Finding Center (3 page)

“Remind me some other time,” I tell her.

With the offending clothing around her ankles, Aly leans forward, a certain curiosity and excitement that hums beneath her dance bursting onto the stage of her mouth and hands. I know Aly’s body, the shape of her hip bone against mine. The weight of her breasts in my hands, the press of her ribs against me, the way her entire body can pulse straight into my palm. She’s wet already, and part of me wants to ask her what turned her on—the dance, or me. But I don’t have half the dirty mouth Aly has. I ask it silently, grazing my teeth against her collarbone.

Teenage Zed would be having a heart attack right now. Twenty-six-year-old Zed is only vaguely concerned there might be cameras in this room.

“Zedekiah Harrow, if you don’t put your mouth on me this instant,” Aly hisses, an arm looped around my waist as she grinds down against my cock, trapping my fingers inside of her. Her demands just slow my hand and I bite back a victorious grin when her fingers dig into my neck. She’s spun herself up all day trying not to spin out, and so maybe this—not ballet—is the release she needed the whole time.

“Full names,” I tease. “You’re getting serious, Alyona.”

She spits out my name like a curse as I press the heel of my palm against her. Her eyes roll away from mine, watching in the mirrors and, for a moment, I can’t help but watch her watch herself. A blush skitters over her skin the same unstoppable way she can cross a stage. All of her is tuned toward performance but it’s just me, just me who gets to turn on this particular show. Her body has more curves than ever when her back bends away from me, her knees folded against my hips, her feet arching beneath her ass.

I almost wish for cameras to help me remember this. I want to hit Replay again and again.

When she comes, it’s just my arm braced against her back that keeps her from falling apart, a shattering of fire and sparks like a firework exploding in the sky and tumbling down to earth. It’s even better than my own fantasies to turn away from her, watching her come in the mirrors around us, her body bowing away from mine, head thrown back, her hair escaping from her neat and tidy bun, her pointe shoes and their ribbons pale against the flush of her skin. She’s beautiful all the time, but she’s gorgeous when she falls.

She sits up a little, limp, her pale blue eyes wide and dilated even under the bright studio lights. I slip my fingers from between her legs and across her tongue. It’s a little bit of retribution to see her entire body shiver. When I kiss her, she tastes sweet, her own wetness streaked across her lips. She presses me back against the mirror, the top of my head grazing the barre.

“You planned this.” I run my fingers down her damp back. Her muscles shift beneath my hand.

“Hoped for and planned are very different,” she says and then rocks her hips into me. “You?”

“To be continued at home, if you can manage to get up.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then I guess we stay here in various states of undress until all the other dancers arrive in the morning.” I can’t say I’m opposed. I’d rather not move right now, her warm post-orgasmic state steadying my heartbeat.

But reminding Aly about her coworkers does the trick. She scoots backward off my lap, naked except her leotard around her ankles, her pointe shoes still on. I stretch out my legs and watch her as she rolls her tights back up her long legs and slides her arms back into the torn leotard. She glances down at me, brushing her hair behind her ears, and then shakes her head, a small smile on her face.

“You’re going to say you’re not an exhibitionist, like I can be, but you’re quite the voyeur.”

I slip her fingers into my mouth and watch her pupils dilate a little. I pull them back out and say, “For you.”

She bends over, kissing me quickly. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

The smile she gives me is the same one she uses onstage, bright and hopeful, meant for an audience. The ribbons of her pointe shoes trail after her on the floor. She can reassemble herself so quickly I’d miss it if I didn’t know her so well. She’s back to being a ballerina and me, I’m still on the floor, hard and aching.

She’s always going to be leaving me behind. One day, I’ll figure out how to come to terms with that. Because I love her. And everything comes back to that. For now though, we have to get home. We both have early mornings and at some point that reality will crash down on her again. She leaves me behind, and I pick up her pieces. That’s just what we do.

Aly

I wake, my cheek stuck to Zed’s shoulder, my body as sore as it is when I dance
The Nutcracker
for nights on end. For a few minutes, I lie as still as I can in our dark, warm bedroom, listening to Zed breathing. He always rolls away sometime during the night, his arm hanging off the edge of the bed, his face slack-jawed and drooling on his pillow. He doesn’t fall asleep easily but when he sleeps, he sleeps like the dead.

I tug my phone out from under the pillow and check the time. Just after 5 a.m. A few hours of sleep is better than none. In a few minutes, I’ll peel myself off of him and step into the shower. He’ll hop—literally, on his crutches—into the shower by the time I’m dressed and making breakfast. Then we’re off to the gym together before work, a routine I’ve fallen in love with. But this morning, I wish we could stay in bed. I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose him.

