Dance, Sugarplum

6. Lyla

CHAPTER 6

LYLA

ACT 1

Hold for a count of two, push off into a single pirouette.

Too-weak legs try to land gracefully in fourth position, but instead, I trip on my own feet. Today is a pre-rehearsal where we’re learning our routines. We have two days to nail the moves before the official cast rehearsals begin, and I get to humiliate myself in front of everyone.

The extra practice times I booked were not enough. My teeth grind together. Shame warms my cheeks, and I have to school my expression as I struggle to ignore my shortcomings.

It took me years to become the best. I can’t expect to get it all back in a few days.

Sweat drips down my chest, but I don’t have a second to myself. Eduard, the dance instructor I met only an hour earlier, claps—a language all ballerinas understand. My back shoots straight, and a breath later, we return to start.

Step into a tendu devant, transition into an arabesque.

I’m just another body, no longer getting one-on-one coaching. I caught a glimpse of the prima ballerina earlier, the same mean brunette who teased me in the hall, and I bit my bottom lip so hard, I tasted metal in my effort not to react. I couldn’t help but watch.

Her routine is inspired, stunning, and brave. It is everything I wanted to be and never could be in Carter’s stale old company. My heart ached as I watched her move. How desperately I wanted to perform the moves myself. But I couldn’t even kid myself to say I was prepared for them.

I walked away with my shoulders two inches lower. She might be a bitch, but it’s not her fault that my best days are over. That honor belongs to Carter.

Attitude, assemble.

I didn’t have to focus this hard before because my routines came as natural as breathing. Another bead of sweat slips down my skin as Eduard narrows his eyes at me, unhappy with my performance. How could I blame him when I agree? I caught him watching me a few times over the week, never with anything but annoyed questions in his eyes. He doesn’t want me here. Desperation is the only thing keeping me going. Pushing forward is the last thing left to do.

We’ve only been at this for an hour, and my ribs feel like they’re carving up my internal organs. I’m not used to hours-long, rigorous training anymore. My legs tremble, but I hold my chin up, feigning dignity that left me a long time ago.

I’m unprepared for this production, and I’m not fooling anyone. Weeks have passed since I sat down with a square meal. I’m not starving, per se. I’m just malnourished, overworked, and depressed, but I can’t voice any of that, so I keep my mouth shut.

Chassé forward, extend into a grand jeté.

A sloppy landing means my joints complain as my feet stomp the floor. The noise horrifies me and draws the attention of everyone else. Eduard claps his hands loudly once again. His sharp look cuts my back, and his disappointment hangs in the air, but he doesn’t say the words.

For that, I’m grateful.

“Again, from the top,” he says.

We scurry across the room, our arms curving in third position for the start. Eduard rolls his fingers to his assistant, and the music plays again.

Plié, jetté.

I’m focusing so hard on the choreography that I might as well be alone when the room’s temperature seems to drop. Despite the exertion, chills run through me and freeze the air in my lungs.

My hands still over my waist as we pas de bourrée, and my eyes find him through the mirror.

Mikhail Ivanov.

I’ve seen him multiple times this week, yet he never looks my way. The memory of his notes are something I’m not quite ready to let go of, but he’s bruised my ego again and again since I became part of the Ivanov Ballet Company.

That all changes when I least expect it. I gulp, my heart hammering inside my chest when I realize he’s not ignoring me anymore. I shiver, wishing I had accepted his ambivalence. It feels much safer than his notice.

His black suit and shirt cling to his body like a second skin—the devil himself with slicked-back dark hair. His blue eyes are pale like glass, and his jaw is defined and ticks when he looks at me. Something coils inside me. A chill runs down my spine, and I feel even weaker. I don’t understand the ripple in my stomach as I go from ignored to the center of his attention.

The walls of this theater whisper horror stories about the impossible director. This week, I’ve heard no shortage of them. His attention is like a laser, painful and intense. I should have listened to the warnings because after a week of wishing he looked at me, now I know I can’t handle the alternative.

The moment stretches dangerously as our eyes finally meet. Goose bumps explode all over my skin, and his nostrils flare. I feel naked under his stare, and rather than focusing on my routine, I’m devouring him. He’s doing the same in return, but I don’t know what he thinks of his meal.

His eyes follow me when I move into a pirouette. I use him as a fixed point, only taking my eyes away for a second as I twirl, just to be back again. My land is smooth like my old self, and I gain a little confidence.

Breaking our eye contact seems like a smart move, but I can’t. He hasn’t bothered with watching until now, and I want to show him I’m a worthy show. Quickly, I’m myself again. My movements are fluid, my steps sharp. I know what I’m doing, and excitement bubbles inside me just to end in a terrible crash when I miss a step. His eyes narrow, and disapproval rolls off him.

I blush, but I don’t give up. I swallow hard and pick up my pace, trying to keep up with the other dancers who are now a half step ahead. My lack of breakfast is already affecting my balance, and the excitement I felt just a moment ago seeps through my fingers.

We finish, and it’s uglier than my first try. I’m a half beat late. Mikhail’s hand balls into a fist as he stares at my pointe, and he only stops to turn to Eduard with a questioning expression.

Eduard nods respectfully, but fear flashes in his eye as he claps and shouts, “Again!”

We all go from the top. Someone turns up the music, the crush and swell of the orchestra shakes me, and I unglue my eyes from the mysterious director so I can focus.

They say he never talks. In my opinion, he doesn’t need to open his mouth to say exactly what’s on his mind. His glass-like eyes cut, and his dark eyebrows express more than enough. He takes over the room, and it’s like I can’t breathe. I want to do it for me, but now, I want to do it for him too.

