Anna dipped into a deep plié, he rapped on the glass window until everyone looked up. He pointed at Anna and gestured for her to come outside for a minute. She looked quizzical, but glided across the room to meet him in the corridor.
“Hey—what’s up?” she said.
“I hate to interrupt you, but I need Nadia Grant’s phone number.”
Anna looked at him suspiciously. He thanked goodness he’d held firm and refused to take her home with him last night.
“She can’t dance anymore,” Anna said acidly.
“Clearly,” said Max. This dig seemed to calm Anna slightly. She wiped her sweaty forehead, bent the toes of her left foot, and shuffled in place for a moment.
“What do you need it for?”
“I want to find a place for her here. There’s no reason a dancer of her stature should feel she has permanently lost ballet.”
“Like, doing what?”
“I don’t know, Anna,” Max said, getting impatient. “That’s what I need to figure out. But I don’t even know if she’s open to the discussion until I call her.”
“She’s not,” Anna said. “She told me it’s too painful for her to be anywhere near ballet right now.”
“She’s got to get over it.” Max held his iPhone, waiting to program the number.
Anna looked at him, and it seemed to be a standoff until she said, “Fine!” She gave him the ten digits in such rapid fire, it was as if she was daring him to get them down at all.
“Thanks, Anna. Have a good class.”
She looked at him as if he were the world’s biggest asshole, but he barely paused to let it register. He was, uncharacteristically, extremely excited to make this phone call.
First thing that morning, Nadia had turned on her BlackBerry to find a text from Mallory asking her to meet her at Agnes Wieczorek’s costume design studio.
Nadia knew that Agnes, the former owner of the legendary burlesque club the Blue Angel, had once upon a time been a ballerina in Warsaw, Poland. Maybe Mallory wanted Agnes to give Nadia some sort of pep talk. The thought was excruciating. But after her performance last night, she felt she at least owed it to Mallory to show up. Work through the pain, she’d always been told. She believed that still applied, even though the pain was now emotional rather than physical.
The studio was an unmarked storefront on Broome Street. At eleven in the morning, the streets of Soho were filled with über-chic mommies in high heels pushing designer strollers over cobblestones, models on their way to go-sees, and European tourists. Standing in the middle of that scene, it was impossible to feel too bad about herself. Whatever her recent disappointments and failures, she was still here, living the life she’d always dreamed of. She had to find a way to stay inspired, and not retreat into an existence that was gray and safe and miserably compromised.
Nadia saw Mallory approaching from down the block. Even in the middle of a neighborhood filled with eye-catching people, she stood out. She had style, she had confidence and, at the moment, she had a giant bouquet of flowers in her arms.
“Hey!” Mallory said, kissing her on the cheek. “Grab the door for me—these are heavy.”
“They’re gorgeous! What are they?”
“I have no idea. But the florist said they live for weeks. I’m giving them to Agnes to thank her for doing such a great job with the costumes.”
Nadia held the door and then followed Mallory into the studio. The floors were concrete; the walls were part exposed brick, part brushed steel, and were mostly obscured by racks of fabric and designs in progress. Above, the tin ceiling added an ornate finish to the otherwise industrial feel of the space. In the far corner of the room was a black desk, and next to it a winding iron staircase leading up to a second floor.
“So this is what I was thinking last night: If the performing thing doesn’t work for you—and for some people it just doesn’t—maybe you can learn costuming from Agnes. And then, after being around the shows, if you decide you want to be onstage again, great. If not, you still have something really integral and creative to contribute.”
“I really appreciate your thinking of me, and trying to help me. But I don’t think making costumes is going to fill the need I have to be onstage. I have to find a way to get over my fear,” Nadia said.
Mallory looked at her with empathy and seemed about to hug her when they both heard the door open behind them.
Gemma Kole slumped in, her hair pulled into a high, messy ponytail, and big dark glasses obscuring half her face. She carried a large, green smoothie.
“I don’t know why you Americans are so hell-bent on these juice concoctions,” she said, dropping her hobo bag at her feet.
“So why are you drinking one?” Mallory said.
“Because the girl at the shop keeps bloody promising me they cure hangovers!”
Nadia thought, not for the first time, how carelessly sexy Gemma was. She was a cross between Sienna Miller and the Chanel model with the gap between her two front teeth. Maybe Gemma should be on the burlesque stage, and—as Mallory suggested—Nadia should be tucked
away in this little shop, threading a needle. But no—she was not yet ready to concede that.
“What are you two doing here, anyway?” Gemma said. “Don’t tell me I forgot a fitting.”
“No, we’re just visiting Agnes.”
“Are those flowers for her? They’re gorgeous, but slightly menacing. What are they?”
“Yes—they’re for Agnes. I don’t know what they are, but they live a long time,” Mallory said. Nadia could tell she was second-guessing the arrangement after the word “menacing.”
“Do me a favor? Go upstairs to see Agnes. I need quiet to even begin to function.”
Nadia and Mallory exchanged a look and were happy to oblige her. They climbed the narrow stairs, Nadia clutching the slim iron railing all the way.
The second floor had a shiny wood floor, and two walls were floor-to-ceiling mirrors. If it hadn’t been for the bolts of fabric, containers of beads and sequins, and yards of thread and ribbon, it would have felt like a dance studio.
Agnes was seated cross-legged on the floor, wearing a pair of eyeglasses with another pair perched atop her head, and she was sewing a swatch of black fabric. She looked up when they cleared the stairs, but then went right back to sewing.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” she said in her thick Polish accent before turning her attention immediately back to the work at hand.
“Yes, opening night was a huge success. And we couldn’t have done it without you. I wanted you to have these,” Mallory said, putting the flowers on the floor next to her.
“I’m talking about the marriage proposal,” Agnes said. “And thank you. I love Sabine Pastel orchids. They live longer than most house pets.”