I stretch my legs slowly beneath the sheets, pointing my toes. My muscles burn from lactic acid, but the stretch leaves a smile lingering on my face. I bury my face back into his shoulder and his fingers curl against the top of my thigh. He’s awake. His breathing changes a little, the way it used to when we danced together and he was preparing to lift me. A giant breath into consciousness.

When he exhales, he rolls over, his hands reaching for my hips, his lips finding mine. He wakes like it’s instinctual to wake up next to me. For me, it’s a revelation every day. I’m only just beginning to believe this is real. That this is a forever thing. Love’s easier for some people than it is for others. And it’s easier to love some people than it is others. Zed is easy to love.

“Morning,” he mumbles against my mouth and then sighs, his body hot and heavy against mine. “You’re getting up.”

I am. I slide my fingers over his ribs, skipping the scars where once they drained fluid from his body so his lungs could inflate again. I press my mouth against the pulse of his throat, and then lift my chin to whisper back, “Thanks for making me sore just as we start rehearsals.”

He nudges me, trying and failing to hide his smile. “Say it again and I’ll make you late.”

I laugh. “You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?” He hooks his left leg, which ends just above his knee, around me and with his hands pulls me over top of him. We lie like that for a while, sleepy and quiet, until my second alarm goes off. His arms tighten, and then I whisper his name, and he sighs, releasing me. His eyes follow me while I head to the shower, and when the door shuts behind me, he calls out, “Meanie.”

I open the door just enough to flip him off and he’s laughing when I close it again. Rinsing the scent and feel of sex off me feels sacrilegious. I wish we were the type of people who would call out sick just to spend all day in bed together. But we aren’t.

He’s still in bed when I get out of the shower. I glance at him over my shoulder, pulling my shirt over my head. “Lazy.”

He smiles, eyes closed. “Yeah. I still have seven more minutes of sleep.”

“I’m going to eat all the eggs.”

“That’s my girl.”

“Oh?” I slip on my jeans. “Am I your girl?”

He laughs. “You know you are. Come here.”

He kisses me softly, almost chastely. Almost. Then I head off to make breakfast while he showers and we sit in relative silence, the sound of our forks scraping against plates soothing the anxiety racing through my veins. When we’re ready to go, Zed stops my hand on the doorknob.

“Just so you know,” he says, his voice quiet and serious, “I love you if you dance every ballet, or if you dance none of them, and if you’re in the corps or if you’re in a title role.”

I think the tears that spring to my eyes surprise him as much as they surprise me. I rise on my toes, looping my arms around his neck. “How’d you know I needed to hear that?”

He taps his temple with a finger. “Aly, Spidey sense.”

“Thank you,” I whisper. “I’m going to check in with Jonathan today. Just to be sure I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

He frowns. “It’s Tuesday. You’ll be okay after rehearsal? I’ll be at my meeting tonight.”

“I’ll probably drag Sofia out with me to do coffee after, no matter how it goes. Don’t worry.” I open the door. “Now we’re definitely going to be late.”

Zed shrugs as he starts down the stairs. It’s slow going and I can’t wait until he gets the new prosthetic with the fancy tech he tested a few weeks ago. “Everyone will live.”

We’re late to the gym, and we’re both late to work. It bothers Zed less than it bothers me, but today, I’m lucky. I’m not the first in the building, but I’m not the last and there’s a sign on the front office window saying our first class is starting late. As soon as I step out of the elevator on the second floor, Sofia’s there, shoving a cup of coffee in my direction.

“I’ve already had some, but thanks?” I raise an eyebrow at her.

“No, take it,” she says, a little sharper than usual Sofia. She glances over my shoulder at Jonathan’s office. ”MacQueen’s here.”

I snatch the paper cup from her hand before I even turn around. Mrs. Elizabeth MacQueen is one of District Ballet’s deepest pockets. She’s what we call a balletomane. She’s ridiculously wealthy—she makes my parents look middle-class—and she likes to dump quite a bit of her cash into this company. She’s also one of my biggest fans. She’s followed my career since I was at the Lyon School and basically, I’m the reason she’s giving money to such a small ballet company. This all means I have to be extremely nice to her whenever she’s here.

“It’s a little early, don’t you think?” I hiss to Sofia.

Sofia’s mouth twists. ”Madison’s reapplying her makeup.”

Of course she is. Madison’s ambitious and ruthless, but not particularly cunning. Not yet. Everything she does is telegraphed, the same way she still turns her head to spot herself in her pirouettes. She wants to be MacQueen’s darling. If I let her, she’d take my roles, my director’s love and my greatest, richest, most doting fan.

Jonathan catches my eye and waves me to come into the office. I turn to Sofia and raise the coffee in thanks. ”Here we go. Make sure Madison sees me, won’t you?”

“You’re evil,” Sofia says, amused.

