by Isabel Morin
She was still gasping when he flipped her beneath him with a neat roll, never leaving her. Then he pushed her thighs against her chest and drove into her, sleek and hard, so big she felt another wave rise up and take her away just as he groaned and kissed her again.
She must have dozed off. She awoke under an indigo sky, limitless and unfathomable. Cutter woke the next instant and together they stumbled to their feet. But she held back, lingering for one last minute in the dark of his garden, wishing they could stay there under the stars, away from hard questions and confusion. Then she put her hand in his and followed him to the house and into his bed.
***
Cutter came awake the next morning suffused with a feeling of well-being. He lay there for long minutes remembering last night, but soon he wanted the real thing.
He opened his eyes only to realize that Emily was already up. Sunlight flooded the room and washed over his bed because he’d been too out of it to close the blinds last night. No doubt that was what had woken her.
The faint hum of music and smell of coffee pulled him out of bed. He pulled on last night’s shorts and headed down the hall.
She was leaning against the sofa, her back to him, dressed only in a black camisole and bikini underwear, her hair loose and mussed. At first he was so struck by the picture she made he didn’t hear what she was saying.
“I was surprised too, but they said they can spare me now,” Emily was saying. “If I leave Tuesday I should be in Boston sometime Friday.”
Cutter forgot to breathe. Had he heard her right? Was she really leaving in three days?
He was still standing there when Emily said goodbye and turned around. Her mouth fell open and she looked at him with a mixture of dismay and guilt that knocked the breath out of him.
“I guess you heard all that.”
“Are you seriously leaving Tuesday?”
“I’m sorry. I know it’s sudden –”
“Hell yeah, it’s sudden. What happened to staying another few weeks?”
Emily bit her lip, her big blue eyes looking at him with such resigned sadness he felt his stomach drop to his knees.
“Things are getting more serious than either one of us expected. The longer I stay, the harder it’s going to be for both of us when I leave.”
“Then don’t leave.”
“Please don’t make this harder than it is,” she said, her voice pleading. “I can’t give you want you want. What you deserve. I don’t want to hurt you, but if I get distracted and stay here, I may never get my life back. I’ve already stayed here too long. There’s an apartment waiting for me, people waiting for me. I can’t drop all that just because I’ve been happy here with you.”
“But why not stay if you’re happy? Isn’t that what you want?” he asked, the knowledge that he was losing her seeping like ice water into his veins.
“I can’t afford to chose it over the rest of my life. It’s already made me complacent. I should have left here weeks ago but I didn’t want…I didn’t want to leave you. But I’ll never forgive myself if I stay, and I’ll resent you too.”
Cutter looked at her, his body tense with frustration and the effort it took to hold back all he wanted to say. His jaw ached from clenching it too tightly, holding in the howl of pain he wanted to let loose. A thousand replies went through his head, but she’d rendered all of them pointless.
They stood there facing each other, neither of them saying anything for a moment. Then Emily roughly wiped her eyes.
“I don’t even know why you want me,” she said, confusion and weariness in her voice. “I’m a disaster. For all you know all I’ll ever be is a stripper.”
“Jesus, Emily. I didn’t fall in love with what you do for a living.”
He hadn’t even admitted it to himself until just this moment, but now that he’d said it he was relieved. He was all in now. If Emily didn’t want him, it wouldn’t be because he hadn’t tried.
She was staring at him, clearly shocked.
“I don’t know what to say.”
Which pretty much said it all. He could feel a trainload of pain bearing down on him, but he wasn’t going under with her around to witness it.
“You don’t need to say anything. It’s not your fault. But I think it would be better if you went back to the hotel for your last few days.”
He felt dizzy, shocked by his own request but unwilling to back down. He couldn’t be in the same house with her anymore. It would kill him.
Emily started to say something and then stopped. Her eyes were wide with the same disbelief he felt. As he watched they filled with tears.
“If that’s what you want,” she said, biting her lip.
“It’s the last thing I want.”
“I’m sorry. I never thought…” she began. But now she was crying in earnest and fool that he was, he wanted to comfort her.
“I’m sorry, too.” He grabbed his wallet and keys from the counter, determined to leave before he made a fool out of himself. But he couldn’t help looking at her one more time, his teary-eyed dancer standing in his kitchen, looking as bereft as he felt.
God, he loved her.
He walked out, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Chapter Nine
Emily drove back to the hotel feeling like she might die. She cried so hard she couldn’t catch her breath, and she got lost three times even though she’d been driving the same route nearly every day for the last two weeks.
She held it together while she checked back into the hotel, and then she fell into bed and cried. Somehow she’d really thought it would be easier to leave sooner rather than later, but they were far past the point of avoiding pain.
She’d never imagined he could love her. Turning away from that was the hardest thing she’d ever done. Part of her wanted it, rejoiced in it, and the other part knew it was far too dangerous. Her feelings for him were already overwhelming, even when kept in check. If set loose, they’d keep her here forever.
