Chapter 6 #2
And while I am a dancer now, it’s for a smaller company that can only afford to pay us a fraction of what bigger performance companies do.
To make up for my small salary, I’ve resorted to waitressing and teaching dance throughout the years to provide for myself.
Once I get my first paycheck here, it will put me back on my feet.
For now, it’s a waiting game of what the least amount of calories you can survive on is.
I find Theo’s door ajar and walk straight in.
He’s leaning back in his chair, phone in hand, grumbling to someone to “make it work.” I set his coffee and food down on the dark wood of his desk, but he barely acknowledges my existence with more than a glance from his peripheral.
As I walk back out, I realize I’ve never hated anyone as much as I loathe him right now.
Juvenile? Sure. But when you’re starving and forced to deliver food to someone who doesn’t even seem to care or appreciate it, bitterness feels justified.
Back at my desk, I search through the employee database and find only one Stewart listed in Accounting. I call him and politely explain that Mr. Prescott said I’d need a credit card for business purchases.
Fifteen minutes later, the elevator fifty feet away dings, and a man with slicked-back hair and a plaid dress shirt walks over. When he sees me, his smile spreads wide, an obvious excitement lighting up his eyes.
I’ve seen that look before. He thinks I’m hot. And while he isn’t half bad looking himself, I will absolutely not be dating anyone here. There’s no hookup worth risking the amount of money and security I’ll soon be making.
“Marley? It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve already heard a lot about you,” Stewart says, shaking my hand before leaning over the counter to my desk.
“You’ve heard about me already?” I ask, surprised, considering I’ve only worked here for a week or so. “Hopefully, you haven’t heard any horror stories.”
“No, no. All good things.” He leans over and whispers, “How’s it going with him, by the way?”
“It’s … going.” I smile back, polite and yet not wanting to indulge too much information.
“Well, don’t let him scare you off. Based on what I’ve witnessed, his growl is bigger than his bite.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I whisper back, unconvinced. “I’m pretty sure he hates me.”
“Don’t take it too personally. Pretty sure he hates everyone.” He hands me a yellow envelope, sliding it across my desk until it reaches me. “Here’s your company card, and all the information about spending and monthly expense reports is inside too.”
I can’t believe they’re trusting me with a credit card that probably has no spending limit. I’m not a criminal, unless you count stealing mints, but I am the daughter of one. My mom’s done more illegal shit in one month of her life than most people could pull off in three lifetimes.
“You’re a lifesaver, seriously. Thank you,” I tell him. “It’s nice to speak to someone normal here.”
Stewart scratches the back of his head and takes a big inhale like he’s hyping himself up to ask me something. “Hey, do you like Italian food?”
“The real question is, who doesn’t like Italian food? Of course, I do.”
He smiles. “Good. Then would you want to grab some with me on our lunch break?”
I pause, searching for the right answer. I’m not opposed to lunch with him. I really could use a friend or two around here. What I am opposed to is the embarrassment of telling him I can’t afford to pay for my half of a meal.
“We’re working through lunch.” Theo’s voice, deep and all business, cuts through the otherwise silent room. He’s standing in the doorway of his office with daggers in his expression. Stewart and I jump like we’ve been caught fucking behind my desk.
Giving me a wide-eyed look, Stewart nods his goodbye and turns right back to the elevator. Obviously, his whole spiel about Theo being harmless was a lie he didn’t even believe.
I swivel in my chair to face the devil incarnate. “What’s this about working through lunch?”
“The meeting is at eleven a.m. and will last over an hour. Or did you forget while you were busy flirting out here?”
“I was not flirting,” I scoff. “He was dropping off the company credit card.”
“Oh, right. Because handing someone a credit card requires that much smiling,” Theo grumbles.
Challenge accepted, motherfucker.
“I’m not surprised you seem offended by a smile. Seeing as I’ve never even seen you do it.”
He stares at me, his expression unreadable. “Could be because I’m too busy working. You should try it sometime.”
This is only day eight, and we’re already arguing.
But I really, really need this paycheck, and he is the one signing said paycheck.
So, I put a pin in it and suck it up, pasting on my perfect performance smile.
