Dance, Sugarplum

8. Lyla

CHAPTER 8

LYLA

ACT 1

He takes his fingers out of my pussy, deliciously slow, and they burn on the way out. I’ve never done anything like this, and my cheeks redden with the sinful wet sound that echoes through the room. I manage to hold back my moan of well-used pain.

My heart pounds, and the blood rushing in my ears leaves me disoriented. There’s supposed to be some form of post-orgasmic clarity, but all I feel is mind-numbing confusion.

We both look down, seeing his fingers painted in red, dripping my blood down his palm as proof I never allowed any other to touch me like he did.

He raises an eyebrow in question, but I can’t say a word.

Why does part of me like the sight of him marked in my blood? Why does some carnal urge call me to paint more on his skin? That’s not me talking. I rarely think about sex, let alone something like that. I’m still horny, achingly so, and I can’t expressly understand why my body so fiercely craves more when I’ve just come, but this need to be fucked pulses in every part of my body.

“I expect more.” The words are harsh both in sound and meaning.

Does he mean my dancing? Or am I supposed to drop to my knees and suck his cock and have sex with him? Is this all I am to him? The ballerina whore?

“More,” I repeat the words numbly. My mind and body war with one another.

I blink as I try to connect with myself and understand how I could have allowed this to happen, but all I see is clear blue eyes like glass, cutting and unapologetic. What is it about him that’s overtaken all of my good common sense? Why am I still poised in développé?

He nods for me to relax my pose and then watches my ass and exposed pussy as I bring my leg down. The sight of his eyes trained on me makes me shiver. I try to stand straight and maintain my composure, but his gaze weighs a million pounds. I adjust my leotard and search for anything to say or do, and I can’t deny that part of me hopes he might step forward, either to ease my embarrassment or touch me again.

He makes no such move, and I don’t let more than three seconds of my humiliation pass before I spit, “I’ll do better,” and run from the room while avoiding looking into those stupid eyes. Too bad I can’t take his bloodstained fingers or the last twenty minutes with me.

My attempt at escaping my director is juvenile at best and might result in my removal, but I can’t stop myself. If this is a situation like the one with Carter, where sex is expected to have a part in his show, I’ll find something else. I won’t be toyed with like this. I dedicated my whole life to ballet, but men always have other ideas. Carter, and now Mikhail. They want more than I’m offering, and I’m tired of asking how high when they say jump.

I run straight into the dressing room. My feelings are a mess, but one thing I know for sure. It doesn’t matter how turned on I am right now, I can’t let Mikhail or anyone else treat me like a whore without my permission.

I’m here to dance, not to fuck.

So why haven’t certain parts of me gotten the memo?

When the door closes behind me, my hands tremble. A flurry of emotions races through me, and I have the damnedest time trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to navigate my life. Thankfully, no one is back here. They were smart enough to flee the building when Mikhail opened his mouth to speak. My heart beats so loudly that I can feel it pulsing in my ears.

Wetness drips down my legs from the hole he made in my tights, and the tender skin aches where he spread me. The image of him watching me through the mirror while using his fingers will be inked in my memory for as long as I live. I’m even needier as I picture it.

I’m confused, turned on and, as usual, a mess—only this time, I have nothing to wear to rehearsal tomorrow.

Resting my head on the door, I groan and wonder how I can ever move on from this. Did he do that to me because he’s heard the rumors? Was he as insanely turned on as I was, or is this all a game now? He’s the producer. He’s the one everyone jumps to please. He can afford to play however he wants, but I can’t. My life is on the line. This is more than a dream—this is my survival.

So what are you going to do if sex is all he wants? Say no? Die in the cold?

I squeeze my eyes closed, feeling like a failure once again. I know I’m not in the best shape, but I thought I could do better with a production like this. I want to be the old Lyla. This is my chance to go back to the top. It’s not fair that I’m here wondering if I made the cast just because of what he thought he could get from me, and worse, I’m not stopping him.

Tomorrow, I have to come in here and face everyone like this humiliation didn’t happen. Like they weren’t right about me all along. I pray to the gods who have forsaken me that no one heard or saw anything more than my sloppy routine, that they all ran away scared before they could see what other messes I’m capable of. I had no idea I could squirt.

A curse flies past my lips in my embarrassment, and I shake myself off. There’s no point in staying here, but where the hell am I supposed to go? Back to my car to sleep.

Quickly going to my cubby, I grab myself a change of clothes. I pull soap and shampoo out of my bag and clean myself over the sink like I’ve been doing for the past week. Scrubbing out my hair with the hot water takes time, but it feels pretty amazing. It’s not comfortable exactly, but it’s good, like I’m human or something.