But all the rationalizing in the world couldn’t fill the aching hollow in her chest or ease the sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. She woke the next morning, headachey and exhausted, and nearly called in and quit so that she didn’t have to dance that night. But she couldn’t do it. As awful as it would feel to see Cutter now, it was worlds better than never seeing him again.
She got to the club early and told Steve she was leaving. The manager was none too pleased, especially seeing as she was only giving him a days’ notice, but he’d get over it. There were always more girls.
“Are you all right?” Cheryl asked as they sat side by side in front of the mirror getting ready.
Emily was trying to cover her bruised-looking eyes with mediocre results.
“Not really, but I’ll survive,” she replied, giving what she hoped looked like a smile before turning back to the mirror.
Thank God Cheryl seemed to take the hint and said no more, though a couple of the other girls asked her the same thing. They seemed genuinely sorry to hear she was leaving, but also curious. They all knew about her and Cutter – how could they not? – and they rightly figured things had gone sour.
Maybe Cheryl would get her shot with Cutter after all.
By the time Emily went on for her first set she was a wreck, nauseated and shaking, worse than any stage fright she’d ever endured. All she could think about was Cutter out there, so close by and yet by her own design unreachable. Her sore foot only added to her misery, the physical pain undermining her usual confidence in her abilities.
She hadn’t thought through what it would be like to strip with him there, and the reality of it was worse than anything she could have prepared for. For the first time Cutter didn’t look at her at all, and she didn’t want him to. She’d always danced for him, and with that gone the veil between the fantasy she’d always been able to spin for herself and the customers fell away. It took everything she had to keep going, everything she had not to run off the stage.
There was no way she could face Cutter while working the floor, nor could she have composed herself enough to flirt with the customers, so instead she hid in the dressing room between sets.
She ran into him anyway in the hallway backstage after her last dance. She was exhausted and demoralized, worn down from performing rather than exhilarated by it, and dressed in just a gold thong and stilettos, her hair wild and sweaty. She’d always felt sexy when she was in costume around Cutter, but now her exaggerated sexuality seemed to mock them both.
She could hardly look at him.
“You doing all right?” he asked.
“I’ve been better,” she said, her throat closing as tears threatened.
“Yeah, me, too. But I suppose we’ll live, right?” he said bitterly. His shuttered eyes took her in while giving nothing back.
“I suppose so,” she replied, at a loss how to respond to this new side of him.
But she needn’t have worried because he didn’t stick around long enough for more conversation. Without another word he turned and walked away.
She very nearly left town right then. The urge to get in her car and start driving was so intense, she had to close her eyes and breathe for several minutes before reason returned.
She’d wait until morning and then see how she felt. She was in no shape to do anything more tonight. She went back to her hotel and showered, tired beyond telling but too wired to still her mind. She slept only a few hours in the end, waking up shortly after sunrise. For a few blessed moments she remembered nothing, and then it all came flooding back to her.
But she’d stay another day. She and Cutter hadn’t said a real goodbye, and they both deserved better than what they’d managed last night.
Getting up, she tore around her room, re-packing the bags she’d packed so haphazardly when leaving Cutter’s house. Afterward she rode the elevator down to one of the restaurants and sat reading the paper as she ate breakfast, drawing the event out so as to fill as much time as possible.
By mid-morning she’d just about lost it and decided to take refuge in her lifelong routine. In a matter of minutes she was in her practice clothes and entering the club. She said hello to the cleaning crew, grateful that no one else she knew was there, and flipped on the lights illuminating the stage.
Pulling a chair to the side she began her barre warm-up, carefully emptying her mind of everything but what she was calling on her body to do. She counted, focused on her line, bent into her pliés , grateful as always that her body could still do this much. After a time she moved the chair out of the way and did her center floor warm-up, executing careful pirouettes and tendues, gradually increasing the tempo. All of it on demi pointe, since wearing pointe shoes was a thing of the past.
When she was good and limber she walked over to the audio system to plug in her iPod, but instead of choosing the Wynton Marsalis song she was choreographing to, she scrolled through until she got to a classical piece she’d once danced to, a modern work that had been choreographed on her just after she arrived in San Francisco.
Wondering if she was making a mistake but unable to stop herself, she pressed play and walked out onto the stage. Then the first strains of the music sounded – the low mournful sound of strings and woodwinds – and her body started moving, the steps so much a part of her that even now, three years later, she didn’t have to reach for them.
All the longing of the piece mixed with her own feelings until she didn’t know where she ended and the choreographer’s intention began. And there was something else, a new understanding flowing through her, a deeper meaning she hadn’t found when she’d danced it before.
All her confusion and pain found their way into each step until the dance felt richer and more authentic than anything she’d done before. She gave herself over to the steps and the music, let her heart open and let it break, feeling for the first time what she’d only glimpsed every other time before.
She’d danced it well back then. It had been considered one of her finest roles, and yet she’d never understood it fully until now.
