3. Jolie
3
JOLIE
I ’m exhausted.
By the time the day is over, pain streaks steadily down the back of my leg. My feet sting, blistered and bleeding, scraping against my wool socks as I trudge through the snow. The only benefit of the white stuff flurrying around me and heaped on the ground is that soon my toes will be numb. That’ll spare me some agony until I can get to my pain relievers and soaking tub.
After an uneventful metro haul and three blocks of walking, I reach our corner apartment building. There’s an eerie heaviness to the air. The whole trek home I scanned my surroundings for some sign of that strange mutant beast, unable to shake the feeling of eyes on me.
My thighs ache with each climb up the stairs toward our fourth-floor apartment. Stupid, broken elevator. A thin sheen of ice coats the railing, so I shove my hands into my coat pockets, cursing myself for forgetting gloves. Hopefully I don’t slip. Last thing I need at this point is another career-hindering setback.
Eleven months was much too long of a break for my body. I’ll be feeling today’s classes for a while. While I shouldn’t have skipped out on the recovery room, I was nervous about being all too visible to the other company members. Better to give them some proper time to gossip about me behind my back. Besides, I can squeeze some stretching in after a nice warm shower.
Just the thought of the scalding droplets fills me with renewed purpose, and I pick up the pace, ascending the final flight of stairs.
Fumbling through the front zipper of my dance bag, I find my key and slide it into the hole, pressing my whole body against the door. It won’t open otherwise. I jimmy it, growling at the cold nipping at me. When the knob finally clicks, I twist it open, sighing. The relief is short-lived, though. My body sears, every appendage burning when I enter the apartment, adjusting to the swift temperature change from the icy chill outside.
A clatter comes from the kitchen, and I round the corner, spotting Lark throwing ingredients into a stock pot. Her girlfriend, Delilah, curls around her, helping her stir as she leans down and whispers in her ear. Lark’s deep tan cheeks pinken.
I’d puke if they weren’t so freakin’ adorable.
“Jojo! I was hoping you’d be home in time for dinner. It’s sweet potato bisque.” Lark lifts the ladle out of the pot, thick, creamy orange dripping down and splashing back into it. “Delilah even brought some of her mom’s incredible sourdough to go with it.”
“Sounds amazing. Thanks. I’ll grab a bowl after I get changed and shower real quick.” My mouth waters at the savory aroma filling the room and my stomach gurgles. Thank goodness for a roommate that cooks. Peeling off my coat, I hang it in the closet and kick off my boots with a hiss. I forgot how annoying it is to build up calluses and the necessary blistering part of the process.
“Sure thing,” she says, returning to her stirring.
As soon as I shuffle to my room and shut the door, I pull my sweater off and toss it into the hamper, followed by my warm-ups, leotard, and tights. My fingertip traces the faint silver scar between my ribs. It glints under the dim light, feathering out in a whorl.
It’s the only one I have that I consider beautiful.
I hurry into the bathroom, turning the knob to the hottest it will go without burning me, and let the water run. Steam billows over the shower’s sliding doors until fog paints the glass.
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
I barely hear the sound over the running water. I grab my towel and wrap it around myself, but when I open the door a crack, no one is there, just the sound of Lark and Delilah’s laughter filtering down the hallway.
Tap, tap, tap.
A shiver skates along my collarbone, and I whip my attention toward the sound. A branch knocks into the window. There are tiny flecks of white scattered across my desk and a thin layer of snow draped over Snip, my pale-green succulent. I don’t remember opening the window today, but small lapses in my memory aren’t as unusual as they used to be. I’ve been a bit distracted trying to get my life back together.
The breeze lashes at me, sending goosebumps skittering along my skin. I cross my arms, rubbing up and down for warmth, then latch the window shut, ignoring the frost spinning at the edges of the frame.
Ping!
My cell lights up from within my open dance bag, and I grab it, checking the message and time before tossing it onto the bed.
The Prince:
Be there in one hour.
One hour. Plenty of time to warm up in the shower, stretch, enjoy dinner, and hang with Lark and Delilah. Prancing into the bathroom, I shut the door behind me. With each inhalation of the thick steam, my lungs clear and my body relaxes. Hot water pelts down in a forceful stream. It’s a sting I welcome.
The throbbing along the back of my leg eases, and I place the ball of my foot onto the base of the shower seat, leaning forward to stretch my calves one at a time. I need to be ready for tomorrow, both physically and mentally, especially since they’ll be announcing the upcoming ballet.
Usually the announcement of the next show is something I look forward to. Not this time, though. My thoughts pirouette over the fact that, at twenty-eight years old, there will be no soloist role for me. Not that there’s anything wrong with the corps. They’re an integral part of the ballet in their own right. It just sucks when I’ve spent years paying my dues already. If I hadn’t been so close to promoting to principal, this wouldn’t hurt as much. I don’t even know if I’ll get the opportunity to be promoted again.
