First Position (Dirty Dancing #1)

by Melody Grace

  Dirty Dancing #1

  First Position

  BY

  Melody Grace

  Copyright © 2014 by Melody Grace

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.

  All rights reserved.

  Photo credit copyright Regina Wamba

  Cover design by Louisa Maggio

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  Table of Contents

  Raphael

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four.

  Five.

  Six.

  Seven.

  Eight.

  Nine.

  Ten.

  Eleven.

  Twelve.

  Thirteen.

  Fourteen.

  Raphael

  Raphael

  A woman dances the same way she fucks.

  Soft and self-conscious; lithe and graceful. Or wild. Passionate.

  Unleashed.

  It’s not just women either. If you want to know how a man will perform between the sheets, just take him to the nearest dance floor. You’ll learn everything you need to know. His stamina, his rhythm, the slow grind of his hips. Some people are born to it, others learn through years of careful study.

  And dancers? We fuck best of all.

  Our bodies are our instruments, and we use them in a symphony of pure pleasure. We know just how far to push you, the breathless pacing of true art. The rise and fall that will make you beg for mercy; the ache of satisfaction when we give it to you hard and strong.

  Dancing is the ultimate in sensual pleasure, a timeless erotic ritual that needs no words.

  I thought I knew what it was like to dance with a skilled partner, a woman who could match my every step. My drive.

  My passion.

  Then I met her.

  Every step she takes conjures wild, dark fantasies in my mind. Every sway of those hips demands satisfaction. My hands on her body. Her lips parted in the sweet gasp of release. Easing those sweet thighs apart and sinking inside deep her, inch by ravenous inch.

  Her innocence is intoxicating. My lust is fierce. Primal.

  To watch her dance is to know the torment of true temptation.

  She will be mine.

  One.

  Annalise

  I’m in a gorgeous square in the middle of Rome, staring at the most beautiful fountain I’ve ever seen, when it hits me: I think I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life.

  Around me, the rest of my dance company are happily snapping photos of the view, but when I look into the water, all I see is the impossible task ahead of me. Two months to dance like I’ve never danced before. Two months to save my career before it’s over for good.

  Maybe I should just go home.

  No. I stop that thought dead. There’s no way I can ever go home.

  It was a last-minute thing. I came home to find my mom dragging my suitcases out of storage, a determined look on her face. “Someone dropped out of the touring company,” she announced. “I pulled some strings and got you the spot. You leave for Rome tomorrow.”

  Rome?

  I stared at her. “I don’t understand.”

  “I was dancing solos at your age,” Mom reminded me, as if I didn’t already know. “The Black Swan, Coppelia ... But you’re still in the corps de ballet,” she said, referring to the lowest rung of the company, the nameless, faceless group who dance behind the major stars, out of the spotlight.

  There’s nothing wrong with that, it’s where all dancers start. I freaked out the day the letter arrived. I’d been accepted into the American Ballet Company, the most prestigious dance company in New York. All of my hard work, the years of training and sacrifice, had paid off. Maybe now, Mom would finally give me a break.

  I could make her proud.

  But the shimmer of membership quickly faded. Soon, just being one of the company wasn’t enough. It was about moving up, getting noticed, winning solos and larger roles. The training got harder, the competition more fierce. For the past year, I’d felt like I was running on a treadmill that only went faster: pushing myself harder, just to stay in the same place.

  “I’m trying, Mom,” I protested. “You’ve seen how hard I’ve worked.”

  “Not lately.” She gave me a cool look. “You’ve only been at the studio late four nights this week. When I was your age, I danced every night until my toes bled, and went straight back in the morning for more.”

  I felt a flush of shame as she looked me up and down, adding, “And don’t think I haven’t noticed your weight creep up. We need to cut back again.”

  I can’t escape my mother’s legacy. She was one of the best prima ballerinas of her era, and she still she has tons of fans—and a long list of people she trampled on her way to the top.

  “But what does this mean about Rome?” I asked, confused.

  “All the top dancers are staying here for the fall season,” Mom added scathingly. “This is the only way we can get you noticed. The other girls will be out partying, messing around. You can beat them. That is, unless you want to throw away everything we’ve worked for.”

  For a moment, I thought about saying ‘no.’ The truth is, I wasn’t so certain I wanted this anymore—the work, the long hours, all the counting calories and missing out on normal teenage life. But I knew only one answer would do. “I’m ready,” I said quietly, and went to start packing.

  But now, one week and a thousand miles later, I wish I’d been strong enough to tell the truth. Because here, away from my usual routine filling every hour of every day, I can’t help but hear the whispers of doubt I’ve fought so hard to keep at bay.

  What if you’re just not good enough?

  “Make a wish.”

  A voice interrupts my thoughts and I snap my head up. An old Italian woman is hawking souvenirs around the crowd, carrying racks of keychains and cheap jewelry.