The last note sounded, a piercingly bittersweet note that hung in the air. Emily held her arabesque until the sound dissipated into the stale air of the club, her chest heaving. She felt depleted and wrung out, yet as clear-headed as she’d ever been.
She loved him.
The thought itself, once it settled on her, was no surprise at all. It had been there all along, waiting for her to recognize it. This new feeling in her dancing, this new depth – loving him had made her a better artist. She hadn’t known it was possible, could never have guessed it. Even the dance she was choreographing had begun to change in the past weeks, with new undercurrents that made it richer and more nuanced.
She stood in the middle of the stage, her mind racing. All along she’d thought she had to choose between Cutter and her dreams, happiness and her art. But they were one, entwined together in the best possible way.
She couldn’t leave him. How had she ever thought that was possible? Happiness was staring her in the face and she’d turned away from it, her vision so narrow she hadn’t seen what she was letting go. Maybe she’d lose money on the apartment she’d rented, but she could live with that. She couldn’t live without Cutter, so it was no contest.
The only thing she really felt bad about was her mother. Her mom would definitely be disappointed Emily wasn’t coming home, but she’d understand. She always did.
Grabbing her phone she started to call Cutter, but something made her stop. If she was going to live here, she needed some kind of plan. They both needed to know how their lives would work together, and Cutter deserved something well-thought out and considered, something believable.
Heading to the hotel business center she sat at a computer and looked up the job postings for the Las Vegas Ballet Company and Nevada Ballet Theater. Neither had jobs open for anything near what she’d be qualified for. But then she looked at NBT’s upcoming performances and saw that she’d performed half the dances they were doing in the upcoming season. Surely they could use someone like her to help stage the ballets or teach?
She didn’t have a résumé, so she spent the next two hours creating one from scratch. When she had something halfway decent she ran up to her room to change and then downstairs where she paced the lobby, waiting for the valet to bring her car around. Her head was spinning at the idea that she and Cutter loved one another, that she was so close to having him.
If he hadn’t given up on her that is. If he wasn’t so angry or hurt that he didn’t want her anymore.
Her very life seemed to hang in the balance and her body hummed with fear and exhilaration. It was nearly after three when she arrived at the building that housed Nevada Ballet Theater. Now she just had to hope someone would talk to her.
Luck was on her side. The receptionist frowned at her for walking in off the street, but when she looked at her resume her expression changed.
“Wait just a moment,” she said, picking up the phone. “The artistic director just got out of a meeting. I’ll try to catch her.”
Emily’s heart pounded as she looked around. They were essentially in the middle of the main hallway, and dancers passed by, talking and laughing. For a second she wondered if she could handle being back in a company and not dancing. It was the reason she’d avoided the idea for so long.
It was tradition for retired dancers to teach when their careers were over. The art form depended on dancers passing down what they knew. But on the rare occasions she’d let herself think about it at all, she’d imagined herself far older, teaching at the San Francisco Ballet or one of the other top companies in the country.
But she had to look beyond the idea of prestige. No, this wasn’t a world-class company, but then she had no experience teaching or choreographing. She’d be lucky to get a job at a place like this. Besides, the people here would love dance just as much as they did in New York or Paris.
The receptionist put the phone down.
“Ms. Wallace can spare a few moments to meet you. Take the elevator to the forth floor and you’ll see her office.”
Emily stepped out of the elevator clutching her purse and résumé. Another receptionist sat inside the artistic director’s office, and she nodded and waved her on.
“Ms. Chase?”
The director looked up from her desk and smiled, gesturing to a chair opposite her. Emily sat, nervously clasping her hands in her lap.
“I understand you’re interested in a job here?”
“Yes, that’s right,” she said, standing up and handing over her résumé before sitting again. “I’ve danced many of the ballets you’re performing this season. I’m hoping there’s a role for me here, perhaps staging or teaching.”
Emily held her breath as Ms. Wallace looked at her résumé and then back up at her.
“What brings you to Las Vegas?”
“I had to retire due to an injury and I’ve been staying with a friend here. I’ve just decided to stay permanently.”
“I was very sorry to hear about your injury. You’re a beautiful dancer. I’m sure it’s been a hard time for you.”
Emily stared for a moment, shocked that this woman had known about her.
“Thank you. It’s been an adjustment, but I’m managing. And I very much want to be part of a company again in some way.”
“I take it you don’t have any teaching experience?”
“I’ve taught roles to other dancers, and I feel my professional experience will be more than enough to teach,” Emily replied, trying to sound calm and confident.
“More than likely,” Ms. Wallace said. “I have an instructor going on maternity leave in two months, so I could certainly use someone to fill in for her. As for staging, I’d love to take you on in a part-time capacity if I can come up with the funds. That’s something I’d have to look into, and we’d start on a trial basis. But first things first. How do you feel about teaching a couple of small classes while someone observes? That’ll give us an idea how you’ll do.”
“That would be fine,” Emily said, amazed.
