by Sienna Parks
We work our way through security and toward the departure gates, relishing each moment we have together; our imminent departure to connecting flights hanging heavy in the air between us. I guide her toward the international departure gates, my hand on the base of her back; my skin burning from the contact. I can’t even wait with her. I need to go to the domestic flights departure lounge. I should have been there ten minutes ago, but I just can’t tear myself away from her.
When I can’t go any further I stop dead, unable to let go of her hand. We haven’t spoken since we stepped off the plane, but it doesn’t seem necessary. The draw I feel in her proximity is crackling between us; a physical force that we can’t ignore. Electricity courses through every cell in my body as she turns to face me.
“I guess this is where we say goodbye then. Prague awaits.” I have no words. I just stand and stare at her, entranced by her effortless beauty. “When will you be back in New York?” She snaps me out of my reverie.
“A week. I’m only in Edinburgh for a week. You? How long is this tour?” I don’t know why I’m desperate to hear her answer. I know I need to stay away from her, but I also need to know that she’s close by. To know where she is in the world.
“Three weeks. I’ll be back in New York for a week before I set off again. Doing a stint around the States, so at least I won’t be halfway across the planet. Maybe we could meet up when I’m back in town?” She looks at me expectantly.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
She steps closer, her breasts brushing against me as she drops my hand and snakes her arms around my neck. This is the Vittoria from Verona, the girl I fell even more deeply in love with. Her quiet confidence has returned. She stands on her tiptoes, her lips almost touching mine, tormenting me as her breath caresses me. “Tell me it’s not a good idea. Tell me you don’t feel this; that you don’t feel how explosive it is between us when we’re together. Tell me you don’t want me; that you don’t feel anything more than friendship for me and I’ll never bring it up again. But don’t lie to me, Logan. I can feel your heartbeat against my breasts. It’s racing, just like mine. I can feel your dick straining against your pants, hard against my thigh… go on… tell me you don’t want me.”
“Jesus Christ. Why do you push me?” I bite down hard on my lip, tasting blood, trying to no avail, to hold in the words I know are about to trip out of my mouth. “You already know.”
“Know what? Tell me.” I grab her face in my hands, searching it for a way out, for a reason not to say it, but I have to. I can’t keep it in any longer. I’ve waited nine years to say it.
“I’m in love with you, Vittoria. Never doubt it.” I crash my lips down on hers, exploring, pillaging, taking, giving, wanting. She tastes even better than I remember. She gives me everything, melting into my arms, her hands fisting in my hair, pulling me closer. Her tongue strokes mine, teasing me, torturing me. It’s a sweet kind of agony.
It takes every ounce of strength I have to break this kiss, this connection between us.
“I need to go. You need to go. This has to end here, Vittoria. It’s what’s best for you, and I will always do what is best for you.” I steal one last kiss. “I love you. You are my Nyx. No one will ever compare to you.”
It breaks my heart as I turn and walk away from her, forcing myself not to look back, and that’s when I hear it. It’s barely a whisper through the crowded airport, but it hits me like a freight train.
“I love you, too… Master Fitzgerald.”
I whip my head around to see her striding through the gate, her back to me. “Vittoria…” She doesn’t falter. She simply turns her head and locks her gaze with mine, placing her hands behind her back, clasped at the wrist in a submissive position. She nods her head in acknowledgement, before dropping her gaze to the floor and walking out of my line of sight.
“FUCK!” She knows about me. What have I done?
My mind is reeling as I’m left standing, staring at the spot where she stood. My world has just shifted on its axis… completely fucking stopped.
Why do I feel like my life is becoming a series of moments where I find myself walking away from Vittoria de Rossi?
I hate that I show weakness around him. I’ve never shown that side of myself to anyone before. I shut that part off so many years ago, I didn’t even know I was capable of it. He brings something to the surface, a vulnerability that I have long suppressed. I can’t explain it, or rationalize it, I simply have to survive it.
