I rose up out of the plié before my legs collapsed, and as the music ended, I leaned forward, closer and closer to the screen. We both had the same idea at the same time. We didn't actually kiss the screen—we stopped just short of it, with our eyes closed and our lips slightly parted—but it felt like we kissed.
"I can't wait for Monday," he told me. "I'm sorry I had to go away."
"Me too."
We talked about the date. Dinner at a fancy restaurant I hadn't heard of. A drink first at a bar I definitely had—the same one celebrities were photographed in, in all the glossy magazines.
And then what? Back to the mansion? Back here? A demure kiss on the cheek? Would it count as our first date, and sex would be too much, or were we technically on our third now?
I said goodbye and ended the call, then sat there staring at the screen. Monday still seemed like a month away, and with every day, the feelings grew more solid, more real. Being apart only seemed to make it more intense—what the hell did that mean? That this was the real thing? Or that I was setting myself up for some huge disappointment when he returned?
***
The next day when I got back from classes, Mr. Kresinski had taken in a package for me. When I stripped off the outer paper, I found a gold and green box with the black lettering of some store I’d never heard of.
The printed note said, “For you to wear on Monday.”
Inside the box was a dress so beautiful I caught my breath.
It was a cocktail dress in some soft, red fabric that seemed to flow over my fingers when I handled it. The skirt looked like it would reach down to just above the knee. It had a halter neck and a neckline that was sexy, but not over-the-top. It was...elegant. I didn’t have anything that was elegant. I’d have to put my hair up.
I slipped out of my clothes and tried it on. He’d got the size right...but given how closely he’d been watching me, that didn’t surprise me. I’d been right about the neckline. There was some cleavage on display, but it was the right side of sexy.
The skirt, though.... I looked at my legs in the mirror. It wasn’t like my legs were bad—several hours of dancing a day has its benefits—but I wasn’t used to seeing them bare. I either wore tights thick enough to hide the dressings I used on my scars, or pants. The skirt hid the scars fine, but I was very aware that underneath it, my thighs were bare. I’d just have to be careful.
I saw that I’d have to take the dressing off: the dress kept clinging to the edges of it. Luckily, I’d cut very little that week—just once, on Tuesday morning, after a nightmare had left me shaky. If I could manage to hold off until Monday, the cuts would be healed enough that I could get away without a dressing. Darrell would never know.
***
On Monday night, Clarissa helped me pin my hair up. I wished I had some jewelry that would look sensible with it, but everything I owned looked cheap and tacky next to the expensive fabric. I went easy on the make-up—I didn’t usually wear much, unless I was on stage. Clarissa pressed me to put on more.
“I don’t want to go over the top,” I’d told her.
“It’s a date with a millionaire, in a cocktail dress. I’ve heard of that restaurant. You have to book a table now if you want your grandkids to eat there. It’s not possible to be over the top.”
I grudgingly spent a bit more time on my eyes and lips. When I came out of my room again and Clarissa saw the whole thing—dress, hair, make-up and my best pair of heels—she squealed.
“Don’t,” I told her. “I’m nervous enough.”
“Pfft. What’s the worst that could happen?”
***
Clarissa asked if I wanted company until Darrell arrived, but it wasn’t as if I was going to some dive bar. This was K35, a place so painfully cool and horrendously expensive I’d never so much as dreamed of going. Okay, maybe dreamed. Besides, I trusted him to be on time—he’d said he’d be there at eight.
Just to be sure, though, I timed the cab to get me there at a few minutes past. As I opened the door and stepped out, the dress making luxuriously soft little sounds as it brushed against my legs, I felt at least eighty percent like a movie star. I walked up the curving white staircase, feeling the glances of envious tourists as the doorman held the door for me.
I wasn’t quite ready for the wall of sound and the warm press of bodies that greeted me. I’m not sure what I’d been expecting—people lounging on cushions and harp music, perhaps—but it seemed that the rich scrummed around the bar just like the rest of us. I could feel the panic rising in my chest as I felt eyes on me, a million strangers who might suddenly see me for what I really was—a pretender, a shell. What I’d done burned inside me like white-hot lava. Surely everyone could see it?
Calm down. Find Darrell.
I gritted my teeth and pushed through the crowd to the bar. Thankfully, a large crowd chose that moment to move away from the bar and there was suddenly some air. A few bar stools even opened up...but there was no sign of Darrell.
I checked my watch: five past eight. He was probably stuck in traffic. OK, fine. I was a big girl. I’d sit at the bar for a minute until he arrived.
Maybe eight seconds after I sat down on a stool, a guy slid in between the stools and stood next to me. Thirties, with straw-colored hair that was already starting to thin. “Hi! Buy you a drink?”
I forced my best smile. “I’m fine, thank you. I’m waiting for someone.”
He grinned and made no move to leave, so I whipped my phone out and called Darrell. I could chat to him until his cab arrived.
His phone went straight to voicemail. Why would he have it turned off? I tried not to let my disquiet come through in my voice. “Hi, it’s Natasha. I’m at the bar. Just checking in.” Then I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I hung up.