  I stare at her, confused. She nods at the fountain, already sparkling with coins that shine through the clear waters. “You make a wish in the Trevi Fountain, it always comes true.”

  I dig a Euro coin from my pocket.

  “Wish for happiness and love.” The old woman winks at me, then moves off into the crowd.

  I pause, turning the coin over in my hand. Wishing for happiness ... I give a wry smile. The woman has clearly never met a ballerina. We could never waste a wish on that, not with a lifetime of hard sacrifice behind us, training for hours every day, dancing until our toes bleed and our limbs ache.

  We don’t dance to be happy. We dance because we have to. That instinct driving us on.

  I flip the coin into the air, watching as the sunlight reflects on metal: a dazzling beam in the b
right afternoon.

  Please let me win the solo. Please let me be good enough. Please let me make her proud.

  The coin slips into the water with a ripple, lost in the bed of other coins, other hopeful wishes.

  I just pray that mine comes true.

  Two.

  “Is it just me, or are these ancient Roman guys kind of on the small side?” My roommate, Karla, scrolls through her photos as we wait in line to board the tour bus. She’s the closest thing I have to a friend in the company, a street-smart girl from Chicago who danced her way into a full scholarship for school, and then straight into the Company.

  “You can’t say that!” I laugh. “Those things are religious relics.”

  “So?” Karla grins. “Look at him.” She zooms in on a statue from the Trevi Fountain, a gorgeous sculpture of a man wrestling with a wild horse. “You would have thought he’d slip the sculptor a fifty to make sure he was, you know, immortalized the way he’d want.”

  “Maybe he slept with the artist’s wife or something, and this is the revenge,” I giggle.

  Karla smirks. “Or maybe the ancient Romans were growers, not showers—”

  “Ladies.” She’s interrupted by someone clearing her throat. Our chaperone, Mademoiselle Ninette, appears behind us, so fast I jump. “Everything good, ladies?” she demands in her thick French accent.

  “Yes, Mademoiselle.” Karla gives her best innocent smile. “We were admiring the statue. The work is magnificent.”

  Mademoiselle doesn’t look like she believes us. “Don’t hold up the line,” she barks. “We have a tight schedule.” She moves to herd up some stragglers, her trademark silk scarf fluttering in the air behind her.

  “Karla!” I break down in giggles the moment she’s gone. “You know she heard everything.”

  “Oh relax.” Karla grins, climbing on board. “I’ve seen her, perving over the male dancers in their tights.”

  “Eww!” I cry, following her down the aisle. “I do not need that image in my head.”

  “And you know what they say about dancers, even the old ones. That flexibility never goes away!” Karla gives me a wicked grin. “Just ask your mother.”

  “Double eww!” I cry, pushing her down into a spare seat and sliding in next to her. “Never talk about my mother and ... that. Just, never!”

  Karla laughs, settling in her seat and pulling out her tour guide to Rome. “What’s next?” she asks, flipping through the book.

  “The Colosseum,” another voice speaks up. Rosalie, our third roommate, pops her head over from the seat behind. She’s clutching a clipboard and map, her long copper braid already unraveling in the autumn heat. “Then the Spanish Steps, the Forum, and St. Peter’s.”

  “In one day?” I exclaim. Rosalie just named every major tourist spot in the whole city. “I thought we’d get some time to wander, you know, really explore.”

  Rosalie shrugs. “I don’t make the rules, I just wrestle with the copy machine until I’ve got ink permanently tattooed on my hands.” She shows us the marks, smudged halfway up her arms. Although she’s nineteen, like us, and part of the group, Rosalie hasn’t danced an arabesque in her life. She’s here as Mademoiselle’s long-suffering assistant, running after her every minute of the day.

  “I’ve got some Oxyclean back in the room,” I offer. “It got those smudges off my pointe shoes, so it might be worth a try.”

  “Or your skin will peel off,” Karla adds. “Either way, it’ll get the marks out.”

  Rosalie laughs. “Thanks, I’ll take it.” Then, as if she has a sixth sense, Rosalie turns to the front of the bus. Two seconds later, Mademoiselle’s voice rings out.

  “Rosalie? Where are you?”

  “Back to work,” she says with a rueful smile. “Some of us aren’t lucky enough to get the day off.”

  “Rosalie!”

  She makes her way obediently to the front of the bus, just as the engine starts, and the bus pulls away. Rosalie loses her balance at the sudden motion, and goes flying into the nearest person’s lap.

  “It’s obvious who isn’t a dancer here.” The girl, Lucia, shoves Rosalie upright, scowling. “Maybe you should sit in on a class, learn something about being graceful.”

  “You can talk,” Karla yells down the aisle. “Didn’t you get so dizzy turning fouettes you puked all over the Director?”

  Lucia glares. Rosalie blushes, and scurries on up front.

  “She’s such a bitch,” Karla murmurs.