When we finish once again, the assistant stops the music. A gasp gets stuck in my throat when Mikhail steps forward onto the floor. The dancers vibrate with tension as he moves between us, their positions held perfectly, but fear fills their eyes. Their muscles are much stronger than my own, and I shake with exhaustion as well as fear as I wait.

His black shoes echo across the wooden floor as he approaches. His hands stay clasped behind his back, and his simple displeasure sucks all the air from the room.

We wait like statues for his judgment until he utters only a single word.

“Out!” His deep voice vibrates through the room with an animalistic growl.

None of us needs a second command. Everyone, including Eduard and his assistant, jumps to obey.

Mikhail remains in position. His body is the only thing between the group and the door. Dancers weave around him to escape, and I’m ready to follow them, but I don’t take more than two steps before his warm palm splays over my stomach, stopping me in my tracks.

I don’t react at first, the fear festering inside my chest growing and growing with each heavy second. Slowly, I glance at his long masculine fingers touching my leotard, the heat of his skin burning me. His thumb toys with the humiliating rip I managed to sew up but still leaves a pucker. His touch is even more intense than his stares or the notes he sent me when he wanted me to join his company a few years back.

I toyed with the idea of being his for long enough. Even when my stepfather said I would hate being under Mikhail, that he was too demanding, I still wondered how it would feel to be close with someone like him.

I don’t have to wonder anymore. I know with every molecule of my being that I might not survive Mikhail Ivanov.

The dancers are quiet, but I know the gossip will run fast through the halls this afternoon. Their palpable relief sinks in my stomach as the last one leaves and closes the door behind himself.

It’s only me and the impossible director.

Seconds tick by, and he doesn’t say or do anything else, so I’m forced to move my eyes up to his chest over the black suit, finally craning my neck to face him completely.

I regret it immediately .

His nostrils flare as he stares at me like the greatest disappointment to ever bring down his company. His eyes are like the winter sky and cut me to the bone. I’m shaking, and every muscle of my body screams for release, but I grind my teeth together and refuse to fall at his feet.

I know I’m a sad echo of the Lyla I used to be. I understand my shortcomings better than anyone. If he thinks he’s the most disappointed, he’s in for a rude awakening. I’m my worst critic. No one hates me like I do. My missteps play back like a movie inside my eyelids every time I rest my head on the pillow.

“Barre,” he says as he moves so quickly I’m left unbalanced. His low timbre travels down my spine, bringing chills with it.

He’s at the barre, waiting for me, and I hurry to do as I’m told. I swallow dry and bring my chin up as my hands fall to the barre. My feet find second position—heels pointed inward, and feet spaced at shoulder width.

I don’t spend more than a moment without his touch. His warm palm runs over the small of my back, and with a small push, he urges me en pointe—balanced on my fully extended shoes.

My nose turns up high as I raise my body like a good ballerina. My body is eager to do what it’s meant to. My muscles shake. I need to stop and eat something before I can do this properly, but I can’t say that to Mikhail, so I endure. His icy gaze hardens. How can he see my discomfort? I’m not doing that bad a job hiding it.

His free hand scratches his chin, the slight tightening around his mouth and the corner of his eyes say so much, but I don’t dare wish he’d speak the words. I know I can’t bear it.

He taps lightly on my right leg. I drop to my heels and bring that leg over the barre, leaning on it to show how flexible I can be. I don’t want to be pathetic. I desperately want to be good. Something has to make him happy with me, proud. Hell, I’d settle for him not regretting his choice.

“Développé,” he growls, and there’s a roughness to his voice I can’t place. Why does he sound like he’s in pain?

Mikhail watches my form attentively as I pivot and stretch my leg behind me, lifting it over my head and holding it in position. My back is straight, my leg gracefully extended above my head, and my skin burns as his eyes trace me. I try to look myself over in the mirror and correct any minor mispositioning.

I can’t see what displeases him, so my anxiety ratchets. The intensity of his gaze and his touch do more than drive me to excellence. Heat travels under my skin, warming my cheeks to a blush and traveling lower.

As a ballerina, I’ve schooled myself not to fidget and move needlessly, but that’s all I want to do under his gaze. I hold myself erect, squirming internally as I wait for him to look his fill. The need to please him is like a third person in the room.

He shifts his weight until he stands fully beside me, and I don’t need to turn to watch his face in the mirror.

He’s looking at me like an instrument he needs to tune, and I’m terrified I’ll tremble and ruin his work. Mikhail’s hand curves over my waist once again, and the other reaches under my stretched leg, slowly going from my knee to my inner thigh.

His hands remind me of an artist cupping the shape of the sunset, but I’m no blinding star. I’m a burned-out disappointment.

His hand skates closer to the heat that’s been steadily growing, the slick flesh that’s as hungry for his touch as I am for his approval.

Tingles rush my skin. He’s so close to my pussy, but I know he’s not thinking the same things I am. I’m the one thinking things I shouldn’t. His fingers track my skin in a confusing way, moving from my knee back to my thigh—high up my thigh. I can’t say I understand his coaching. Climbing fingers aren’t as universal as a sharp clap.

I’m so wet that if he comes just a little closer, he’ll touch my damp leotard, and I’ll only have myself to blame for that humiliation.

His hand grips my waist a little harder, and his eyes find mine.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t move.

Slowly, the hand on my leg makes the path again to my thigh. My nipples pebble, and I beg a God I don’t believe in to please make sure he doesn’t see the hard points.

His hand never stops, never returns to my knee. He braves closer to my pussy. His fingers skate over the damp fabric, and he pauses for a half beat before pressing forward. I want to die because he knows.

He knows.