3. The Message
CHAPTER THREE
THE MESSAGE
Layla
Kitty, the makeup artist, finishes my face with setting spray and uses a small comb to control my flyaway hairs. I thank her, sit back in my chair, and grab my phone. I’ve already spent an hour warming up and have a few minutes before I have to change into my costume. Kitty rummages around in her bag as the other dancers get their stage makeup put on by other artists. I scroll social media as she does. My feed refreshes, and suddenly, I’m watching a video from a masked creator named Starboy1997.
He’s not speaking—just standing in what looks like some sort of dungeon. There’s text laid over his video, along with music.
Rachmaninoff’s “Isle of the Dead.”
Huh. Classical music is an interesting choice for a masked thirst trap.
It instantly piques my interest because I love all things Rachmaninoff, Tchaikovsky, and Mozart.
He’s wearing a black hoodie and jeans, and his mask is a black balaclava with a white skull image on the front. I’m no stranger to masked creators. They’ve taken the internet by storm recently, and being a dark romance bookworm, I’ve had certain fantasies about these masked men. However, this one is different somehow.
For one, he’s fully clothed. Most of the others are shirtless or wearing clothes that leave little to the imagination. Starboy1997 is wearing a black hoodie. Something about his stance is so … commanding. And “Isle of the Dead” is a beautiful piece. It’s not my favorite Rachmaninoff work, but it’s close. It’s haunting and ethereal. Third, he seems to be teaching something, and when my eyes skim over the text, my heart pounds.
Three examples of rules I’ve given my submissives before:
They will address me with respect.
They will kneel until they are told to get up.
They will communicate with me if they are unhappy in any way.
Remember, the rules exist for two reasons: for my submissive’s benefit and for my pleasure.
The video ends a second later and loops back to the beginning.
I watch it seven times.
“He’s so hot,” Kitty says from behind me, and I jump, locking my phone.
“Who?”
“Starboy. He’s everywhere. His videos are really good, too. He’s not just a hot guy account, either. He’s informative.”
I take in the information as Kitty helps me out of my makeup chair. “Why the mask, then?”
Kitty shrugs, blowing a piece of short black hair out of her face. “Anonymity? I dunno. Maybe he’s famous.” She checks her watch. “Go get ready! You’re on in fifteen.”
I return to the dressing room and quickly change into the white Swan Queen costume. I’m just putting my toe pads on when Kitty walks back in with the tiara.
“I almost forgot.” She fits it on my head, securing it tightly. “Merde,” she adds, blowing me a kiss.
Like the minutes before all shows, my stomach erupts in nervous butterflies. I mindlessly start stretching, admiring the new, large bouquet of peonies my father sent today. It’s a bunch of twenty-six stems—one for each year I’ve been alive, I assume. The peonies are always so lovely, perfectly blooming upon every delivery.
They must cost a fortune.
I make a note to chide him for the lavish gift. He doesn’t need to send them every day. The entire theater is practically overflowing with peonies by the last performance of the week, not that I mind. Still, he’s on a budget and shouldn’t be spending money on such frivolous things.
When I pick up my phone to text him, the video of Starboy1997 from earlier pops up, distracting me. His location is different in all of them, but they’re all darker spaces that are hard to identify. In one of them, he’s not wearing a hoodie but a long-sleeved black shirt. It clings to his muscles, and without thinking, I hit “like.” His videos are educational and simple. He’s not trying to turn people on, though somehow his presence turns me on—a rare feeling.
That doesn’t stop the commenters, though.
Here we gooo. Another masked man to obsess over.
Daddy? Please?
How do you stand so still? And why is it so hot?
Starboy, pls, I am working.
Another video to bring to my therapist.
It’s a damn CRIME that I’m not your sub.
I’m smiling as I scroll. Sometimes Starboy responds, and sometimes he doesn’t. His replies are usually generic, but every once in a while, he throws in some praise or degradation, which makes me chew on my lower lip.
Yes, you did, pretty little cockslut.
That’s right. Well done.
Look at you… such a willing cum rag.
I’m so proud of you.
Who is this guy? And where can I find one in real life?
Someone might be surprised that my biggest sexual fantasy is to be called names. To be corrupted by someone with more experience.
Too bad I hardly ever feel attraction to the men I actually go on dates with.