  “Yes, but her grand jetés put us all to shame.” I watch Lucia plug in her iPod and slouch lower in her seat, pointedly ignoring the beautiful city passing by outside the windows. She’s Italian, and hasn’t missed a chance to remind us, heaping scorn on our halting accents and halfhearted requests for ‘uno espresso, per favore.’ “You think she’ll get a solo?”

  Karla bites her lip. “There are only four to go around.”

  “You’ll take one,” I say. Karla doesn’t disagree. It’s not ego, it’s simple fact: she’s one of the best dancers in the company. I wish I could be as fearless as her, in life as well as dance.

  “So that leaves three...” I glance around the bus at the other members, making sure to keep my voice low. “Julia had that sprain,” I murmur hopefully, seeing one of the other best dancers chat with some friends up front.

  “But she’s better now,” Karla gives me a sympathetic smile. “I saw her in rehearsal before we left. The Director said she was promising.”

  I inhale a breath. Coming from the Director, that’s lavish praise.

  We both fall silent for the rest of the journey, all our earlier joking forgotten. When it comes to ballet, there’s no room to play around. Out of the full company of eighty dancers, we all know, only a small handful will ever graduate to be principals, dancing the big roles, and of them, maybe one or two in a generation will become prima ballerinas, the best of the best, praised and adored by all.

  My mom’s words echo again. She’s right, when she was nineteen, she was already a rising star in the company, wowing audiences with her solos and perfect form. Sometimes I feel lucky, having a mother who can understand my passion so well. She doesn’t ask why I spend three hours a night practicing my arabesque lines, or tell me they looked fine to her, like some of the other dancers’ families. They just shrug and smile in a bemused way, and applaud everything their kids do, but Mom will stay up with me in our converted home studio, critiquing me again and again until I’m perfect.

  But then, other times, the weight of her legacy feels like it’s crushing me, bearing down so heavily I can barely breathe. How am I ever supposed to live up to her? To even match her skill and talent, let alone find some way to develop my own style?

  I used to be certain, so sure I would succeed, but more and more, I hear the whispers rising, taunting me with my own limitations. The fact is, a dancer’s professional life is short. Most peak in their late teens or early twenties, and by the time they’re over twenty-five, their bodies can’t keep it up any longer. It’s a short window and I’m already into mine, with barely anything to show for it.

  “Hey, you’ll be OK.”

  My worries must show, because Karla squeezes my arm. “Julia has no musicality, and Lucia can do the leaps, but her toe-work gets sloppy after a while. You’ve got a solo locked.”

  “Thanks.” I manage a weak smile. “But enough of that. This is our day off, we shouldn’t be obsessing about ballet.”

  Karla looks at me, and then we both burst out laughing. “Fine,” I correct myself, giggling. “We should try not to obsess about ballet.”

  “I can think of the perfect distraction.” Karla points out the window, to where a group of Italian guys are waiting to cross at the lights. “I love the local scenery!”

  Three.

  Our next stop is the Pantheon, a huge old cathedral with a domed roof and elaborate columns.

  “Oh, look at the square!” I breathe, stepping off the bus. The church is set on a small piazza, the b
uildings all faded terra cotta and dark green shutters, glowing gold in the afternoon sun. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “Delicious,” Karla murmurs, and when I turn, she’s gazing at our latest guide, a twenty-something man chatting with Mademoiselle.

  I roll my eyes, amused. “Down, girl.”

  “Hey, I’m allowed to look.” Karla snaps a surreptitious photo of him. “It’s not like I’ll get to do anything else with this curfew they’ve got us on. Honestly,” she sighs, “I feel like I’m back in school with all Mademoiselle’s rules.”

  I nod, even though I never went to a real high school. Mom enrolled me at a special performing arts academy so my ballet training wouldn’t be interrupted. I got my GED and then joined the academy two years ago, without even a graduation ceremony. “It would be nice to have some free time,” I agree. “I thought we’d get to explore, but she’s planned out every minute of the day, down to the bathroom breaks!”

  “Still, we get to see it all,” Karla points out. “I mean, it’s not like we’ll have time to go look at all this stuff once rehearsals get going. They’ve taken it easy on us this week!”

  She heads inside with the others, but I linger in the square, turning my face up to the sun. A chatter of foreign accents washes over me, and I feel strangely adrift. Our first day off since we arrived, and I haven’t heard a single Italian accent: every major tourist site is crammed with sightseers, just like us.

  “Excuse me, would you mind taking our photo?” an American couple asks, holding out their camera to me.

  “Sure.” I line up the viewfinder to catch the church behind them. They look so happy with their arms around each other, so carefree. Snap. “There you go.”

  “Thanks, honey. Isn’t it incredible?” she says, beaming. “So Italian!”

  I smile and nod, but I can’t help but feel a pang of regret. We’ve been shuffled on and off the bus so fast on Mademoiselle’s whistle-stop tour, I haven’t had a chance to catch my breath and just experience the city. The statues and monuments are beautiful, sure, but part of me itches to get away from the crowds for a moment and experience the real Rome.