She ran down to throw herself into Romeo’s arms. She had to concentrate and stop obsessing about her commitment issues. The ballet came first. The first few moments of the pas de deux were okay, if tense. But then things started to go wrong.
“Stop,” Rubio hissed through his smile. “Don’t think of him.” He held her gaze as he swung her around in a lift. “Dance with me.”
She tried to push her dad out of her mind, but the more she did, the more she imagined him out in the audience, scrutinizing her every step. Her body fought the movements so she lagged behind the music. She was heavy for Ruby to lift because she wasn’t working with him the way she was supposed to. He made a warning sound after one excruciating sequence.
“Do it,” he said under his breath. “Dance, damn you.”
Petra tried…but everything was fucking up. To the audience, their performance probably looked normal, if not stellar. She wasn’t tripping or forgetting steps, she was just out of tune with her body and out of tune with him. Ruby tried to compensate. He stopped sniping at her and put all his efforts into making her look better than she did.
She was furious with herself but she couldn’t snap out of her tailspin. The music flowed on, nightmarish to her ears. She wanted this pas de deux to end. She wanted to take off her costume and makeup and go home to hide under the covers until tomorrow.
But she couldn’t. She was Petra Hewitt and this was her job. Rubio put his arms around her as Romeo, gazing into her eyes. She was supposed to love him. She was supposed to be transported by her love for him, so what had gone wrong? Juliet could love, so why couldn’t she?
What the fuck was wrong with her?
The moment she and Ruby moved into the next series of lifts, she knew something had gone terminally bad, so bad it wasn’t fixable. His hand slipped and she flopped onto his shoulder. He grabbed a handful of her dress and righted her, but it was too late to make it look good. They’d totally botched the lift. All the patrons would assume he was drunk, or she was on drugs, and gossip about it behind their crystal champagne flutes. Her face burned and her ankles wobbled through the last humiliating steps. Finally, it was over.
She would have fled the stage if Ruby hadn’t grabbed her hand in an iron grasp. “Reverence,” he said. “Do it.”
She was losing it. She bowed her head and sank into a curtsy, not wanting anyone to see her face. She couldn’t look out at the audience. She didn’t want to know if her father had stayed to watch, if he’d seen her egregious mistake—because it was her mistake, not Ruby’s, that made him fumble that lift. Anyone who was a dancer would have known it.
After a painfully polite bout of applause, they swept off the stage. “Happy now?” she asked, pulling away from him just inside the wings. “You dropped me in front of everyone.”
“Be quiet. They’ll hear you.” He tugged her arm, guiding her back into the deeper recesses of the stage. “What was that?” he asked when they were alone. “Did that make you proud, that performance? Proud for your dad?”
She burst into tears. “No, it didn’t make me proud. It sucked. I told you we had to practice more, but you didn’t want to—”
“Oh, no,” he said, cutting her off. “Don’t put this on me. None of that was my fault.”
“I was nervous. You weren’t out there with me earlier, when I saw my father. You should have been with me.” Even as she said the words, she recognized her hypocrisy. She constantly held him at arm’s length, but then lit into him when he wasn’t there.
He took her arm and held her against him, and wiped at her tears. “Okay, is enough now. Pull yourself together. We have to go out there, you know, even if you just danced Juliet like a fucking mess. Your father will not say nothing. If he does—”
“He won’t,” she yelled. “Don’t you get it? He doesn’t talk to me, he doesn’t give a fuck about me. He never will.”
“Then why are you so upset?” he yelled back. “Why do you care? What is going on in your crazy head? Why did you dance so bad, and embarrass both of us?”
“I didn’t mean to.” She wrapped her arms around her waist, hating this moment, hating this blow-up between them. Hating herself for being the one to blame. “I suck, okay? I guess that’s the problem. I’m a total fuck up and I can’t do this anymore.”
“You don’t suck,” he said. “Calm down, okay? You had a bad night. It happens.”
“No, I mean, I can’t do this thing...with you...and dance... I can’t handle it all anymore.”
