The Girl in the Mirror (Sand & Fog #3) (28 page)

We go down the freight elevator to the waiting car, Jacob in full intimidating guard posture. Through the iron gate of the exit I can see the sunlight. It’s a bright, beautiful day. It’d be wonderful to walk outside for a bit, to clear my thoughts and settle into my zone to dance, but no, Jacob isn’t letting that happen. How he’s rapidly surveilling the area tells me it’s not even worth asking.

I take my place in the backseat and Jacob sits next to me instead of in the front with the driver as he’s supposed to. I stare out the window as we go from underground to the street. I miss walking in New York. Mom’s always hated it here and Dad says it’s like it was in the ’70s and early ’80s. But I don’t know. I like the feel of the city, the energy that exists even with the despair.

The sidewalks are crowded with people moving briskly amid the trash cans overflowing and the wisps of smoke from buildings here and there. The remains of fires from last night. There must have been more protests. The city going bankrupt has put everyone on edge. Riots and protests are common nowadays.

It will pass,
Alan says in that very British way he has, before he suggests I come home. Chrissie uses guilt and pleading. Kaley states flat out she thinks I’m nuts to try to stick it out here. Everyone has an opinion on what I should do with my life.

I shift my gaze to Jacob.

Does he think we should leave here?

Is that why he brought up the job in California again?

Or is it just his pride being bruised over keeping his job with my dad that makes him subtly nudge for me to quit dancing and for us to go somewhere else?

I close my fingers over his hand resting on the seat beside me and give it a squeeze. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Jacob Merrick.”

He gives me a look that makes my heart jump. “Not yet, Mrs. Merrick. But I plan to be.”

I set my head on his shoulder. “That’s why you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Because you’re wonderful and think it can get better than this.”

I shut my eyes against the view from the window. Inside the car there is only us and that’s perfection to me.

“Jacob”

I stand in the stark, dilapidated hallway, staring through the window into the audition room. It’s hot, the ventilation system is either malfunctioning or turned off to save money, and the air is stale and heavy with the scent of old concrete and young dancers sweating.

This is not the way I pictured the world of elite ballet before Krystal, but to be honest, I’m not sure I ever pictured it. Why would I? She’s the first dancer I’ve ever known, and knowing her, I assumed her every environment would be merely an extension of her: beautiful, soft of color, elegant, and happy.

The first audition I watched taught me two things about my wife I’d only partially known from loving her. As fragile as she looks on the surface, she’s iron beneath her skin. She has to be to slug it out day after day, working her body to an unimaginable limit and taking endless hours of verbal brutality that would make most people crumble in twenty minutes. Worse than the military in every way—mental, physical, and emotional. Second, for a girl born with every luxury, she has a work ethic that would put most people to shame. If dedication and hard work were the only variables that determined success, she’d be an international star already.

Ten hours of dance a day, minimum, and if she gets accepted into the corps of a company, it will be ten hours a day even on performance days until her body wears out and her careers ends most probably in five, maybe ten, years.

Krystal’s right when she says
I know being with a ballerina isn’t exactly the ideal life for a guy
, but not for the reasons she thinks. It’s excruciating to watch what she puts herself through, day after day, and not to stop her, when all I want is to love and protect her.

I check my watch. Nine hours, and the stuffiness in the building has me dripping with sweat and ready to drop. Shit, I wish there was a chair somewhere so I could sit as I watch this. But no chair anywhere. Everyone stands except Milo Bassard in his universe.

My gaze moves to Krystal standing elegantly erect, number pinned to her chest, waiting for instruction having made it through the first four rounds of cuts. Her hair is still perfectly smooth in a ponytail, her body without circles of perspiration, her chin high and her face dainty and beautiful like a character from a fairy tale, though I know by now she’s in pain.

Every now and again when she thinks no one can see her, a flash of a wince shows on her face. I try to keep away the image of what her feet must look like if the pain is enough to make her facially show it even briefly. The sight of her feet makes my gut wrench—the raw skin and damaged toes—because as painful as they look, I know they feel more painful to her.