Logan has made it clear in his words that we can never be together… but his body tells an altogether different story. I’m not usually the predator when it comes to men, I’m the exact opposite. I’m a submissive for God’s sake. I know everything there is to know about Logan Fitzgerald. Music mogul, best friend to my big brother, man of honor, and a Master Dominant. He is everything that I crave in a partner, and yet I find myself going against everything that I stand for when it comes to him.
I have thrown myself at him, forced him into a position where he can’t ignore me, which I know is not something that he finds attractive, but I can’t help myself. I want him. He makes me feel and act in ways that I have never even contemplated before; that I don’t understand. When I’m around him I don’t think, I can only feel.
When he told me he loved me at the airport, I snapped. I hadn’t planned on letting him know that I’m aware of his… extracurricular activities. I had a plan for talking to him about it, for telling him about my own predisposition, and now I’ve really thrown the cat amongst the pigeons. There was a reason he never told me when we were together, and I respected his decision. I wanted to carefully broach the subject with him when the time was right, but I never got the chance. The look on his face when I called him Master, was so pained, so wounded. I wish I could take it back.
Now, I’m in Prague, he’s in Edinburgh, and it’s been three days since I left him in London.
I’ve replayed all of our interactions over and over in my mind, looking for a hint… anything that could help me figure out my next move. I can’t sleep and I can’t concentrate. The only time I can ever really block him out is when I’m on stage. It’s the only time that I can truly let go of everything in my life, in my head. I can escape, I can be free of the shackles that bind me. I can… fly… soar… be anything I want to be. Even rehearsals have been a bust these past few days. My dance partner Luca has been on my back about my lack of focus.
I sprained my ankle today, and with a performance tonight, it’s something I could have done without. They wanted to put my understudy on, but I got the doctor that travels with us to give me an injection and strap it well enough that I can power through. Being a ballet dancer is all about dancing through the pain, and this is no different. I’m just annoyed at myself for letting Logan get to me so badly that it’s affecting the one thing that has grounded me all these years.
When everything happened with Marcus, I never thought I would feel again. I shut down completely. Carter was the only person that I could let in. I don’t know if it’s because he found me that day, or because he was already the person I trusted most in the world. Whatever the reason, he was my lifeline. He sat with me night after night, holding me, protecting me, telling me that it was going to get better, and little by little, it did.
I began to channel all of the feelings I couldn’t deal with, focusing them on a single task – to become a prima ballerina. I started dancing when I was four years old. It was always inside of me; that desire to dance. But when I truly focused all my energy, it transformed into something different. Something that went far beyond a love of dance, or a yearning to succeed. It became the air in my lungs; the blood pumping through my veins; the very reason for my existence.
It’s a tradition, or maybe a superstition of mine before a performance, to have a long hot bath in my hotel room. I let the steam rise around me, the bubbles surround me, and I let myself drift off into a calm space, where I can mentally run through all the cho
reography for the evening ahead.
Tonight, as I lie naked in the burning hot water, my ankle is soothed, but my mind is still unsettled, filled with thoughts of my last encounter with Logan.
He said he loves me.
That has to mean something. Surely. But, why did he say it when he doesn’t want to be with me?
I’m going to drive myself crazy if I keep playing these questions on a loop in my head, and so I do the only thing that seems to be a solution to my problem in this moment. I pick up my phone from the side of the bath, shut off the music I have playing, and pull up Logan’s contact details. My finger hovers over the call button for what feels like an eternity before I chicken out and open the message app. I think better of it at least five times before I finally type a short message.
Me: Why did you say you love me?
The moment I hit send, I regret it, but I don’t have long to ponder my mistake. I’m startled by the sound of my phone beeping with an incoming message within seconds.
Logan: Because I do.
My heart soars and crashes inside of my chest as I quickly type my reply.
Me: Then why don’t you want to be with me?
Logan: I do want to be with you…
Me: Why do you keep pushing me away?