He sobered, narrowing his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean?” She said it meanly, spitefully, so she wouldn’t start crying again. “I mean that I just want to dance. I just want...” She put her hands to her head, rubbing her temples. “I need some space, okay? Ever since you gave me that stupid necklace or collar or whatever—”
“Stupid? Oh, very nice. You call my gift stupid?”
“I’m not a dog! I’m not your pet. I’m a dancer. I’m Petra Hewitt. I don’t belong to you, okay?”
He took her arm and backed her against the concrete wall. She could feel his groin tightening against the front of her. “What are you talking about?” he said against her ear. When she struggled, he held her tighter, pinning her with his chest and hips. “Does not matter who belongs to who. You want me, I want you. That’s all that matters.”
“No.”
“No? It doesn’t matter?”
“No, I don’t want you. Not anymore. I told you, I just want to dance. I need a break.”
“You don’t take a break from desire, Petra.” She flinched as he forced a kiss on her, taking bold possession of her lips. She pushed him back and moved to leave, but he caught her from behind, pulling her against his chest. “I don’t understand this,” he whispered. “You don’t like me anymore? You don’t want me? That’s not what you screamed last night while you were coming.”
“Yes, you make me come. So what? I can buy a fucking vibrator to do the same thing.” Now that was a lie. There was no vibrator on the planet that would live up to Rubio’s lovemaking, but at least a vibrator wouldn’t distract her and torment her, and drop her onstage in front of her father.
“You’re angry right now,” he said with a sigh. The more she struggled, the more his arms tightened around her. “I understand you’re angry. You’re embarrassed, whatever. If you want space, you can have it for a while. I’ll be here. We’ll still dance together, yes?”
She nodded slowly after a moment. “Of course. We’re partners. That’s all I want, to dance.”
“Okay. We’ll dance.” He finally let her go. She ducked away from him, brushing the wrinkles out of her costume. He looked shell-shocked, sucker-punched, which ripped at her heart. This would be the hardest part, re-establishing the boundaries between them, but it had to be done.
“Are you angry?” she asked. “Do you hate me?”
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “I don’t hate you, no. But stop crying. We have to go out and work. You have to hold your head high and show your father what a beautiful, strong person you are. Everyone will forget the lift. Half are too drunk to notice anyway,” he added, waving a hand.
There was no way Petra could walk back out into that theater and face everyone. Face her father. It wasn’t physically possible for her tonight. “You go ahead,” she said. “I have to fix my makeup. I’ll be out soon.”
He watched her a long moment, and then he nodded. “Okay.” He sighed, one of his long, dramatic sighs, and slipped past her, back toward the stage. As he passed he caressed her arm, a soft, light touch. It felt like a goodbye, even though she knew she’d see him tomorrow in rehearsal.
In her heart, it was a goodbye.
*** *** ***
Petra asked him for space, and he gave it to her. Now Rubio had so much space in his life he was going crazy. Space in his bed, space in his heart. Space in his loft with his goddamn window looking out on the goddamn city that held no attraction for him anymore.
> He could leave if he wanted, negotiate a contract with some other company. He would miss Liam and Ashleigh, but he’d been in London forever, practically his entire career. He could leave and explore some other city, some other vistas. But no matter how far he went, he’d still be the same Fernando Rubio, a rough-edged asshole from the slums. He thought he was getting better with Petra, that he was maturing and becoming a better person, a lovable person, but she didn’t want to make a life with him, so he must have been wrong.
Still, he wouldn’t leave. In his heart of hearts, he knew that, just as he knew he’d never throw away her collar, even though he’d flung it in the trash can a hundred times. He wouldn’t leave London if Petra was here, because she might need him. If she went back to New York, he’d go too. If she went to Moscow, Hong Kong, Timbuktu, it didn’t matter. As long as Paulsen continued with his threats and harassing letters, Rubio would stick around. She’d gained another stalker—him.
