Dance of Deception #2
“Yeah, well, she must’ve found someone who lets her place bets through them.”
“Shit.” Naomi frowns. “Look, I know you hate?—”
“We’ll be fine,” I smile as I turn the water off. “But thanks for the offer.”
She nods, not pushing it.
Vaughn and Brooklyn are already dressed and somehow still talking about Kir’s “big dick energy” when we get back from the showers. I pull on yoga pants and a hoodie before I remember the lack of means to get home tonight. I wince as I glance at Naomi.
“Hey, you wouldn’t have a spare MetroCard on you, would you?”
Naomi’s eyes flick toward my bag, where the pitiful collection of change still sits in the front pocket. She doesn’t comment on it, just reaches into her wallet and pulls out her MetroCard, pressing it into my palm.
“Just take it. I’ll grab a cab with Vaughn.”
“Are you sure?”
She snorts. “Yeah, because I love the subway at midnight.” She shoulders her dance bag and gives me a pointed look. “Text me when you get home, please.”
Vaughn stretches dramatically, slinging an arm around Naomi’s shoulders as he leads her toward the door. “My chariot awaits, milady.” He sticks a cigarette between his lips, making Naomi squint.
“You light that thing anywhere near me and I’m going to knee you in the balls.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time, girl.”
The door swings shut behind them, leaving only silence.
Brooklyn is still sitting on the bench, one leg tucked under her, absentmindedly running a finger over the edge of her pointe shoe ribbon. The tension in her body from the exhausting rehearsal has shifted to something else.
She doesn’t look at me when she finally speaks.
“You ever think about how much this actually costs us?”
I frown as I throw my gingery-red hair into a messy bun. “What? Ballet?”
She exhales sharply, shaking her head. “Not just ballet. This life. The work, all the training, the barely-there paycheck.” She glances at me, one brow lifting. “We kill ourselves every day for what? The honor of being underpaid and having a career that's over before it's even begun?”
Brooklyn’s like me: making her dance dream work on her own. No safety net.
I don’t answer right away. Truth is, I have thought about it. Every single time I pull together enough cash for rent but not groceries. Every time I ache all over but know I’ll still be back at the barre the next morning.
Brooklyn clears her throat. “Look, I understand pride, Lyra. And I’m not going to insult you by asking if you want a loan or anything. But…” The corners of her lips curl as she reaches into her bag.
My jaw drops as she pulls out a gangster -sized wad of cash.
“If you do need money…”
I blink at the thick stack of crisp hundreds, folded neatly. More cash than I’ve seen in…ever.
“What the fuck, Brooklyn?”
She smirks. “Relax. I didn’t rob a bank.”
I tear my gaze away from the money, forcing my voice to stay level. “Then where…?”
She exhales slowly. “Remember that charity thing where we did that excerpt from Giselle last month?”
Occasionally, mostly because it always results in new benefactors with deep pockets, select members of the company will perform at things like the Policemen’s Ball or other charity events.
Brooklyn clears her throat. “Well, after we were done, this guy came up to me and said he had a dance gig I might be interested in. He said he couldn’t tell me much about it, but that it paid insanely well. And… I took it. That’s where this money came from.”
A strange prickle works its way down my spine.
Brooklyn must notice the change on my face, because she quickly shakes her head.
“Look, it’s not stripping or anything. No one touches you—no one even speaks to you.
And you’re wearing clothes. But it pays way better than this.
” She gestures vaguely around us at the dressing room. “It’s also secret.”
The word makes something inside me tighten.
Secret is never good. Secret always comes at a price.
“What do you mean, secret ?”
Brooklyn twists the ends of her hoodie strings around her finger. “It’s like a private club or something. They pick you up at a location they decide, blindfold you, and drive you there.”
My jaw drops.
“Are you fucking serious? Brooklyn, that’s super sketch!”
She huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I thought so too, at first.”
I narrow my eyes. “ At first ?”
She shrugs. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought. You change in a dressing room, where the blindfold comes off. There were six other girls—all dancers.”
“And then?”
Brooklyn exhales, her voice quieter now. “They give us fresh blindfolds, masks, and earbuds that play music synced with a voice directing us. Someone took us all out to a performance space, and—we danced.”
I don’t like how that makes my skin prickle.
“For how many people?”
She shakes her head. “No idea. I never saw them. Never heard them. But they were there, I could feel it.”
I swallow thickly.
What the fuck.
She holds up the wad of money, her brow cocking significantly. “Lyra, they pay five fucking grand for four hours .”
My stomach lurches.
