Chapter 18
brOOKLYN
On the plus side, no more coaching also means no more of Kir’s grueling, punishing repetition, coupled with his critiques which were the exact opposite of “sugar-coated”.
Poisonous? Toxic?
Or am I just describing this brief thing between us?
The downside, though, is that I think I’m slipping. For weeks, I’ve felt like I had this burst of energy propelling me forward. I could see the Imperiya Korona right there on the horizon. I could taste it .
Without Kir’s personal guidance, that's fading.
Part of me wonders if any influence Kir has with Ivan Yelchin has also gone away. But who knows if us no longer working together…in either sense…affects that.
The other thing that’s disappeared together with the private coaching is the anxious excitement I got toward the end of each day.
Or, who am I kidding: even at the start of each day.
The knowledge that whatever else happened today—the cops harassing me for parking where I shouldn’t, or a crazy person at Fit World threatening me in the locker room—there was that delicious tingle waiting at the end of it.
Him.
Despite Kir's coldness and barked authoritarian orders, I really looked forward to being alone in that room with him.
Breathing the same air. Smelling his scent. Feeling his hands guiding and positioning me, even if I was already where I was supposed to be.
The worst part is, I’m pretty sure I know why it—whatever "it" was—ended: I’m not good enough.
Not in terms of ballet. There, I might be good enough. That’s not what I mean.
I mean that I , Brooklyn, am not good enough. Not for someone like Kir, with his wealth, power, sophistication and elegance. I’m too rough, unpolished and dirty for someone in his world.
That’s obviously why he ended this thing.
It’s late when I get back to Pearl after an especially grueling rehearsal. I groan and sag against her trunk, dropping my dance bag to the ground.
I roll the tension from my shoulders, feeling the angry, painful rumble of my stomach.
I should really eat something. I mean, story of my life, the last year and change. But I had to pay Diego the other day, and I’ve been tightening my belt ever since.
Maybe a bit too much.
From my cooler, I grab a Pop Tart, banana, and half of a turkey club sandwich that I’m ashamed to admit I snagged yesterday when Milena tossed it in the garbage can in the changing room. Then I sink onto Pearl’s trunk and dig in, groaning in relief when the food hits my empty stomach.
“I knew you were bullshitting me.”
I choke on the sandwich, jumping off the trunk and whirling at the sound of James’s voice. His eyes glint in the overhead glow of a single streetlight, his smile cold and cruel.
In the last year, when our paths have crossed, I might have mentioned that I wasn’t at my old apartment anymore because I was sharing a place with my friend Maya.
“I’m not sure what you mean?—”
I shudder when he steps toward me, my words failing as I slowly retreat.
“I don’t fucking like it when you lie to me, baby,” he hisses. “You know, I followed you to that chick Maya’s place once.” His lips curl dangerously. “You don’t fucking live there, do you.”
I try to smile as I force myself to face him. You can’t cower around James. It makes him angry when you cower.
“No, I definitely do live?—”
All at once, the wind rushes from my lungs as pain explodes through my stomach. I cry out, groaning in pain as his fists slam into me, doubling me over. Clearly, smiling makes him angry, too.
“I fucking hate when you lie to me, cunt,” he snarls.
Suddenly, he’s hauling me up by the hair and slamming me back against the side of Pearl.
“The. Thing. Is…” he grunts.
I whimper when his fist sinks into my stomach over and over before he yanks me upright. Nauseating pain curls inside me as naked fear wraps around my throat.
“ All women are fucking liars,” he hisses. “ And fucking sluts. They need a strong man and a firm hand to remind them of their fucking place. ”
I gasp for air, shaking in pain and fear as he slams me against the car again.
“I think we’re overdue, B,” he snarls, an evil grin on his face. “I think you need to be reminded of your place.”
I choke as he looms closer, his rancid, sour breath washing over me. Panic and terror claw at me. My pulse skips, my skin crawling as James grabs my shoulders and starts to push down.