Liam kept him updated about Paulsen, even though Ruby and Petra were no longer in a relationship, or sleeping together, or even talking together most days. They said only as much as they had to in order to work out the subtleties of Waking Kiss, the piece they were rehearsing as part of a love-themed collection of ballets.
Ironic.
Going along with the romance-oriented theme, the show was scheduled to premiere next week, on Valentine’s Day. It grated to play lovers with Petra when she’d thrown his love back in his face. She was a heartless, cold, career-obsessed woman. He’d known that when he first met her. He knew it before he met her, for God’s sake, and he’d pursued her anyway. He’d been a fool.
But heartless or not, he’d make her do justice to his ballet. He pushed her and challenged her and demanded one hundred percent of her, even in practices. She glared at him now, after his twentieth correction, her hands on her hips.
“Let me dance it,” she said. “Let me interpret it my way. It’s my role.”
“It’s my ballet,” he retorted. “You do it my way. The way I told you to do it.”
A few dancers drifted in to stretch and warm up for the next practice. Petra glanced over at them and lowered her voice.
“I don’t take orders from you anymore.”
“In here, you do,” he said, making no effort to be quiet. “We go again. Do it right this time. No wild arms. Lyrical, like this.”
He showed her what he wanted but she only scowled at him, pursing her lips. “Don’t insult me. I wasn’t doing wild arms.”
“They looked wild to me. And I’m not insulting, I’m directing. If you’d take that crown off your head, princess, you’d dance better.”
Petra bit her bottom lip hard. If the other dancers hadn’t been there, she would have gone off on him. As it was, she nodded to the accompanist and proceeded to repeat the combination—ignoring every fucking thing he’d said.
He felt rage. She turned to look at him over her shoulder, dismissing his opinion. Dismissing him. Without thinking, he strode over and yanked her arms into the correct position. “Do it right, damn you. Like this.”
She slapped his hands away. “Don’t ever jerk my arms like that.”
“If you won’t do what I say, what choice do I have?” He turned to the gawking dancers sitting against the wall. “Get out. All of you get out. Next rehearsal is not for five minutes.” A few of them moved, but not enough to suit him. “Get out!” he yelled in a breaking voice.
Even the accompanist jumped up, making a beeline for the door. Petra turned to leave too, but he grabbed her hand to stop her, hauling her over toward the mirror. “Not you. You don’t go anywhere.”
“Are you finished?” she asked, turning on him. “Are you done scolding and disrespecting me in front of everyone? Do you think you could give me just the tiniest bit of artistic license to interpret your ballet?”
She was talking too fast for him to understand, but it didn’t matter. He only answered one thing to her these days. “No.”
She ground her pointe shoe into the floor with a vicious twist and then turned to leave again.
“No,” he repeated. “You do it the way I like or you don’t go.”
“Oh, really? Are you being serious right now?” She looked as beautiful as ever with her green eyes flashing and wisps of her blonde hair escaping her bun.
“We premiere this fucking show in five days, Petra,” he said, his voice hard. “I don’t have time for this bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit. I’m trying to make it my own. I’m not doing the Ashleigh Keaton version.”
“Why not? She danced as good as you. Better, in this,” he added just to hurt her. It wasn’t true. Petra did his ballet beautifully, but somehow, she wasn’t there for him emotionally. She wasn’t dancing love. She was dancing distance. Anger. Disgust.
“I’ve left you alone,” he said quietly. “I did what you asked. Why do you hate me so much?”
He thought he saw her flinch a little. “I don’t hate you.”
“You hate me. You hate my work. You hate my ballet.”
She turned away but he didn’t let her go. He pulled her closer and leaned into the curve of her neck. Oh God, the smell of her hair. “Petra,” he groaned. “I miss you so much. Why won’t you come back to me?”
He felt her shiver. “I can’t. I’ve explained why a thousand times.”