The temperatures are forecasted to drop yet again tonight, but I can’t do anything about that. I dry my hair as thoroughly as possible so it won’t instantly freeze when I step outside, but it’s still going to get a little crunchy. This is necessary, though. I can’t show up at rehearsal looking dirty and worn out—the thought stops me in my tracks. What the hell am I going to wear tomorrow? It’s not like the tiny rip on the side I can sew up. My leotard is bloodstained, and I can’t imagine a patch job would go unnoticed there.

Dear God, what am I going to do?

As I stare at myself in the mirror and dry my hair, I think about all the dancers gossiping about how the director called me out. People who hate me will have a great time thinking that Mikhail himself tossed me out on my ass. No one knows I got an orgasm out of the deal unless he’s planning on telling them. Will I ever find someone who wants me for the right reasons? Tears threaten, but I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself.

I finish with my hair, so twisted up and humiliated that my cheeks are flaming despite my lack of an audience. I put my stuff together and step out into the hall, keeping my head down. I’m lucky I haven’t been caught washing up here, and I know I won’t have a chance tomorrow with the tight rehearsal schedule.

“Hey, Lyla,” a feminine voice pulls my eyes off the floor I was so carefully inspecting. One of the friendly dancers waves at me with a coffee in one hand. “Staying late too?”

I want to answer, but my tongue is too big inside my mouth to greet her properly. So I just shake my head to let her know I’m getting the hell out of here.

I pick up my pace, pulling on layers of outerwear as I go. I’m at least three times thicker than I was a few minutes ago, and my hands are warm as they close around the knob. I open both doors at once. I sigh in relief at not having to answer any more questions, but it quickly turns into fog and anxiety as I step into the freezing December air.

The wild wind lashes my exposed skin, so powerful it’s like knives. I step back, trying to protect myself in the hollow of the door, and at that moment, it sinks in that I can’t sleep in my car anymore. I have lived in this city my whole life, so I know its winters well. The day was coming, but I hoped I had a few more weeks. Last year, it didn’t get impossibly cold until January.

A frown puckers my brows as I close the theater’s doors, my heart racing for a whole different reason. The ballerina who told me she’s staying late has taken up residence in one of the studios, and she doesn’t notice me as I follow my way back to the dressing room. There’s an old couch sitting on one side and a pile of stunt pads for when we want to try out more adventurous moves on the other.

I grab my phone and scroll through the local resources for the homeless. I try to avoid using them as much as I can because I’m too scared of being so vulnerable beside strangers. I have options. Don’t I?

I find the answer to that question is no. There isn’t a person alive who’s on my side. They all believed Carter. I haven’t had a real friend since before my mother’s funeral, but I guess if they’re all gone, I’ve never had a true friend at all. I lower my expectations and try the shelters, but they’re fully booked for the next two weeks.

My head cast down, I place my elbows on my knees and stare at the floor. It doesn’t matter how long I stay. The magical solution never comes. Eventually, the music ends, and the friendly ballerina heads home without making another stop in the dressing room. I appreciate that I don’t have to choose between hiding or lying.

The cleaner comes around soon after, throwing an uncertain smile at me before she removes the trash and goes through a small door I never paid much attention to. She fiddles around for a few minutes before returning and leaving the dressing room.

Excitement lights my blood as I hang back about ten feet and follow through the small passage. It’s long, at least forty feet, and I find myself getting nervous as I wind down the hall and around the back of the stage. There’s a flight of stairs to the left, and I take it. I could go up to the offices or down to what could only be the basement. I choose the route less likely to feature security cameras.

The stairs are too loud beneath my feet, and I work to silence them. My excitement clogs my throat as I find there’s no door, and the wet heat of the furnace wraps around me. The basement is covered in mechanical stuff, old boxes, and dust.

The only light comes from the emergency exit signs, and there’s a dankness to the air. I enjoy the stale, warm atmosphere for a minute before realizing it might even be too warm. Exhaustion instantly swamps me.

Stepping into the center of the room, I find a clear space. My bag slides down my shoulder and lands on the floor. Silence passes as I listen carefully for a sign of anyone down here. The only interruption is a rat, quickly running from one wall to the other. My heart sinks. I can’t sleep here .

The thought of heading back outside to face the cold is even less appealing than the rats.

I could wait here, I suggest to myself as I check the spot on the floor directly beneath me and sit down with my knees by my chin. My teeth fiddle with my lip, possibilities fueling my imagination. I could wait around until the cleaner is gone and sneak back into the dressing room, set my alarm early, and be up and dressed before everyone comes in.

I could use the time alone to practice.

The idea is beyond dangerous. If I get caught, I fuck the only job offer I’ve had in months, and that’s if Mikhail doesn’t decide to have me arrested.

But my hands aren’t hurting from the cold for the first time in forever, and I know it doesn’t matter how risky it is. I’m doing it.

I need this.

Watching the floor for more rats, I stay quiet until I know it’s safe to go upstairs.