A Terrible Love

by Eros, Marata

  “You will not quit today,” he says.

  “No,” I respond, my leotard and tights soaked through, my feet throbbing inside my shoes.

  “Tomorrow then,” he drops my hands and walks away. As he passes the other dancer he barks, “Four o'clock.”

  She waits until he's out of sight then flips him the bird.

  “Did I sign up for this fucking torture?” she asks.

  I give a slight smile, I'm so tired I don't know my own name. But I'm dancing. “Yes you did,” I reply.

  “How's your feet?” Then the girl sticks out her hand, “I'm Shelby.”

  We shake hands, “Jess. And they feel like they've been through a meat grinder.”

  Shelby laughs in sage agreement. “Did you look this dude up? Man... he's like the tyrant of ballet.”

  Yeah, I had.

  “He likes you,” she says, fishing.

  “He's gay,” I guess.

  “Bi baby,” Shelby elaborates like I care.

  “Whatever,” I say, unraveling my satin ribbons from my sweating ankle. I take the wool out of the toe box and slowly remove my toes, knowing the pins and needles to come.

  My toes flood with blood and circulation. My foot wakes up, grinding through the physical release of escaping its prison of satin.

  “Ooh,” Shelby croons, doing a mirror of my reaction. We toss our slippers in front of us and lean back on the unforgiving gym bench. We sit quietly for a moment or two.

  “What'd he say to ya?” Shelby ask, folding gum into her mouth as I unbraid my hair.

  “That I needed more passion when I dance...”

  “Ooh... passion!” she laughs. Then she gives me a sharp look. “Did he say anything about me?”

  “No,” I lie.

  “Huh,” she huffs then smiles, lifting a finger in the air, “Time for a de-skank.”

  I can't help it; I smile. My body is beaten but I'm happy.

  I head back to my dorm room, my pointe shoes bundled and twisted in an automatic collision of satin and laces.

  I keep to the lighted areas. I can't shake that someone is watching me. I know it's just a reaction to Brock the other day... and the news of some whack-job taking after female students.

  Nevertheless, an uneasy creepiness eats at the edges of me and I'm happy to insert my key in the lock, jiggling it in place after I close myself in my room.

  Just nerves, I think, gathering my shower gear up and heading back out to clean up.

  This time, I use a completely different route to the showers. It's twice as long.

  But safer.

  6

  “Shut up!” Carlie says.

  “No really,” I swear, staring straight into her dark eyes, “he had me up against entrance D and no,” my lips curl, “it doesn't stand for 'dick'.”

  Carlie smirks.

  “So operation Avoid Devin Castile?” she asks.

  “Is so on,” I agree.

  “What about Mitch?” she pauses, putting a finger to her pouty lips thoughtfully, nibbling on a long nail. “He's super-cute...”

  “How about super-embarrassing?” I say, folding my clean ballet gear and putting it away in a small thriftstore dresser with drawers that stick instead of slide. I jam the stuff in there and slam it with my palm and it closes. Sort of.

  “Stop abusing your shit and listen up,” Carlie says.

  I grab my Bio text and head for my door, the knob rattling as I jerk it open.

  “That prick jock is still in your Bio?”

  I nod. “He's not sitting in front of Brad and me anymore though.”

  “That's good, that fucker... look what he did to you!”

  The bruises had faded but my nerves hadn't. I was so looking over my shoulder when I was in class.

  Sometimes when I wasn't.

  Brock had made me paranoid.

  “Just report his brick head ass,” Carlie says.

  No, that'll get me even more attention. “Nah.” My eyes meet hers then I shift them away, I've never been very good at containing my emotions. “Nothing happened... really.”

  Carlie grumped, muttering, “His dumb ass needs to be reported, you have marks!” Then she gave a grin. “I like the way Castile did him up.”

  I give a vague smile, it had been rather amazing. I shove my thoughts away. “It doesn't matter, as long as he keeps away from me...”

  “And the biker dude doesn't piss him off again.”