“I still don’t understand.” He smoothed his fingers over her hair. “I don’t understand nothing. I’m too stupid.” His fingers skimmed lower, over her shoulders and down to her hips. The closeness of her body haunted him every second of every day. He pressed his cock against her as it stirred to life. “I’m stupid and selfish but I know how I feel about you. I don’t care about other women any more. I don’t look at them. I only think about you.” He smoothed his hands over her practice tutu, then lifted it up out of the way to press his palm between her legs. He could feel her heat like he felt his own heart racing. “I know we belong together. You know it too.”
“Stop.” She pushed his hand away. “Stop it. The others are waiting outside. Someone will see.”
He would have stopped if he thought she meant it, if she wasn’t melting into him like a lost, frightened child. “I don’t give a fuck if they see.” He caught her hand and twisted it up behind her back, so she fell forward against his chest.
She made a soft, scared sound. “They’ll see. Let me go.”
“Why? Am I too dirty for you? Too nasty?” He ground his hips against her in rough anger. “I’m not good enough for you, yes? Well, too bad. I don’t want to let you go. I care about you, Petra, I love you. What the fuck do you think about that? So what if somebody sees us? Does the world come to an end?”
She tipped her face up, pleading with him. “I told you from the beginning, I’m not going to be my mother. I’m not giving up all of this for you.”
Enough. He’d had enough of that explanation. He let go of her and threw out his arms. “I don’t want you to give up anything. I never asked you to give up one thing, not one. This is about you and your fucking father, not about me. You care so much about him, what he does, what he thinks. He doesn’t give a shit about you. Me, I love you. I’d do anything to be with you, and this is what I get.”
He could see his words hit home. She lashed out, her voice trembling in anger. “You keep saying you love me, but you don’t. You just like to fuck me. I know you don’t love me.”
“I know you don’t love me,” he mocked in a high pitched voice. “You don’t tell me how I feel, okay? Because you don’t know. You’re a very confused person, Petra Hewitt. You don’t know what love means.”
“That is quite enough.”
They both turned at the sharp voice of the theater director. Yves Thibault stood across the room, his arms crossed over his chest.
“This is not a discussion for the rehearsal room,” he said. “Every dancer outside can hear what you’re saying to each other.”
“I didn’t say nothing that isn’t true,” Rubio
spat, glaring at Petra. “She won’t follow direction. We can’t dance anymore, not like this.”
Yves’ eyebrows shot up. “You are contractually obligated to dance with her. The spring season premieres in less than a week.”
“She won’t dance Waking Kiss the way I like.”
Petra spoke over him. “He won’t consider any of my suggestions. He’s being a hardass just to frustrate me.”
“And you’re ignoring my suggestions to frustrate me,” he said. “It goes both ways.”
Yves held up a hand. “You two are the face of this company, the artists the other dancers look to for leadership. This squabbling and yelling cannot continue. It’s not professional behavior and I won’t have it at City Ballet.”
Petra’s rejection was bad enough. Now he was being lectured like a naughty kid. Him, The Great Rubio. Had he fallen so far? Was it even worth it anymore? He stared down at the lines in the well-worn parquet floor. “Fuck being professional,” he muttered, stalking to the side of the room for his dance bag. “Do it without me. Do everything without me, however you like. I’m going home.”
Chapter Eighteen: All Your Fault
As always, the tabloids worked fast. Brutal Ballet Break-up, blared the papers the next morning, with some months-old stock photo of her and Rubio looking annoyed. Petra wished she knew which shitty little corps dancer was supplementing their salary by selling stories to the press. Maybe the theater’s PR department circulated the stories to increase ticket sales. There was a last minute surge as curtain time neared, as people purchased tickets to watch the feuding dancers perform together. They’d be disappointed when The Great Rubio didn’t appear as her partner.
No one could find Rubio, and no one could rustle him up on the phone. Not Yves, not Liam or Ashleigh, not Petra herself. The Love Stories premiere couldn’t be rescheduled, so Yves tapped Edward to partner her instead. Edward hadn’t danced Waking Kiss before but professed to know “most of the steps.” If he got lost, she’d have to coach him along under her breath during the performance. Fun times.
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