“You like it,” I call over my shoulder and then pull open the office door and step into the lion’s den. I plaster on my brightest smile and lean forward, kissing Mrs. MacQueen’s cheek. ”Mrs. MacQueen! Good morning! What brings you into the District today?”

She’s the type of old woman I want to grow up to be, in a lot of ways. She’s slender and commanding, her shoulders always thrown back as if she is about to deliver a great speech. Her nearly white hair is pulled back tight in a bun and she wears a green velvet coat over top of her black dress. Pearls hang from her ears and neck, and she wears more than one ring with a big stone. She’s five foot nothing, shorter than even Yana, and she’s the most imposing person in the entire building. That’s normally a tie between Jonathan and me.

“Elizabeth, dear,” MacQueen says, but I can tell she’s delighted that I’ve never assumed the familiar. ”I came to talk to Jonathan about turning our opening weekend into a gala with a party and press coverage, like bigger companies do.”

“No good morning kiss for me?” Jonathan jokes and pulls up a chair for me. ”Morning, Alyona.”

“Good morning,” I tell him. ”A gala sounds fun! I’m always up for a party.”

“I think it could bring in a fresh crowd,” MacQueen says in a whisper, as if we’re conspiring against Jonathan. Which we might be. I’m not sure yet.

When I glance at him, his face is annoyingly stoic. Jonathan and I have a long history together but I still find him difficult to read. ”I know our fall repertoire is an unusual mix. Hopefully that’ll help attract new ballet fans too.”

MacQueen looks thoughtful. ”Yes, I saw that.
Jewels
. David Dawson’s
A
Million Kisses to My Skin
. A nice pairing. I’m excited to see you headlining in
Jewels
, Alyona.”

I smile. ”No casting decisions have been made yet.”

“Of course,” she says, and then winks at me. Turning to Jonathan, she adds, ”I also hear from other board members that you have a younger dancer who might debut in a principal role in the Dawson ballet.”

“I haven’t made any casting decisions,” Jonathan repeats my words smoothly. He touches his fingertips together in front of his mouth. ”But yes, I expect Madison Dahl will be appearing in some bigger roles this fall, if not in the opening weekend. You’ll remember her. She’s also out of the Lyon School.”

“And a little more modern than our Balanchine artist here,” MacQueen says, reaching over to pat my arm affectionately.

I stiffen. Outside the glass-walled office, Madison appears as though she heard her name. She stops to talk with Sofia and Yana and the growing crowd. I bring my smile back onto my face though it takes me a second or two. ”I’m always looking to expand my repertoire, Mrs. MacQueen. I saw the Dawson ballet last year out in Seattle and it’s absolutely lovely. But Jonathan’s right. You absolutely must keep your eye on Madison Dahl. In a few years, I think she’ll be a force to be reckoned with.”

The corner of Jonathan’s mouth twitches slightly. ”Mrs. MacQueen, I’m going to talk to Lila and some of the board members about booking space for a gala after the ballets. I think you have the right idea to attract more engaged donors and audience members. We can send Alyona to make the rounds. She enjoys socializing.” He smiles at me and I return it to both of them. He’s not wrong. He addresses Mrs. MacQueen again, “As always, your visits are an absolute pleasure.”

Jonathan and I stand as Mrs. MacQueen does. She kisses my cheek and shakes my hand tightly. ”You look lovely as always, Alyona.”

I blush. ”Thank you, Elizabeth.”

She squeezes my hand a little bit before she lets go. Jonathan opens the door for her and then MacQueen makes her way to the elevator, stopping to talk to a few dancers on the way. Madison’s practically vibrating with excitement when MacQueen shakes her hand. Sofia looks over her head at me and rolls her eyes dramatically.

Jonathan shuts the door so it’s just the two of us watching the procession. ”So. You want the Dawson ballet too.”

“I want whatever roles I earn,” I tell him.

He casts me a narrowed glance. ”That was modest.”

“Well. I am very good. I’m confident that I earn every role I want,” I say a little coyly.

He laughs a little bit. ”There’s the Alyona I know and love. Don’t stress out over this, or over MacQueen liking Madison to lead the contemporaries. I saw the look on your face.”

“You’re sure?” I ask finally, trying not to let my voice shake. ”That I have nothing to worry about?”

“You just said it yourself. You earn your roles,” he says, his voice more serious and thoughtful than mocking.

It’s not as comforting as he thinks it is. He opens the door and I step out into the hall. Madison lifts her nose from her phone to look at me, and then at Jonathan behind me. She shifts her gaze to the elevator where MacQueen just disappeared, and her face darkens with suspicion.

I can’t help it. I smile at her and say as cheerfully as I can fake, “See you in class, Madison!”

The look she gives me could curdle milk. Or fuel me all day. Every time I feel tired, I just remember her look of anger and suspicion. It’s rejuvenating.