It’s too syrupy sweet, and probably comes off as sarcastic, but it’s miles better than anything else I want to say aloud to him right now. “Yes, sir. Of course.”
His nostrils flare before heading off to his office and closing the door behind him. If it wasn’t for the meeting in a couple hours, I suspect he’d stay locked in there again all day.
The meeting runs long.
And when I say long, I mean I’ve aged a solid decade by the time I step out of the conference room.
It was ninety minutes of people pretending to care about what everyone else had to say. Judging by the glazed, checked-out expressions around the table, no one actually heard a damn thing.
Except Theo. He was laser-focused the entire time.
The rest of them only stayed sharp out of fear, with Theo’s reputation still doing half the work for him.
I took notes surprisingly well for someone who’s never done it before, scarfing down bites of deli sandwiches between scribbles. I ordered them specifically for the meeting, a strategic move to keep everyone from losing their will to live.
The only time Theo looked at me was to make sure I caught something vital—profit margins, projected returns, market trends, investment strategies. I have no fucking clue what any of that means, but I wrote it all down like my life depended on it.
Partly because it does.
Partly out of pure spite for the failure he clearly expects me to be.
When we step into the hallway, I hang back to see off the dozen or so attendees. They each make eye contact and smile, miles warmer than my boss has ever been.
But instead of disappearing like usual, Theo stays beside me, saying nothing as we wait for the last person to step onto the elevator.
He clears his throat. “I’ll need those notes typed out into a PDF and emailed to all attendees by tomorrow morning.”
“Okay,” I reply, not letting him see my panic. “Is there a certain time you need it by tomorrow morning? Specifically speaking?”
“Specifically speaking, let’s make it eight a.m.”
He stares at me, awaiting my protest. It is the reaction I admittedly want to have. However, that challenge in his expression makes me mask any insecurity I’m currently feeling.
“I’ll have it done,” I reply, confident.
His brows raise for a split second before coming back to rest in that infuriating scowl. Clearly, it’s not the response he had been waiting for. Adjusting the top button of his perfectly tailored suit, he nods and disappears exactly the way I’ve grown accustomed to.
As soon as I sit back in my swivel chair, I attempt to figure out the ancient-looking transcribing pedal and proceed to frantically type. I work like there’s someone beside me with a gun to my head until the timer on my phone rings out that it’s time to leave for rehearsal.
Flipping through the pages of notes, I see that I’m only halfway finished. That means one of two things: either I skip rehearsal to finish, or come back later tonight.
My ballet company manager, Colette, is already perturbed that I’ve showed up late twice this week. I can’t have my spot at the company on the line. I just can’t. It’s the only good thing in my life that I have to look forward to.
I sprint to the subway, racing to make it there on time. When I arrive, all the other company dancers are strewn about the sprung floor, legs and bodies in various positions of stretching and warming up.
After a quick change in the bathroom, I twist my long dark hair into a makeshift bun and slip into line at the barre next to my best friend, Emmy, right as the clock hits six o’clock.
“Where’ve you been? Colette looked like she was ready to scorch the earth when she saw you walk in,” Emmy whispers out the side of her mouth.
As if we’ve conjured her from our whispers, Colette, famed Elysian Ballet Company principal dancer in the early 2000s, strides out.
Her hair is slicked back into a flawless bun that never seems to change in or out of the studio.
Her narrow eyes sweep across the room, ensuring that everyone is accounted for.
“Nice of you to join us on time for once, Marley,” she remarks, nodding to the pianist in the corner of the room, signaling that it’s time for class to officially begin.
I don’t even bother replying. She will make me pay for every second of past tardiness, and honestly, I’m fine with it. Let her torture me with critiques and impossible dance combinations. If anything, it’ll sharpen me. Make me better. Or maybe I’m also a bit of a masochist in need of a distraction.
Throughout our grueling practice, I feel the tangled mess of tension in my shoulders relax.
A light layer of sweat forms beneath my breasts and hairline from the exertion of our third run-through.
But every moment I push harder, jump higher, pirouette faster, my mind slips into a place that’s empty, peaceful.
Where addict parents and asshole employers no longer exist. Where my stomach doesn’t growl and I don’t check my bank account every two hours to see if somehow my new job has magically decided to pay me sooner.