Five. Thousand. Dollars.
That’s rent, food, security. That’s a way out from the hole my mother seems to be completely hellbent on in digging us into.
Brooklyn watches me carefully. “Listen… again, I get pride, Lyra. But I saw you counting coins…” She lifts her shoulders. “They said they might be looking for more dancers. So if you wanted…”
I shiver, feeling the invitation linger between us like a lit fuse. I swallow, eying the money in her hand.
“Look, for now…” She hands me two twenties. “Will you just take a cab home? Seriously, the subway is dangerous this late. Please? And if you’re interested in the job… Here's the number for my contact.” She finds an entry on her phone and texts it to me.
Pride wants me to refuse the money politely.
Common sense and the prospect of spending hours underground with my fingers wrapped around my keys wins out.
“Thanks,” I say quietly, taking the money. “Seriously, thank you. I’ll pay you back.”
The night air is crisp, biting at my skin as I pull my hoodie tighter around me.
“Wanna just share my Uber?” Brooklyn nods at the car waiting at the top of the alley behind the theater.
I exhale. “Maybe, actually.” I shoot her a wry smile. “I feel like you’re pampering me tonight.”
She giggles. “I mean, yeah . You’re my girl. C’mon.”
I start to follow her. When I slip my hand into my hoodie pocket, I groan.
“Shit.”
Brooklyn glances back. “What’s up?”
My face droops. “I left my phone in the dressing room.” I shake my head. “You know what? Go ahead. You already gave me money for a cab. I’ll just do that.”
She frowns. “Don’t be silly. I’ll wait for you.”
“Nah, go get your ride. It’s late. But thanks. And…for earlier.”
“Anytime, girl. See you tomorrow for more Russian gulag conditioning?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I groan.
I watch as she tugs her coat around herself, scampers up the alley, and slips into the waiting vehicle, red taillights disappearing into the night.
The door hisses shut behind me as I duck back into the warmth of the dim, silent ballet theater. My steps are quick as I make my way toward the dressing room.
It only takes a minute to find my phone and I stuff it into my hoodie pocket, shaking my head before slipping back outside.
This time, the door clicks shut behind me with finality.
The street is mostly empty now, the occasional honk of a distant car the only sound.
The alley behind the Mercury splits halfway up to the street: continuing straight puts you onto Madison Avenue, which runs one-way north: perfect for Brooklyn, who lives up toward Harlem.
But if I take the left-handed side-cut out of the alley, it’ll dump me on East 49 th Street, where it's easier to get a cab going downtown , to the apartment I, unfortunately, share with my mother in Hell's Kitchen.
I ignore the creepy sensation that being here at midnight always brings as I hustle up the alley. I’m just about to turn the corner and head out to East 49th when I hear voices.
Low. Rough. Male.
I freeze.
The words are hushed, but I can still hear them. A weird shiver ripples up my spine as I do.
“What are you doing here? Bianca got out of rehearsal hours ago.”
The first voice is rough-sounding, deep, and somewhat frightening, with a dangerous edge to it.
My stomach knots at Bianca’s name.
Bianca got out of rehearsal hours ago.
Bianca as in Bianca Barone—well, Bianca Drakos now that she’s married—who's in the Zakharova with me. She’s an incredible dancer, super sweet, and is the youngest daughter in the Barone Italian mafia family.
I suck in a breath, pressing my back against the brick wall, forcing myself deeper into the shadows.
“No shit. I’m not here for her,” a second man growls. “What are you doing here, you psycho?” His voice is deep and dark, too, but also edged in something savage and viciously alluring, like a blade dragging down my spine or a dark promise whispered in my ear.
The first guy exhales sharply, irritated. “It was stupid and reckless for Matteo to hire her.”
My pulse hammers.
Her who?
“She dances here ,” the first guy growls. “She’s friends with people like your sister. She could talk?—”
“She was blindfolded, you dumb fuck,” the second man snaps. “And just what was your plan, exactly?”
The first man huffs out a breath. “I was just going to scare her a little,” he rumbles. “Remind her that the money she was paid ensures silence.”
Something inside me goes cold as things fall into place. I’m pretty sure they’re talking about Brooklyn.
The second man’s voice sharpens. “Stay the fuck away from where my sister dances, understand?”
There’s a tense, prolonged pause.
“Fine.” A slow exhale, like a forced truce.
“Is that a yes fine, or an I’m blowing smoke up your ass fine.”
“It’s a yes fine, calm down,” the first guy grunts. “Anyway, in unrelated news, Mushkin hasn’t responded to our summons.”