Logan: It’s better this way.
Me: For who? You?
Logan: For you. Always for you.
I don’t know how to respond to that, and I don’t have to when my phone beeps again.
Logan: How do you know about me?
Me: We have mutual friends.
Logan: My friends would never divulge my private business to anyone outside the lifestyle.
Me: Exactly.
It takes him a few minutes to respond as I wait impatiently, tapping my fingers on the side of the bathtub.
Logan: What are you saying?
Me: You know what I’m saying. You just don’t want to admit it.
Logan: It can’t be true. I would know.
Me: I’ve gone to great lengths to keep this a secret.
Logan: Then why are you telling me? Why now?
Me: Because you said you love me. That you want me.
It’s an agonizing wait for his reply. What can only be minutes, feels like hours.
Logan: Don’t you have a show tonight?
I can’t believe that’s his response.
Me: Yes.
I’m hurt that yet again I’m putting myself out there, and he’s pulling away from me.
Me: Forget I said anything. You’re right. I have a performance to focus on.
How many times am I going to throw myself at Logan Fitzgerald and have him turn me down, all the while telling me that he wants me? It’s confusing, and I can’t keep feeling like this. My life is regimented and simple. I know where I stand in all things. I need to let this go and move past it. I switch my phone onto silent, place it back on the side of the bath and slowly immerse myself under the water for as long as my lungs will allow. When I emerge, I try my best to leave behind the sadness, and the negativity that I feel. I don’t even glance at my phone as I grab a towel and head for the bedroom.
Two hours, and a lot of makeup and hairspray later, I find myself dressed and ready to do my final warm-ups before the curtain call. Luca is hounding me about my mood, and I know he means well, but I just want him to let me get through tonight and go to bed. My ankle is still hurting and my heart is heavy as the music begins.
There is an electricity backstage in the minutes before a performance begins. A mixture of nerves and excitement, fear and anticipation. It’s what fuels each and every dancer to give their all; to dance every night and every show as if it is the most important of their lives. Tonight, I can’t feel it. For the first time in my career, I feel flat, and Luca can see it; he can sense it.
“Vittoria… bella. What’s wrong? I’ve never seen you like this at show time. Talk to me.” I rub my hand reassuringly over his bicep.
“I’m fine. Sorry. Just a little tired tonight, and my ankle is a little sore, but nothing I can’t handle. I’ll be fine when the curtain goes up. You know me…” I don’t have the words to end that sentence, so I leave it hanging in the air. No one really knows me. I let them see what I want them to see.
For Luca, he sees a calm, confident dancer, who thrives under pressure. The reality is that I don’t feel pressure when it comes to dancing. It doesn’t matter if I dance for a room of thousands, or no one at all. I dance for me. I would rather not have the attention that comes from being on stage, but it comes with the territory, so I deal with it.
My parents see a daughter that was broken, but has faced adversity head on and pieced herself back together. They think I’ve moved on with my life. They see what they can bear to see. If they really looked, really saw me, they would see just how broken I still am. They ignore the signs and cling to the positives. I don’t blame them. Sometimes I almost convince myself that I’m okay.
Carter will always see me as his kid sister, who needs protecting. What I love about him, is that he’s always been that way. He didn’t change the way he treated me because of what happened, it’s just who he is, but I’ve always felt so guilty when it comes to my big brother. He may not have changed the way he is with me, but the way he’s treated women over the years has everything to do with what happened. He kept his distance, not getting emotionally involved, he guarded his heart against the bad, but it also stopped him from letting someone really love him. That was, until he met Addi. She has transformed him; she’s had an impact on my relationship with him. I don’t need to carry around the burden I once felt; the guilt of him missing out because of me. The moment I saw them together, I could see it. The look in his eyes, the way his demeanor changed only for her. They’ve had a really rough time in their relationship, but I know that they’ll get through whatever life throws at them. They are perfectly imperfect for each other. So alike and yet so complementary. They just… work. And they give me hope that I can have that someday.