A quick internet search tells me I’m not the only one curious about Starboy’s identity. With over two million followers, of course people are curious about him. But there’s nothing except that he resides somewhere in the Los Angeles area. And that was only discovered because of the skyline in one of his videos.
A light knock on my dressing room has me locking my phone and turning it face down on my vanity—as if the person on the other side will be able to see through my locked screen.
“Ten minutes,” someone calls from the other side.
I take a deep breath and check my appearance once more before exiting my dressing room and walking toward the stage. There, I forget about the outside world—about everything except what I’m about to do. I wrap my hand around the handle of the stage door when the side door opens, startling me.
To my surprise, my dad pushes the door in—followed closely by Orion.
My heart flutters slightly at the sight of him, but I don’t hold eye contact, instead walking over to my dad and giving him a careful hug.
“I forgot you were coming tonight,” I say quickly, breathless for some reason that has nothing to do with my stepbrother. Nothing at all.
“It’s Saturday, isn’t it?” he asks, grinning widely. “And I brought Orion. He hasn’t ever been to a show.”
I glance behind my father, locking eyes with light blue ones. His lips twitch, and his eyes gleam with mischief. His hair is a bit neater than usual, and he seems to have less scruff than normal. He’s wearing a white button-up rolled to his elbows and fitted black trousers with black Converse High Tops. No tie, but it’s formal for Orion. Unlike his brothers, I don’t think he owns a single suit. If he does, I’m not sure I could handle it. We haven’t spoken since last weekend when he threatened my date out of nowhere, and I’m still not sure what his intentions were that night. The fact that he’d texted me… I’d stared at his responses all weekend, even going so far as to memorize them.
He didn’t order you dessert.
For years, we haven’t spoken except when we happened to be in the same room.
What changed recently?
Why was he there last weekend? Was he watching me? The thought of him skulking around in the back of the restaurant creeps me out and also makes everything inside me turn to jelly. Lance had left shortly after I’d gotten back from the bathroom. I’d looked for Orion, but I didn’t see him anywhere in the restaurant, and my brain had the audacity to be disappointed.
I’m blaming all of the dark romance books I read.
“Hope that’s okay,” he says slowly, holding up two tickets.
Front row seats. I’d be able to see him the entire time I was dancing.
My skin breaks out in a cold sweat, and as his eyes track over my heavy makeup and tiara, something inside my stomach flips upside down.
“It’s almost time for me to go on,” I tell them.
My dad gives me a quick peck on my cheek. “I know. We’ll go get seated, but I just wanted you to know that I’m so proud of you, La-La.”
“Thanks, Dad. Oh, that reminds me, I really appreciate the beautiful flowers, but you don’t have to send them every day.”
He pulls away, and his brows knit together, but before he can respond, Orion claps a hand on his back.
“We should go sit down, old man.”
“You’re right. I’ll go and give you two a minute,” he says quickly, walking out of the door they came in through.
That leaves Orion and me alone.
At first, it looks like he’s going to turn around and walk after Dad, but instead, he takes a step closer to me.
“I’m sorry for last weekend,” he says, his voice a low murmur.
I cross my arms and hold myself taller. Even when doing so, he still towers over me.
“You should be.”
His lips twitch, and to my chagrin, he takes another step closer so that he’s in my personal space. He smells good—like leather and tobacco, though I don’t think he smokes. My expression falters, and I take a step back. He chuckles, running a hand over his mouth. I follow the movement of his hand, and my eyes unintentionally drag over his mouth.
“Are you still thinking about that cake? Is that why you’re so unfocused right now?” he asks, fully grinning like he’s won some bizarre game I had no idea we were playing.
My nostrils flare, and I huff out a frustrated breath. Before I can respond, he turns around, leaving me alone with only a few minutes to spare.
I close my eyes and take a few steadying breaths, attempting and failing to quell my nerves.
Pretend he’s not watching you. Pretend it’s any normal day, and your hot stepbrother is not in the front row with that arrogant smirk splashed across his face.
Somehow, I’m able to relax my breathing and focus on stretching for the next sixty seconds. The soft notes of Tchaikovsky float through the air, and I continue stretching my calves and hamstrings. I also do breathing exercises to warm my lungs, and the last thing I do before one of the coordinators finds me is stretch my ankles and feet. Despite doing pointe for over a decade, it still doesn’t one hundred percent come naturally to me. After every performance, I still have to ice my feet and bandage my toes to prevent blisters, but I welcome the pain. I’m used to pushing my body beyond the boundaries I set for myself week in and week out.