While I’m grateful for this second chance at my dream, there’s a little voice in my head that nags at me. How long will my injury allow me to continue to do what I love? The idea of not dancing again, not experiencing the warmth of the lights beaming down on the stage, the thrill of the curtain pulling back to an audience swathed in darkness, there to watch me share my craft…
I lean back against the cold tile, trying to catch a full breath that seems just out of reach.
Stop it, Jolie.
I won’t let those thoughts linger.
When Blake shows up, I can’t be in a sour mood. It’s been two weeks since I last saw him, and I can finally give him a dance-related update after months of it being a one-sided conversation while I tried to hold back the disappointment of no longer working for the Institute with him.
I get out of the shower, dry off, and apply my scar gel before I dress quickly, throwing on bandages and a pair of thick, fuzzy socks to warm my battered toes. While I do some final stretches for the night, I grab my journal and dump all the negative thoughts that have managed to creep in today. At the end, I make sure to jot down three wins. Anything I’m grateful for. It’s the one thing Dr. Tanner requires of me when I do this—to always finish with three positives.
1. Survived day one.
2. I’m still moving.
3. Blake’s coming over.
Throwing the journal into the top drawer of my desk, I head out into the living room. Lark and Delilah are already sitting on the couch, watching a rerun of Gilmore Girls . I grab the bowl they’ve set out for me on the countertop, along with a plate piled with two thick sourdough slices, inhaling the thin slip of steam wafting the air with sweet potato, ginger, and other spices.
They drape part of the plaid blanket over my legs when I sit down next to them, and we watch an episode we’ve seen at least ten times in the last four years of living together. I’m firmly in camp Rory should have picked Jess , and Lark is team Logan, so we sit and debate as usual. It’s the first time my mind is silent today and I savor it. I’m here in the moment, not living in the loop of a memory I’d rather forget. A loneliness I find myself tucked away in all too often.
Knock, knock.
Lark’s brown eyes snap to the door and then to me. “Tell me you didn’t, Jojo.”
My cheeks flush with heat, but I ignore her glare as I head for the door. When I open it, Blake stands there with his elbow resting against the frame, a brilliant smile pulled across his lips. Rich brown eyes stare down at me, warming my insides. He smooths back one wayward blond strand into his perfectly coiffed hair.
“Missed you, beautiful.”
Lark mutters something unintelligible before the word fuckboy from behind me.
“Come on in,” I say, cutting her a quick glare of my own. She might not like him, but they are colleagues. It’s the only thing stopping her from speaking her mind in front of him. I cock my head at her, and she clamps her mouth shut. Avoiding Lark’s stabby stare and Delilah’s half-apologetic grimace, I take Blake’s hand and lead him down the hallway.
Lark’s lecture will no doubt come with a side of coffee in the morning. At least caffeine’s involved.
Once we get inside my room and I’ve shut the door, Blake drops his jacket, scarf, and gloves onto the chair at my desk before striding over. Just as he’s about to touch me, he quivers dramatically. “Brr. Do you always keep it so cold in here?”
He walks over to the thermostat which, admittedly, is a few degrees lower than what I usually set it at.
“That’s odd. You can turn it up a bit.”
“We can keep each other warm in the meantime,” he says with a waggle of his brows. Blake taps the screen a few times before coming back over and trailing his fingers along my shoulder. My skin flushes beneath his touch. “Rehearsals aren’t the same without you.”
“Really?” I ask, trying to downplay how much that means to me, though my voice cracks. I swallow my nerves, hoping to sound charming instead. Casually unaffected. “I heard you got Prince Siegfried.”
“I did.” His smile widens, chest puffing up a bit.
These last two seasons, without fail, Blake’s been cast in some princely role or another. Always leading-man material. And he’s here, with me. I might not be the star of the ballet, but I’m the one he seeks out. When we dance, our bodies moving together, it’s almost hypnotic. His hands on my body, powerful arms lifting me into the air, the chemistry we exude when partnering is mesmerizing. We never got the chance to do it officially, only after hours when we’d both stay late to rehearse.
“Wish you would have told me instead of me hearing from Lark.” Fingers finding his, I look up at him. “You know you can still talk to me about the Institute.”
“I know, baby,” he says. “It honestly has been just such a whirlwind between coming off Don Quixote and then heading back into auditions, rehearsals, and conditioning. You know how it goes.”
I do . That’s what stings so much.
“It’s amazing. I’m so proud of you.” I sweep the edges of my lips up into my best smile, trying not to think about the crappy first day I had and what might await me tomorrow.