Sometimes I can barely touch her without making her grimace when she needs help tending the injuries left on her body from dancing. The first time I saw her facial muscles go taut as she walked and asked her to take off her shoes, she refused and I thought it cute. To be shy about showing her feet when I’d seen all of her. But it’s not cute. It’s anguishing at times to love her and see the abuse she puts her body through.

Milo Bassard points at her. “This time only you, Ángel.” Then he turns his back on Krystal, facing the mirror and moving through the choreography as she shadows him so quickly I don’t know how she remembers it. But she always does. Every step, effortless and perfect.

“Do you think you can manage that?” he says loudly enough for the words to pierce the glass between us. “Or are you going to continue wasting my time?”

She stares, expressionless, and doesn’t answer.

His gaze moves slowly, insulting the line of dancers huddled against the far wall. “If you want to be with NBBC you better not dance as poorly as her. I hoped at least two of you today would be worth accepting into the corps. But I don’t think so. I think you will all continue wasting my time like her.”

My hands are clenched in tight fists before he gets back to his folding chair to watch her. Krystal moves to the music with flawless technique.

“Stop!” Milo bellows.

The music cuts and Krystal eases down on her heels.

“Again.”

Krystal begins to dance.

“Stop!” He springs from the chair and brings his face nose to nose with her. “Don’t count in your head. Don’t think of the moves. Feel the moves. Can one of you frigid girls pretend to feel? It’s the difference between moving with the music and moving on the music.”

He struts away, biting off “Again,” without turning to face her.

He starts her, then stops it. Over and over again without her making it once through the series of steps. At least I don’t think she’s made it through because even after three years of this my knowledge base of ballet is slim.

The sound of something crashing causes me to look from Krystal. That prick threw his chair against the wall. Krystal is frozen in the center of the room as he paces around her angrily.

“When you dance you should entice every man. Not make them want to vomit. I can’t imagine what it must be like fucking you. Are you as timid with men as you are with your own body?”

The line of her mouth tightens as she struggles not to cry or show any emotion on her face. But she’s crying inside. She’s can’t hide that from me.

My temper moves to a raging boil. That’s enough of this insanity for me. He’s the most abusive artistic director in New York, a reputation he’s justly earned, and this ends now. She doesn’t need dance enough to have to put up with this.

I’m almost to the door when Cass hurries from the second window crowded with corps members where’s she been watching since she received word of being accepted by NBBC four hours ago.

She stops me with a hand. “No, Jacob. You bust in there now and she’ll never forgive you. This is good. He’s testing her limits. He wouldn’t keep her dancing alone this long if he wasn’t thinking of accepting her into the corps. Don’t stop it now. She’ll hate you.”

My jaw clenches as I stare down at Cassandra, then I let my fingers slip from the handle of the door. “This is fucked up, Cass.”

She gives me a sympathetic pout. “This is dance.”

“She’s my wife. You expect a lot if you expect me to stand in the hallway listening to some asshole talk to her that way without doing anything.”

She grins. “It’s harder on you than it is on Krystal. She’s been a ballerina a very long time. This is nothing new to her.”

“It’s wrong,” I say, shaking my head.

“It toughens our psyche so our bodies can transcend. Let her transcend. Besides, a little more of this and she’s going to want to go home and transcend in bed. Or haven’t you gotten any angry ballerina fucking yet?”

I roll my eyes since it’s not worth telling Cass to stop her frequent vulgar, sexual comments. I move back to my spot at the window.

Cassandra stays with me. She spreads her arm on the ledge, chin near the glass, watching.

“She’s doing well,” Cassandra states excitedly. “My father has commissioned for the season a new modern ballet. He must think there’s something in it for her if he wants her to lose form and show emotion. Maybe a solo. Wouldn’t that be great? To gain the rank of a soloist her first year with the company. I can tell by how he’s staring at her that he likes her.”

Great?

Not my word for it.

Not if it means Milo Bassard in our life.

Milo snaps his fingers. “Come up behind me. Close to my back and move with me, Ángel. Feel only me. Move only on me. Want only me.”