My head spins. The world blurs. I glance down in slow motion, seeing the small but still horrifying bulge in his jeans as he snickers under his breath.
“C’mon, baby. You fucking owe me for lying to me. Take it out and fucking suck it like a good little?—”
It’s a snap decision. Maybe it’s because I've been at rock bottom for a month now. Maybe it’s because I haven’t eaten all day and I’m fucking starving , and this asshole just interrupted my one meal.
Or maybe it’s because a certain Russian Bratva leader has been teaching me to face my fears.
Whatever the reason, when I decide to do it, there’s no hesitation.
James chokes out a pathetic, groaning whimper when my knee slams into his nuts. Once. Twice. Three times, sending him into a ball before I shove him away.
Then reality hits, and my face turns white when I consider what I've just done.
He’s going to fucking kill me.
With a cry, I whirl and yank open Pearl’s driver side door. I dive in and slam it shut, locking it just before James lurches to the window, pounding his fist against it. I scream, looking at him through the glass as his face contorts with rage.
“You’re fucking dead , bitch!!” he roars. “All I wanted was your fucking whore mouth,” he snarls. “But now? I’m gonna fuck that ass until you scream for me!”
I’m shaking so hard that I can barely see straight or function. I somehow yank my keys out and try to shove them into the ignition. James keeps banging on the window, screaming all the disgusting things he’s going to do to me as I desperately try to shove the key in.
Finally, success.
My pulse races, my breath coming in short, gasping chokes as I turn the key.
The battery ticks over, then goes silent.
No .
I try again, my very soul collapsing inside my chest as I hear the impotent click-click-click of Pearl’s dead battery.
“Open the fucking door, bitch!!”
I jolt when James slams his forearm against the window.
“Open up, you fucking cunt!” he snarls, jabbing a finger at me, his face a mask of hatred. “Open it now and I’ll show a little fucking mercy. You make me break it down and yank you out, I’m gonna make you cry!”
In a panic, I lurch into the back seat and yank the little curtain shut that gives me some privacy at night. James laughs coldly outside.
“Not gonna fuckin’ stop me, you fucking bitch!”
He slams on the driver's side window again. Then it goes quiet. Just as I’m about to pull back the curtain on the window to see if he’s gone, there’s a horrible smashing sound accompanied by the sound of cracking glass.
Holy shit .
He’s got a rock, or a brick, or something . When it slams against the window again, I can hear the glass splintering, like it’s about to smash in.
When that happens, he’ll have me.
I don’t think I’ll survive that.
My pulse thunders as I whirl, yanking my bedsheets off the back seat. My hands are shaking, the splintering sound of glass rattling my every nerve as I pull down the folding seat to reveal the trunk.
I crawl inside, my whole body shaking and trembling as I turn and yank the seat back into place, plunging me into darkness. I hear glass shattering, and bite back a scream when James roars triumphantly as he gets through the window.
“You’re fuckin’ mine now, you fucking cunt!” he bellows into the car. I hear the click of the lock—probably from him reaching through and unlocking it—before the front door wrenches open.
He’s going to find me.
He’s going to hurt me, and rape me, maybe even fucking kill me.
In a panic, I turn on my cell phone and whirl to the back of the dark trunk.
…The little emergency release tab dangles right in my face.
There’s no time to wonder if this will work.
It just has to .
I yank on the tab, my heart in my throat until the trunk pops open, streetlights flooding in. With a last burst of strength, I clamber out, whirling to see James half inside Pearl, his legs kicking in the air.
Without another thought I turn and fucking run without looking back.
Finally, my legs threaten to give out and my body wants to throw up calories I can’t spare. I’m trembling and heaving when I finally stutter to a stop outside a bodega maybe eight blocks away. I bend over, raggedly gasping for air before it hits me.
My dance bag .
My old stuff, sure, but also all the pretty new things that Kir bought me: the gorgeous, designer warmup outfits. The leotards. The Repettos. The new Freed of London pointe shoes that I went and got sized for the other day.
I left it all back there.
And there’s no going back now.