“Wish you were there, of course.” One hand wraps around my waist. The other lingers on the band of my sweats. There’s no reason to dress up when he comes over. Most of the time we’ve spent together has been at the Institute or right after rehearsals. Even while I was on sabbatical the last eleven months, he’s only seen me in sweats… or out of them.
“Of course,” I agree, crossing my body to take off my baggy shirt, leaving me only in my lacy bra. I swallow the lump at the back of my throat when his stare instantly goes to the scars that begin at my shoulder and shred down my back. Not that they’re easy to ignore. There are three long gashes, one deeper than the other two, and I hate that I feel ashamed of them. That my instinct is to turn away from his gaze.
His brown eyes dip to the small peaks of my breasts, and the smirk he gives me has my belly doing backflips. My nerves float away, replaced with want, when he grips my waistband and peels my sweats down to my ankles. He kneels, as gracefully as he does on stage, with his attention pinned to me. I step out of my pants but leave on my fuzzy socks. Ballet blisters do not mix well with foreplay.
He gives a knowing chuckle but doesn’t say anything about it. “I can’t stay the night—”
“Rehearsals,” I say at the same time he does. “That’s fine.”
It’s always disappointing that he doesn’t stay, but I get it. For both of us, our dance careers are the priority, and right now, we’re getting into our new rehearsal routines. I can’t fault him for that.
“Yeah, schedule is killer. I’m just glad I could squeeze in a visit. You have no idea how bad I’ve needed this.” He stands and tosses his shirt to the side. Every ridge and trimmed muscle is on full display. Blake’s body is beautiful and strong, and he knows it. Unzipping his jeans, he pulls them and his briefs off in one swoop before climbing with cat-like grace onto the bed. One hand gripping his erection, he tugs it from the base while I remove my bra and panties and join him on top of the comforter.
“Baby, look how hard you make me.” My skin flushes under the compliment. He clutches himself and gives a few more rough strokes. Leaning over to my nightstand, he opens it to grab a condom without even turning his attention from me. Ripping the foil packet, he puts it on with a devilish smirk on his face. “Come here.”
I gasp as he drags me to straddle his lap before bringing his palms to my breasts. My nipples pebble beneath his touch. Then his hands slip to my waist, guiding me onto his dick with a satisfied grunt. We’ve clearly gotten this choreography down pat.
“So good,” he hisses out.
I preen at his attention. Blake’s a principal dancer of one of the best ballet companies in the world and I am the one he’s with. When he looks at me, I’m not just some girl in the corps—not the baby’s breath meant to surround the roses. I’m the rose.
He holds on to me, head dropping back with each rise and fall of my body bringing him closer to the precipice. My leg aches, my hip straining in this position. I slow my movements, and Blake’s attention snaps to me.
“Sorry. I’m a bit sore from class today.” The last thing I want to do is mention my injury, so I try a different tactic. “Can we…switch?”
His chest heaves, and he gives my waist a little squeeze. “I’m so close. Don’t stop.”
I nod, splaying my hands across his pecs to support me. I’m stronger than the pain anyway. Both in dance and in here. All the screwups of class today drift away, replaced by this moment. The hurried eagerness of him responding to my body, his breathy pants, having him come undone from what I do to him.
“God, you’re so fucking amazing, baby. So fucking amazing. I’m c—” His neck strains, veins bulging as he grits out a pleasured groan.
Hip twinging in pain, I take a moment to catch my breath before I climb off of him.
“That was perfect,” he says, and moves to discard the used condom. Releasing a lazy sigh, he relaxes back onto the comforter, hands coming to his forehead. He smiles up at the ceiling, then his attention finds me again. “Was it good for you?”
I bite my lip as I hunt through the rumpled covers for my underwear.
“Of course.” It’s not a lie exactly. I always enjoy our times together, but I never come. Ever. Not with the few guys I’ve been with. Part of me wonders if I’m just not wired for it. Some women aren’t. Every time I start to feel something, I always seem to lose the sensation. But that isn’t a big deal. Blake and I share a passion much more intimate than sex. Dance . It brought us together one steamy night post-rehearsal three years ago, and we’ve been doing this bedroom pas de deux ever since.
Unfortunately, it’s frowned upon to date within the company, so we kept our relationship under wraps, not wanting it to impact our respective roles or upcoming promotions. Even after the accident, we continued to keep it a secret since I was planning on returning to the Institute. Lark knows because she lives here. She’s up for promotion to principal, and Blake has some sway with the Institute’s board, so despite being annoyed by his presence, she puts up with it.
We haven’t talked about it officially, but now that I’m with a different company, we can finally go public. I’d planned on asking him about it tonight, but as he returns from the bathroom, already pulling his clothes on, the question sits on the tip of my tongue. I let it linger, unanswered, and before I realize it, he’s giving me a swift kiss goodnight on the cheek and heading for the door.