Knots form in my gut. If he touches her, not even Cass will be able to stop me, and Milo’s next stop is my fist.

The music starts and they move across the floor, mirror images of each other, and then he turns, lifting her, and her body in a flowing drape arches over his shoulder.

He sets her on her feet and moves back toward his chair, frowning as though surprised it’s no longer there.

Krystal waits.

He doesn’t look at her. “You are excused.”

She doesn’t move.

“Get out of here,” he bellows.

Shoulders square, she gathers her things and moves with measured calm to the door.

“Stay in the hallway. I may call you back. Probably not, but don’t leave,” Milo commands at her retreating back.

Once the door shuts behind her, both her body and her expression collapse and tears fill her eyes. Mouth scrunched up, she shakes her head, dropping her bag at my feet before running down the hallway without me.

I grab her stuff and hurry after her. Krystal is already huddled in a ball, sitting on a narrow wood bench in a locker room by the time I catch up to her.

I sink down facing her, straddling the wood, then ease her shaking body against my chest as I fold her in my arms.

“Shush, shush. Stop crying, babe. You were incredible and he’s an asshole not worth even one tear. Who cares what Milo Bassard thinks?”

Her chin snaps up. “I do. He’s brilliant. And today, his opinion is the only one that matters, Jacob.”

I ignore the unintended jab from that comment since she’s upset, and kiss her on her head. I don’t want to get her hopes up, but…

“Cass thinks it went well,” I say, gently caressing her back.

Her eyes widen to their fullest as she peeks up at me. “Did she say that?”

I nod then make a face. “It’s why I didn’t go into the rehearsal room and punch him when I wanted to.”

She croaks, half tears and half laughter. “Did you really want to punch Milo Bassard?”

I smile ruefully. “Yep.”

She chokes back a laugh, closing her eyes to shake her head at me. “Maybe you should have. I won’t ever be a famous dancer. Maybe infamous is all I can ever achieve here. Cass should have let you punch him.”

We both laugh, tired, then I lie back on the bench, taking her with me. “It’s going to be OK, babe.”

She makes quiet sniffing sounds. “No one in my family ever fails. Not ever. I’m going to be the first failure in family history.”

“You’re not a failure.”

“I am if none of the companies want me.”

“I want you, Krystal.”

She rests on my chest, not speaking, and slowly quiets.

“Do you want to get out of here, babe?”

She sits up. “We can’t. Milo said not to leave.”

I nod and fight to keep from my expression my reaction to that. Waiting in the halls. Second misery of auditions. We’ve done that before. It’s like they want to torture them so they can kick them again. Heartbreak after heartbreak. I don’t know how she keeps going on.

Jesus Christ, three years of this and I can’t even contain my temper anymore and am physically sick by the end of every audition. Watching her suffering and fight through pain. Nope, won’t ever get used to that, not ever, even though I’m a little ashamed of myself for being glad she didn’t succeed today.

Maybe this is over, this cruel obsession of hers—or maybe it’s an addiction. I’m not sure—and we can move on and start our own life together finally.

“It was good news about Cass,” she says, her smile shining from her tear-puffy face. “I’m so proud of her sticking it out to become a member of NBBC. It couldn’t be easy for her to audition today. Not with all the bad history she has with her father.”

“Maybe he’s less of a prick than he seems.”

“Probably not. She’s the perfect ballerina. On some level Milo Bassard must see it.”

I kiss her lightly on the lips. “You’re the perfect everything, Krystal. And Milo Bassard is a fool if he doesn’t see that.” I stand up and hold out my hand to her. “Let’s go back to the hallway. This can’t go much longer.”

After letting me help her up, she goes to the mirror and lightly dabs with a tissue the evidence of her emotional meltdown. With her fingers she fixes her hair back into neat arrangement, then smooths her fingers across her cheeks, stares at herself, and turns to face me.

I hug her. “Whatever happens, Krystal, you did your best and you should proud of yourself because I’m proud of you.”

She presses into me, kissing me on the chest, and I tighten my arms around her.

The door bursts open and she springs back.