  “Yeah, I think I'm gonna have to tell him,” I say nervously.

  “Tell someone, Jess. What makes you think that you can keep something like this to yourself?” Carlie's eyes become serious for once and I realize that a normal girl would have gone to campus security about Brock's threatening and physical behavior.

  But I wasn't a normal girl.

  I was the missing daughter of the South Dakota Senator who was running for President. My natural father was dead and my mother had made her choice.

  And it wasn't me.

  I live under the constant threat of discovery. Dancing has become a selfish and stupid act on my part. I couldn't also go running to the authorities because some asshole had a hurt ego and bad manners.

  And reminded me of Thad. I shuddered with the memory.

  I couldn't elaborate on my thoughts so I shrug at Carlie's logic and say off-handedly, “I'm just embarrassed about the whole thing, I don't want to spotlight it, Carlie.”

  She huffed. “Fine. But just because he's not hassling you and doesn't park his ass in front of you and Biker Dude anymore,” I smiled at her naming of Brad, “doesn't mean that He. Is. Done... you feelin' me, girlfriend?” Her dark eyes captured mine and held them prisoner.

  I turn, giving her a wave behind my back. “I'll be careful, stop worrying...”

  “I call bullshit!” she yells. Typical Carlie having to have the last word. Her eyes drop like a brick above her eyes and she repeats in a low voice, “Shenanigan bullshit.”

  I can feel her stew behind me as I walk away without comment.

  *

  I'm almost safely to Biology when I feel someone fall into step beside me, my mind already on the Punnet square packet, finally complete. I startle a little and then flush deeply when I see that it's Mitch.

  Shit-damn-shit. “Hey,” he says softly.

  “Hi,” I say back, my earlier embarrassment from a few days prior roaring back to dismal life again.

  “Truce?” he asks and I stop walking.

  I roll my eyes up to his, his pale gaze weeping with remorse. I look down again. “Listen,” I roll my lip into my mouth nervously then release it from my teeth, “I know it looked bad with Devin and me.”

  His brows rise.

  “Okay, really bad,” I say then laugh and he does too.

  I shrug a little helplessly. “I didn't mean for that to happen. He took care of Brock and I was feeling...”

  “Vulnerable?” he asks, his expression softening with a smile that makes the cleft in his chin flatten and disappear.

  I nod. “I'm grateful to Devin but...”

  “Not that grateful.”

  I laugh. “I can speak, you know,” I say with a smirk.

  He nods. “You sure can.”

  We stand there for a minute, his dark hair still damp from the shower and I'm reminded of how sexy I thought he was, how safe Mitch Maverick is compared to Devin Castile.

  I make a decision. Leaning forward, I rise to my tiptoes, my feet letting me know they are still sore and give him a quick hug. “Thanks for understanding.”

  “Still on for dinner?” he asks, releasing me reluctantly, his fingers clinging like taffy to my body.

  “Sure,” I say as the Biology bell rings.

  He takes my hand and pulls me close. I'm so sure he's going to kiss me but instead his words are cold water on my face.

  “We're gonna talk about Brock and what happened, Jess.”

  Right. Talking about Brock. Totally didn't want to. “Okay.”

  He hesitates a moment, wan
ting to do more, not sure if he should. Finally, he releases me and I walk into the class.

  Devin would have kissed me. Whether or not I'd said yes.

  That should have scared me.

  Instead, it did the opposite.

  *

  Brad's expression darkens with each word I lay at his feet.

  When I'm done recounting the events of last week his hands clench into fists. “I'm gonna rip that fucker's head off and shit down his throat.”

  I get a visual of a headless Brock with Brad squatting and grunting out a growler. I contain myself with an effort.

  “Ah, no!” I say, clutching the black leather of his jacket before he makes his way over to the circle of jocks that are gathered at the opposite end of the hall.

  Brock's eyes meet Brad's and he gives a chin lift and a middle finger at Brad.

  “That prick,” Brad says, stepping forward.

