5. Octavia
My blood boils with competing homicidal tendencies as I swirl my untouched drink.
After spending about twenty minutes locking myself up in the bathroom and hyperventilating in agony, I was expecting to return to my shitty apartment, take as long as I wanted to get up all three flights of stairs, and pass out in bed.
However, just as I finished taking off the last of my stage makeup, Ms. Irina smacked her golden cane against the dressing room door and informed me that my presence was required at the donor cocktail hour in the lobby.
That’s right.
After a twelve-hour rehearsal day and a two-hour evening show, the board would like me to make myself presentable, put on a skimpy dress, and be the eye candy for their party.
The little black dress I was provided by the wardrobe department squeezes my body like plastic wrap, making it an extreme sport to work each breath into the bottom of my lungs.
They take our measurements every single week to ensure we’re staying thin enough for their standards.
The bust of the dress cuts low on my chest, displaying what little cleavage I have, as well as a slit that runs from the floor-length fabric to my mid-thigh.
It’s fine. I’m used to being exposed and ogled by the donors. This is nothing new.
Just one more hour, Octavia.
Several hours pass.
By the time the clock turns eleven, I’ve plotted four especially handsy donors’ deaths (three looked like an accident), and I’ve been chastised twice by the wardrobe manager for getting their precious dress too close to the red wine.
The empty champagne flute dangles from my fingers like a stage prop as I walk through the room with a forced smile, pretending I don’t see Ms. Irina coming my way with a pep in her step.
“Octavia! The director would like to have words with you,” the old woman says as her claws dig into my flesh and pull me forward.
I wonder if she hates these parties too. If she’s reminded of the girl in the photographs, folded and positioned to capture a glimpse of youth before it fades out of reach. If they do, she hides it well.
“Of course,” I murmur, following along with an awkward shuffle.
The last time I had words with the director at a donor party, I came within an inch of committing a fireable offense.
Not to mention last night’s altercation still burns beneath my ribs like a trapped cough.
It wasn’t enough to humiliate me in the middle of the studio or shove me in the back of the stage.
I met his gaze, and I didn’t apologize. It’s practically a biological imperative for him to remind me of my place in the world.
My body revolts as I step closer to the silver-haired man holding court in the middle of the room.
He’s in that stupid three-piece suit, the one reserved for swanky events with his donors.
The entire group of men drinks in my approach, eyes lingering on my body for far too long before rising to my face.
“Ah! Octavia, dear,” the director preens. “Lovely performance tonight.”
“Thanks.”
I send up a quick prayer to a god I don’t really believe in that this useless cumstain drops dead before the next performance season. A wrinkled hand slips onto my lower back. It drifts lower, but I don’t dare to move a muscle.
“I don’t enjoy punishing you, dear,” he drawls with an expression that says exactly the opposite sentiment. “But that temper of yours can get so out of control. I’d intended to extend this lesson of yours,” the hand squeezes when it meets the curve of my ass. “But perhaps you can change my mind?”
Not one of his useless friends comments on the hushed innuendo, or the way his wrinkled palm lingers after the punishing squeeze. That familiar itch starts up again, rattling the flesh on my thighs.
Not from fear, I convince myself.
I don’t fear men like him—not anymore. I imagine their slow, gurgling deaths, choking around the impaled heel of my stiletto in the folds of their throats. I hide metal bats in the back of my locker and beneath my bed.
And when I’m trapped, truly trapped by circumstance and power and fucking eviction notices, I sink. I tolerate.
Don’t lose your job over this, Octavia.
That little orange slip I found on my door a few days back flashes through my memory.
The first year after I aged out of the dormitories was one of the hardest in my life.
With no money to start a lease and no time outside of rehearsals to find outside work, I found myself living in the ballet’s locker rooms at night.
Digging through the trash for food when no one was looking.
I’m not going back to that.
Is there a reality where I could actually get away with killing him?
Maybe I could lure him into a controlled, sequestered space.
I haven’t let a single man take sexual pleasure from my body in years, but he doesn’t need to know that.
I’d play along, just as I am now, letting his wayward limbs leave their slimy marks all over my skin.
His friends’ mouths keep moving, but all their eyes are on me.
On that stagnant hand.
The longer I stand still, the more my mind drifts into a protective blank space. For some reason, my violent thoughts turn static, stuck on one single image.
Bambi.
I see the loose curls pulling free around her face, and the way she gazed up at me as she offered the rose.
There was so much naive admiration in the gesture.
I remember looking at older dancers that way, once.
They made the career look so shiny and achievable.
They left out the dark corners when they encouraged the next generation of women to take their place.
It’s too late for me. I’ve already been used up and spit out. It’s the thought of any of this, so much as touching the sweet girl who brought me a single rose, that makes my stomach turn.
The men are safely lost in a business discussion when I decide it’s a safe time to extricate myself.
“Gentlemen, would you please excuse me? I believe I need another drink.”
They wave me off, finally distracted enough with their own whims to let me be. My feet want to run, but I force my steps to slow. Predators love to chase.
The champagne lying forgotten on the table probably costs more than my rent. I pour the contents of my full glass into the plant beside the table and refill it. No one notices, busy faking niceties and milling about the room.
The only people remotely close by are two men dressed in black from head to toe.
I can only see the backs of their heads.
Donor events are quite incestuous. It’s usually the same collection of assholes every time, but I don’t think I’ve seen these two before.
One is a dirty blond, while the other’s hair is so black it seems to reflect the bright light of the chandelier dangling above.
I edge closer in an attempt to overhear their conversation.
“Morozov, do try to pretend like you’re remotely interested in being here,” the blond man mutters, turning his chin towards his buddy.
His features are handsome in a regal sort of way.
Not like the other wealthy men in the room who have no choice but to smile beneath the tension of their surgical nips and tucks.
The second man sighs heavily before throwing back his drink.
“I have no idea why Solokov wanted me here. We both know that my limited talents lie elsewhere.” His voice is deep and accented.
Russian, I think. He still hasn’t turned his head, attention locked on one of the corps dancers perched on a donor’s knee at the far table.
“Yes. Poor boy,” the other guy mocks. “You have to spend the night surrounded by beautiful women and expensive liquor. Must be so difficult.”
That’s when the second man finally turns, offering me a glimpse of cold, piercing blue.
He’s not handsome like his friend. That word is too soft for the figure in front of me.
His face is composed of harsh lines, and his stunning blue eyes are relaxed into a bored expression.
My body’s already drifting closer when he responds.
“I have no interest in paying whores to hang off my arm like these old bastards.”
I freeze.
The words sift into my ears like a crackling spark, lighting the fuse of every furious wire I’ve shoved deep down throughout this night from hell. Before I know what I’m doing, my heels are moving of their own accord, stomping a direct track to the unsuspecting duo.