“Natasha. That’s a beautiful name.” The blond guy was still there, and apparently, he’d been listening in.
I gave him a tight little smile and then looked away.
“Come on, let me buy you a drink while you wait for him. Hey!” The last was to the barman, who sauntered over. “I’ll have another one of these. Natasha, what do you want?”
He’d obviously read some dating guide that said using a girl’s name would make her feel close to him, or special, or more likely to drop her panties or something. “I’ll have a cranberry juice—I’ll pay, thank you.”
“With a shot of vodka in it, and I’ll pay,” said the blond man.
“No shot, thank you.” My voice was icily cold. The barman nodded and walked off and the blond man sighed and went back to his friends.
Ten minutes later, I’d gone through most of my cranberry juice, clutching the glass so tightly my fingers had gone numb from its chill. Where was he? I was starting to get mad at him, which at least pushed back my panic a little. I pulled out my phone and dialed him. Voicemail again. “Hi, me again. Everything okay? It’s eight fifteen.” And then, because I could see the blond guy coming back, I added, “You’re late!”
I hung up and concentrated intently on my phone, scrolling through old text messages and hoping that would keep him at bay. It didn’t.
“If I dated you, I wouldn’t keep you waiting.”
I turned to look at him. “You aren’t dating me.”
“Ooh. Ouch. But I could be. I’m Rick.”
I just looked at him.
“And you’re Natasha. Are you a model, Natasha?”
I’d had guys come onto me plenty of times before. It didn’t make me panic, as long as I could get up and leave. That was the problem—I was waiting for Darrell, so I couldn’t.
He moved in closer to me, but it wasn’t the closeness. It was the attention. He thought I was beautiful, or at least attractive, and that only made me more aware of the secret I was hiding—the ugliness of what I’d done. Why didn’t Darrell do this to me? Why did his gaze on me feel good, when everyone else’s felt bad? The feelings weren’t made any better by the knowledge that I was several social strata belo
w everyone else in the bar.
“Really, it’s not a line,” he insisted. “Are you a model? You have fantastic legs.”
I thought of the scars, right there under the loose fabric, almost on show. “Thank you,” I replied, realizing too late that it would only encourage him. That he’d think my blushing was embarrassment at the compliment, a signal for him to proceed.
One of his friends called to him, and he gestured angrily to them, nodding at me. He thought he was going to get lucky. Thankfully, they managed to draw him away, but he made I’ll be right back gestures.
I checked my watch. Eight twenty-five. Where was he? I was too scared to be angry now, dangerously close to panic. What if something had happened to him? God, I’d been so selfish, worrying about sitting in a bar with some annoying jerk. What if his limo had crashed? What if he’d had some accident in the workshop? I pulled out my phone and got his voicemail again. “Darrell, I’m worried”—my voice caught and I had to force myself to relax. “Call me, okay? Call me now.”
As soon as I put the phone down, everything seemed to close in around me. Everyone was suddenly standing too close and it was far, far too hot. I could see the blond guy coming back. He’d seen me hang up the phone again and I could tell what he was thinking. I’d been stood up. I was easy pickings.
He’s right. You have been stood up. My stomach churned. What did you expect? Did you think it was real? Did you think it would last?
The floor started to slide and tilt. I had to grab hold of the bar top, dig my fingers into its hardness. My brain started to scream, over and over, the one thought that until now I’d been too terrified to even entertain....
He’s found out.
The blond guy was back and this time he actually sat down beside me, shifting his bar stool towards mine as he did so. His leg pressed against mine, and I was too focused on trying not to cry to pull away.
Of course, he took that as a sign of acceptance.
“So. Natasha. I don’t think your guy’s coming. He’s an asshole. Come on, a drink. Nothing more.”
I didn’t respond. I was staring straight ahead, trying to fight my way up out of the memories, but it was like being sucked down into thick, dark treacle.
He took my silence as passivity. “Unless you want something more. Maybe you do.” His voice seemed to come from the other end of a long, dark tunnel, yet I could feel his mouth right up against my ear. “Maybe you’re one of those women who like to be told what to do.”
His hand was on my thigh.
I scrambled off my stool and ran, blundering through the crowd on legs that threatened to collapse under me at any second.
Of course he doesn’t want you. Nobody wants you. You were fooling them and they found out. They know what you are.
I saw the sign for the restrooms. Nothing felt real or substantial anymore, except the hard lines of the cigarette case as I pulled it from my handbag.
Chapter Sixteen
Darrell
Two hours earlier
The alarm went off, but I ignored it.
I was at the whiteboard and lost in theories and equations, trying to catch up after a full week wasted in Virginia. I knew I was close. I kept imagining Natasha, doing her fouettés and pirouettes, or doing the promenade in her bedroom, spinning slowly without any apparent effort....
My phone beeped. Not an alarm, this time. A text message from Carol: “Back at work, I hope. Not having private dances?” I sighed and ignored her. A few moments later, another message: “Seriously, are you on the job, or on the ballerina?” I slammed the phone down without replying.
The second alarm—the one I’d set because I knew I’d ignore the first one—went off. I silenced it and grinned as I thought about seeing Natasha. I really had to go and get ready, or I’d be late to meet her. I needed to shower, find a shirt, get my suit on....