  “No, Brad,” I say then add, “he scares me, he'll hurt me.”

  That stops Brad. I give him the biggest eyes I have and he stares down at my face.

  “He can't hurt you if his face is broke,” Brad grinds out and I gulp.

  “True,” I agree slowly, “but he's got friends and I don't want him to notice me.” I look at him significantly then say, “More.”

  Brad stands and silently seethes, scanning the group of six guys. “He's a huge pussy to lay his hands on you.” He looks at them then gives me his dark eyes. “I hear shit about him.”

  I don't want to know. “What?” I ask.

  “Just guy posturing bullshit.”

  I wait, folding my arms and he sighs, raking a hand through his longish hair and he says, “Y'know, date rape shit.”

  That's like real rape, I think, there's no line there.

  My heart stutters and I think of Thad.

  I think of Faith, they're hopelessly intertwined in the bank of my memories.

  “Are you okay?” Brad asks and his voice comes to me through a tunnel, his brow furrowing between his eyes.

  “Yeah,” I respond. “Fine.”

  “You don't look fine,” Brad says doubtfully, “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

  Or one walked over my grave, I think from a distance as memory recall eats at the edges of my brain.

  “I'll take it from here, Gunner,” a voice like gravel states.

  Oh shit, it's Castile. My insides flutter, the butterflies loose and whirling with just the sound of his voice.

  Brad's eyes narrow, mine go to where Brock is standing. Seeing that he's gone, oxygen fills my lungs.

  No one is scarier than Thad. I survived him. I can survive anything.

  I look at Devin and he's wearing the trademark leather, a crisp white beefy tee stretched to bursting over the muscles of his chest, the steel-reinforced black boots boost his height to over six feet four, like he needed it.

  He makes Brad look small and that was saying something.

  “You know, Castile?”

  I nod, don't ask, my face begs.

  Brad watches me. “Jess here says she knows you, dude... but acts like she doesn't want to, if you dig my meaning.”

  Devin turns to Brad and they position in a subtle square off.

  I put my hand on Brad's arm, the leather giving underneath my touch. “It's okay, Brad. He helped, okay?”

  Of course, only Devin and I knew how much he'd “helped.” To his credit, his face remained stoically neutral.

  Brad's shoulders relaxed.

  “Treat her right, Castile,” Brad warns.

  “I'll treat her how she wants to be treated,” he says as he turns those blazing brown eyes at mine, “won't I?”

  “Yes,” I breathe, knowing it's true. Castile is like an unmovable force. A hurricane on a course, destination known only to it. The trajectory likely to change at any time.

  Taking anything or anyone in its path.

  As I look into those dark eyes, I know I am in the eye of the storm that is Devin Castile.

  *

  Devin has his hands jammed into his pockets but as we come to the first door he punches it open ahead of me. I pass through, the noise reverberating in the hall filled with students filing in opposite directions.

  He is moody and quiet and I am just... quiet.

  Operation Avoid Castile is a dismal failure. He obviously isn't gunning for my success.

  “I can't date you,” I blurt into the noisy atmosphere.

  “Who said I wanted that?” he growls.

  I stop and turn to him, the students flowing on opposite sides of our bodies like the Red Sea parting.

  “What?” I ask, feeling suddenly thick and stupid, like I'm swimming through mud. Or quicksand.

  Then he blows me away with his next phrase.

  “What about just fucking?” he asks.

  I'm stunned. When I finally recover, I shake my head. “I can't believe you just said that here.” I can't believe he said it at all.

  But the more I think about it, the more it makes a sort of crass sense. But not for the reasons he was thinking.

  Castile is thinking we can just quench this fire between us.

  I'm thinking I can avoid the emotional entanglement. If he doesn't care about me. If he just cares about sex, there'd be no probing questions.

  No finding out my real identity.

  I walk like I'm in a stupor and he prowls after me, saying nothing.

  I'm pissed that he's read everything so well. That he's sussed out what my body wanted even if I hadn't admitted it to myself.

  The prick.