Or maybe I’m just a masochist , I think derisively.
I’d given up all outside activities and committed to dancing full-time when I was fourteen, and it had been full steam ahead since then—with a few setbacks.
I welcome the challenge of giving everything I have during a performance because anything less has the power to end my career. No matter how skilled I am, I know I’ll eventually hit a ceiling where I’ll no longer be able to put my body through such extremes. Being twenty-six, that day might come sooner than I expect.
It all works out in the end, though.
Dancing is my safe space—the place where I can let go and be vulnerable and let my body feel the music completely.
The woman in the headset ushers me farther into the wing, and when it’s my cue, I float onto the stage and drown everything else out.
I can’t quite describe what happens when I perform, but I go somewhere I can only access on stage. It’s like I become Odette, and then later, Odile—and nothing else matters except conveying the story correctly. Prince Siegfried—played by Raphael Beaufort tonight—is the ballet dancer I interact with most on stage. He’s professional on stage, and we’ve never had an issue with compatibility while playing our roles, but he still avoids me backstage.
Orion punched him at a Halloween party a year and a half ago for getting too handsy with me.
The thought of what happened that night makes me stumble slightly on my next landing. Not enough for anyone in the audience to notice, but Raphael’s brows arch ever so slightly when he holds his hands out for me to jump into for our next move.
The rest of the performance goes smoothly, and once we come back onto the stage for the curtain call, I see Orion doing a slow clap with that same damn smirk splayed all over his face.
“He has a lot of fucking courage to show up here,” Raphael grumbles into my ear with his French accent.
Of course Orion has to arrive during a show when Raphael performs—usually Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday, instead of Ivan, his alternate, who performs on the other nights.
Orion’s eyes flick from me to Raphael, then they narrow slightly.
Once we finish our curtain call, I walk to my dressing room and change. Both Orion and my dad await me when I get to my car in the underground parking garage.
“What a wonderful performance, La-La,” my dad proudly says as if he wasn’t here last Saturday and the one before that.
“Thanks, Dad.” I turn to Orion. “I need to talk to you.”
“I’ll give you kids some privacy,” he says cheerfully. He begins walking to his Subaru, which is parked next to a sleek, black motorcycle.
Once he’s inside his car, I turn back to Orion. “Do you want something from me? Why is it that I don’t see you for months after—after—” I can’t say it out loud, but the way his eyes twinkle tells me that he knows exactly what I’m insinuating.
“Still thinking about our kiss?” he asks, choosing that exact moment to lean against my car, crossing his legs and arms like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
I ignore his question even though my brain is flustered and trying to keep up. “And now, all of a sudden, I see you every weekend? What do you want from me?”
“Did you go on another date with Mr. No Dessert?” he asks, biting his lower lip.
My fists curl at my side. “No, actually. Turns out, he doesn’t care for being threatened with something worse than death ,” I grit out.
Orion laughs. “He told you.”
“You’re worse than Sparrow marking his territory,” I add, voice shaking. “At this point, I’m going to turn into an old spinster with fifty cats—” The blood drains from my face. “Wait, the guy from a few months ago who never called me back… was that you?” I accuse, taking a step forward.
“Listen, Layla. I just so happened to be at the same restaurant as you last weekend. I saw what happened and wanted to have a bit of brotherly fun.” He holds his hands up and gives me a placating smile. “I overstepped, and I’m sorry.”
A pang of disappointment works through me. Wait… did I want him to stalk me? What was wrong with me?!
“So you didn’t say something to the other guy from a few months ago?”
He dips his head, and something dark passes behind his eyes. “Scout’s honor.”
I stand straighter and clear my throat. “I should get home. See you later.”
Orion doesn’t move. Instead, he rakes his gaze over my face as if he’s searching for something.
“You’re really good,” he says slowly. “On stage.”
His compliment startles me. “Oh. Thanks.”
He pushes off my car. “See you next week,” he adds, winking.
My stomach nearly bottoms out. “Next week?”
“ Phantom of the Opera , remember?”
I clench my jaw. I’d forgotten about that—and most importantly, I’d forgotten that he was going. Zoe and Liam had two extra tickets to see a Tuesday night show, and I happened to have the night off from PCB. Zoe also knows it’s my favorite—I guess I should’ve known I’d be into masked men because of how much I loved the book.