Another text message arrived from Carol: “Are you ignoring me?”
I viciously stabbed the power button and held it down until the screen went black.
In blissful silence, I took one last look at the whiteboard. I had to make it move like Natasha moved...
Natasha. The irony was, the more I thought about her, the more I was inspired by her, the less comfortable I was with the project. I ran my hand over the casing. It was the best—or the worst—I’d ever built. And once I cracked the problem, its most deadly ability would come directly from her, from her dancing. She was going to be the inspiration for something that destroyed cities...countries.
Neil would say to walk away from the whole thing, but then he didn’t understand why I did it in the first place. He didn’t know what was driving me, deep down—no one did, except Carol. And I knew I wasn’t going to open myself up enough to explain it to Natasha, either. Without even realizing it, I was tracing my scars through my vest, and just the thought of that day roused the memories from their slumber. I remembered then why I didn’t let myself question my work, but it was too late.
I quickly turned on some music and cranked the volume up loud. I could feel a cold sweat breaking out across my back as the screams filled my ears, the music failing to block them out. The anger rose up inside me like a physical force, every muscle going tense. I picked up the whiteboard marker, but my hand was shaking so hard I could barely write. I wanted to scream and yell and hurl stuff around the room, but smashing up my workshop would be letting them win.
Work, that was the answer. Solve the problem. Build the weapon. Use my rage. I took a deep breath and started to work through equations on the whiteboard, knuckles white on the pen, hoping, praying that if I focused hard enough the memories would sink back down.
Slowly—very slowly—it worked.
....
When I reached for my Dr. Pepper, I noticed it was warm. Weird...I’d only taken it from the cooler a few....
Oh God! It was eight thirty! I was supposed to have met Natasha a half hour ago, and I wasn’t even in the city yet!
I ran for the elevator.
***
Five minutes later, after the shortest shower in history, I exploded out of the front door of the mansion in just my jockey shorts. The driver was waiting patiently in the car—he would have waited all night, if he’d had to. I wrenched open the rear door and threw the armful of clothes I was carrying inside and then dived in after it.
I gave the driver the address of the bar and told him there was an extra hundred in it for him if he got us there before nine. As we sped down the highway, I tried to pull my pants on with one hand while I scrambled for my phone to call Natasha. Why hadn’t she called me? She must have been livid....
My heart sank as I saw the black screen of my phone and remembered turning it off. When I fired it up, I had three missed calls, all from Natasha.
Chapter Seventeen
Natasha
I staggered into the restroom, glimpsing slate tiles and soft, subdued lighting before I crashed into a stall and slammed the door. I pulled the dress up around my hips and sat down, my breath coming in quick, high gasps. The scars were so old, so well-healed, and that only made it worse. I hadn’t cut in six days, the longest I’d managed in a year or more, and I was about to destroy it all.
My hands were shaking so much I dropped the first blade. I pulled out the second and held it against my thigh. For a second, I caught a glimpse of my own reflection in its shining surface, saw my red eyes and mascara tears. I hadn’t even realized I’d started to cry.
The edge of the blade caught my thigh. A slight friction and the soft compression of my pale skin—
My phone rang.
I grabbed it with my free hand. The screen told me it was Darrell calling, but I didn’t answer, just sat there frozen, blade in one hand and phone in the other. Two rings. Three. Hot tears dripped onto my bare legs. The blade changed from cold to warm as it nestled against my skin.
I looked between my hands. I needed something to cling onto. Something real.
I pressed the button.
“Natasha! I am so, so sorry! Natasha?”
I swallowed, tasting saltwater. “Yes,” I whispered.
His voice changed immediately. “Are you okay?”
I sniffed loudly and I could hear the pain in his voice when he spoke again. “Natasha I am so sorry. I’m coming, I’ll be there in no time at all!”
I took a shuddering breath. I didn’t trust myself to speak.
He stayed on the line, offering reassurance and apologies, and I wanted to be okay for him, to dry my tears and laugh and joke, but I just couldn’t. And he knew I couldn’t—I could hear the fear in his voice.
And then suddenly I could hear his voice through the door, and I gasped and sniffed and stuffed the blades into the cigarette case and then I was opening the door and he was clasping me close to his chest as I sobbed into his shoulder.
“It’s okay,” he told me, and he repeated it over and over until it was.
I thought of the people outside, the crowd who’d seen me stagger into the restroom. “I don’t want to stay here,” I told him.
He nodded immediately and, slipping an arm around my waist, led me out of the restroom and towards the door. I kept my head down, my cheeks still shining with tears.
A man in a suit loomed ahead of us. Blond hair. Rick.
“Good luck, man,” he said as we passed. “She’s a fuckin’ psycho.”
Darrell whirled and slugged the guy, drawing a scream from a woman nearby. The man careened backwards, knocking over two of his friends. He didn’t get up.
Darrell gently escorted me outside. There was a Mercedes there, with the engine running and the door already open.
Dance for Me (Fenbrook Academy #1) - New Adult Romance Page 10