When it comes to Logan, I have no idea how he sees me, or what he thinks of me. He says he loves me, but he can’t see the part of me that is screaming out to him; calling to the Dominant inside of him, and begging for him to claim me as his own. He thinks I’m his best friend’s perfect little sister, innocent and unmarred by the evils of the world. If only he knew…
I don’t want him to know. I hope he never finds out. But, I do want him to see me for who and what I really am – a submissive who so desperately wants to be his. He challenges me in ways that I both love and hate in equal measure, and I think I challenge him, too. I’ve forced his hand more than once now, and I can see that it unsettles him.
I’m brought back to the present by Luca’s voice in the distance, and yet, he’s standing right beside me. “Showtime. Get your head straight.”
The music begins, heralding my entrance and just like that, Luca sweeps me into the air and out onto the stage.
My concentration dances between the ballet I’m performing, and Logan, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. The fanciful stage that I’m gliding across, and the departure gate at Heathrow Airport. My heart just isn’t in it tonight, and as I perform a basic pirouette, my footing falters and I land awkwardly on my already sprained ankle. The crowd gasps, and Luca rushes to my side before the other dancers on stage improvise for a moment until my understudy takes to the stage. He lifts me into the wings, setting me down gently, and returns to finish the show.
I can’t put any weight on my ankle, and I know my own body so well, I can tell that I’ve torn the ligaments before the company doctor even looks at me. I lie heartbroken when he confirms my worst fear. I’m looking at up to three months’ recovery time, six weeks without any form of training whatsoever. I’ve never gone that long without dancing. I don’t know how I’ll survive it.
Luca stayed with me while they wrapped my ankle and set me up with a set of rather cumbersome crutches. Then, he helped me back to the hotel where we booked my fl
ight back to New York. I shouldn’t have travelled on my own, but I couldn’t face staying in Prague and watching everyone perform while I sat on the sidelines.
Now I’m back in New York, in my apartment, and I haven’t told a single soul that I’m here. I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours sleeping, thanks to some very heavy painkillers. When I finally come around long enough to be aware of my surroundings, I grab my phone off the nightstand to check the time. I forgot that I’d switched it off after texting Logan… it must be three days ago now.
I slump back down onto my pillow and power it up, watching as it immediately starts beeping and chiming. Emails, texts, missed calls and voicemails. Half of them from Luca wondering if I got home safely, a handful from my mom asking how the tour is going and if I’m eating enough! And then there’s the name that catches my eye. I have a message from Logan and a single missed call from his number.
I throw the phone down on the bed, unable to face whatever he has to say to me. I didn’t exactly leave things on a friendly note with the last text I sent. I’m so frustrated by how crazy I am over him. We’ve shared one very hot, very intense night which ended too quickly, a handful of kisses, and a few intense moments when I thought that we were really connecting. I’m not this girl. The one that goes gaga over a guy from the get-go, but I know it’s different with Logan. We’ve known each other for nine years, and I’ve been aware of my feelings for him since the beginning, but I still hate what he turns me into. A silly school girl who can’t concentrate on her own life, obsessing over what a boy thinks of her. It’s everything I hate. Everything I’ve never let myself be. I never give second chances, but with him, I seem to give them unconditionally.
Maybe he’s right, maybe I should stay away from him. But I can’t. Something inside of me keeps telling me, over and over again, that if I just break through his exterior, and he understands what I want in a relationship, then we could be amazing together.
I decide to call Luca and my mom before I brave looking at the text from Logan. I spend thirty minutes listening to my mom going on about Prague and all the things I need to see while I’m there, and I can’t bring myself to tell her I’m back in New York. She would fuss and worry and smother me for the next six weeks. Luca gives me an earful for not calling sooner, and then he talks about everything except the show. He knows that I live and breathe dance, and how much it will kill me to be away from it for so long, but not talking about it feels so fake, I can’t stand it.