  A flush rises to the surface of my skin with what I know I want to do with him.

  I stop outside my Physics class and I can feel his heated presence behind me.

  Large hands turn me to face him. Castile's eyes search my face.

  “I see yes,” he states. His eyes brook no argument, they implore me to give permission.

  “Okay,” I breathe.

  “Yes, what, Jess?” he asks barely above a whisper, his hands on either side of my head, the hallway ours, the students already cocooned in a class I should be in.

  But I'm not, I'm out in the hall with a dangerous man.

  “To fucking,” I say and can't believe I've said the words out loud.

  “Yes... to fucking,” he repeats and jerks me to him, crushing my mouth with his, forcing my lips open for his tongue and I let him, my core moistening with heat and I'm suddenly lost.

  In the hall of a faraway school, I toy with the danger of exposure because I weep for Castile's touch.

  I pull away, a half-stagger, my hand touching my swollen lips and he gives a cocky grin. “Tasty,” he says.

  “I'm dating Mitch,” I say and a flash of something crosses his face and is gone before I can read the emotion. It almost comes to me but his words shatter the epiphany before I can latch onto it.

  “I don't share,” he warns and moves toward me again, his expression darkening as my eyes latch onto his sensuous mouth.

  “Fine,” I say reflexively.

  “Don't fuck him,” Castile orders.

  We stare at each other. I know when a treacherous game has begun.

  “I don't want him to know...” I say in a shaky voice, a fine tremble in my hands as I push the escaped wisps of hair behind my ears.

  His mouth turns up at the corners. “Don't worry, Jess. My cock's for the taking, your pussy is not.” His coarse language should have derailed me. My need for blending in should have come first. My latent fear of males should kick in for self-preservation's sake. I wait for logic to assert itself. With each second that ticks by Devin’s smile widens. Finally, he grins.

  I sigh, utterly disgusted with myself.

  Utterly decided.

  I want Devin Castile and have agreed to his terms. He just doesn't know why.

  A decision fueled by lust, secured by my desire for anonymity.

  Perfect.

  Or so I believe.

  I watch him walk off, a mountain of lethal ta
ttooed muscle: purposeful, intense, sexual.

  And soon to consume me.

  *

  “Okay,” Carlie starts, whipping her curly hair over her shoulder and turning on her signal. She gives a glance to the right and then her left. When the coast is clear, she inches out into traffic. “So you've finally decided to join us sluts... awesome,” she says, keeping her eyes on the road.

  I bark out a laugh. “Not really,” I defend against the indefensible.

  “Oh yes. Fucking-A-really, Jess.” She shifts her gaze off the road and pegs me with serious eyes.

  I become quiet.

  “You've been with what? Two guys?”

  I put two fingers in the air.

  She nods, her eyes straying to the slick pavement, the light drizzle that falls slicking the road in a dangerous mixture like butter on a griddle. The oncoming lights of the cars pierce the dark interior of the car as I put my knees slightly underneath me, sweeping my bent legs until my high heels touch the door, facing Carlie.

  “And,” she drawls, “it's been two years. Sounds like the curse of the twos.”

  I smile in the gloom, Carlie has a way of phrasing things.

  “Let's hope he doesn't have a two inch dick,” she says, stabbing the accelerator through a hole in traffic.

  I gasp, grabbing the oh shit handle in the Jeep. “Come on!”

  “Coming...” she says and winks.

  “God, you're so bad,” I say.

  We're silent for a minute, pulling up to Amber's house. She's appropriated her parent's basement and there's a door with a low porch light attached, illuminating steep concrete stairs to what she lovingly refers to as “the dungeon.”

  “Did you text her?”

  “As we speak...” Carlie says, blowing a spiral curl out of her vision as she furiously texts Amber with her nails.

  I turn at the waist to face Carlie.

  “There!” she stabs the send feature and looks at me. “What?”

  “Don't tell Amber.”

  “She's gonna think you're doin' both of them.”

  Ugh. Terrible. “Tell her I'm a player.”