Little did I know that the fourth ticket would be going to Orion.
“Right. Yeah. See you then,” I say quickly, feeling flushed and flustered.
He walks away just as I go to unlock my door, and once I’m inside, I close my eyes and lean my arms on my steering wheel to rest my head and calm my racing heart. It’s not until I hear Orion’s bike engine tearing down the street that I truly exhale. I grab my phone and unlock the screen to text Zoe and Remy about our upcoming girls’ night, and when I do, I realize I never exited Starboy1997’s profile earlier.
I scroll for a few minutes, watching and pining over his videos as I squirm in my seat. It’s the mystery of who he could be. If he’s in Los Angeles, have I stood behind him in line at the grocery store? Does he get stuck on the 405 every afternoon like I do? I check for clues that he’s married or maybe even a perv, but so far, he seems legit and knowledgeable. And thanks to the books I read, I’m intrigued by the topic of kink and BDSM.
The things I fantasize about are things I’ve never even told Zoe, who’s in the kink lifestyle. I’m not anywhere near as experienced as she is, though, so I never feel like I can chime in and talk about how I want to be choked or held down and called a whore. I didn’t even know I’d like stuff like that until I started reading about it. Who knows—perhaps if someone did those things to me in real life, I wouldn’t enjoy it. Sure, I got turned on while reading about it, but that didn’t mean I’d be into it personally, right?
Starboy is exactly who I’ve been searching for. A safe space to explore my interests. I scroll all the way down to his first video, and it’s the same as all the other videos—him standing or sitting with spread legs as classical music plays and text pops up on the screen. At the end of the video, it says:
My DMs are always open.
I should send him a message.
I mean, he probably gets thousands of messages a day with two million followers. The chances of him seeing it are slim to none, but I suppose I should shoot my shot. I fumble over what to say, but eventually, I decide to keep it simple.
LittleDancer
I’m really interested in a specific kink. But I’ve never done it in real life… I’ve only read about it. I’d like to learn more, but I’m a total noob, and I don’t know where to go from here. Thanks! I love your videos.
Sighing heavily, I click out of his profile and set my phone down.
He probably won’t respond, but at least I tried.
As I drive out of the parking garage, I imagine Starboy seeing my message and clicking over to my profile. Shit, I’d put that I’m a ballet dancer in my bio. He might put two and two together and figure out who I am. My full name is there, and an internet search would show me as the company dancer for Pacific Ballet.
I imagine him coming to a show—sitting in the front row with his hood up.
I imagine those large, veiny hands running up and down his thighs as he watches me dance for him—a dark mystery full of secrets and power.
I imagine what his voice would sound like. Would it be deep, rough, a low purr? Would he ask me to kneel for him after? Would he sound just as commanding as he looked, with long, muscular legs and large, beautiful hands?
How would those hands feel on me , doing the things I’ve only dreamed about for the past couple of years?
By the time I get back to my house, the space between my thighs aches and pulses with need. I say a quick hello to Sparrow, who stretches on his pillow by the front window as I walk inside and throw my bag onto the floor.
Shutting my bedroom door, I don’t even bother removing my clothes as I climb into bed and quickly rub one out by slipping one hand under the waistband of my sweats. My orgasm crashes over me quickly and powerfully, and my back arches as I pant heavily, imagining it’s Starboy’s hands instead of my own. When I’m done, my legs shake, and I can’t stop laughing as reality sets in.
This never happens. Being turned on by a stranger? Not ever. But there’s something so… fresh and real about this guy. It’s not the hot body that turns me on. It’s the way he makes his videos, the music he chooses, and the words that flash over some of my favorite music.
It’s like he gets me on a deep, visceral level.
All the guys I date assume I’m a prissy ballet dancer with my tight bun and prim posture. They assume I don’t want to put out, and one even joked once that he only went on the date to see if he could get into my pants. If it’s not that, it’s guys making disgusting comments about how flexible I must be.
That’s what I deal with on a day-to-day basis, and that’s why I don’t date a lot.
This guy, though… I have a feeling he’d tempt me to no end.
The mystery of who he really is only adds another element of intrigue.
As the post-orgasm haze dissipates, my smile falls off my face.
Masturbating to some guy I found online is a new all-time low.
Ugh, what the heck is wrong with me?
I don’t check my phone for the rest of the night.