Dance, Sugarplum

10. Mikhail

CHAPTER 10

MIKHAIL

ACT 1

I’ve watched Lyla like it’s my job for the past week, forgetting the company and most of my other responsibilities. My assistant is beside himself, my junior director close to fainting.

Rather than worrying about them or my responsibilities, I’m leaving food for Lyla in the dressing room, like the theater doesn’t have rats, and generally keeping tabs on her. My attention doesn’t go unnoticed by the other ballerinas or anyone else.

But Lyla? Whether she notices or not is an ever-shifting mystery. One thing I’m sure of is that she hasn’t noticed me watching her dance late at night.

She barely looks at me since I fingered her over the barre. Her first week here was an amazing power play of feeling her eyes on me and choosing to respond by ignoring her, like she’d done to me. It's possibly a moot point, given I’ve masturbated at least fifteen times to her since. Now I feel we’re too evenly matched, and I wonder again why I need to be infatuated with someone like her.

At night, her lack of attention is fine. I like to dissolve into the magic of her body, and she dances better when there’s less pressure. This is especially maddening during the day when she often performs like pure shit. If I didn't think it would make things worse, I’d have cornered her already and forced her to tell me what she’s thinking.

I’m sure she doesn’t see me, and I’m so insane with it that I might snap until I catch that same flush creeping up her neck and always when I’m near her. Lyla notices me. If she’s trying to build my interest and drive me insane, it’s working.

Morally, I’m concerned I may have fallen far enough that I’ll never recover, and still, that seems like the least of my problems.

Snow falls all around my driver and me. My breath fogs the windshield because I refuse to sit in the back seat and be driven around like an infant. Every moment in a vehicle sets my teeth on edge, my forever-broken jaw screaming with the ghost pains of the accident that changed everything. I hate driving with a passion. It reminds me of so many things I’d rather not think about. The cold has set in deeply, the weather reminding me of that time.

I don’t bother to question whether or not the snow will stick. The cars and foot traffic will pack it down and dissolve it soon enough, but a grungy brown-white coating of it will stay stuck to the city long past Christmas. It will look like this for months…

We’re parked in front of the fucking downtown post office all decked out in holly jolly splendor. Lights line the whole building, and a giant, inflatable Santa and reindeer decorate the front lawn. This is definitely not where Lyla lives. The falling snow gives everything the appearance of being trapped in some absurdist snow globe. Why did she give a fake address?

“Boss, I don’t think?—”

I hold up my hand, stopping him. The sting of the obvious does not need to be rubbed into my face right now. My driver has been with me for years. He’s a good man and doesn’t interpret my gestures as rude.

He knows my panic sits just beneath the surface of my calm exterior. I’m not as bad as I often am when we drive. Oddly, how fucking angry I am is actually helping me to manage it. I’m here, in the car, for her, and I’m outside the goddamn post office. There must be a reason they call it going postal.

My hands flex. The heat pumps from the vent, but it’s having a hard time keeping up with this chill. Fat flakes of snow fall over the glass ever so gently, and a violent image of blood and glass on snow flashes through my head.

Rather than sinking into the feeling, I tuck it away. Dropping my head into my hands, I try to focus on my next move. I’d walk the block and knock on every door if I thought it would help, but none of the buildings on this street are residential. Why did she give a fake address?

When I pulled out her personnel file with the intent to follow her home, I thought it was a new low for me. Really, it was just the beginning of a chain reaction of lows designed to humble me and make sure I have no ego left to speak of. How else could you explain two grown men at the post office with no packages in December?

My driver and I stay parked outside the post office for another fifteen minutes, and I’m not sure which of us is more confused as to what the hell is going on. The post office never magically turns into a house, and eventually, I make a spinning gesture with my hand, signaling for us to return to the theater. If I’m going to find anything, it will be there.

“To the theater,” he says, giving me a chance to protest but not demanding a response. We turn it around and head back uptown.

I’ve waited for everyone to leave for the past week and then found her dancing. The first night filled me with so much pride that I nearly stepped out of the shadows to tell her what a good girl she was. Instead, I watched. I quickly became less pleased when I realized how much work she really has to do. Enraged seems to accurately describe my current state, and I know where to find her.

Regret isn’t one of the many emotions flying through me, though maybe it should be. This is hardly acceptable behavior; two wrongs don’t make a right. But how can I have true regret for my actions when her health has improved from my attention?

Lyla’s physique is strengthening and filling back out, meaning she’s been eating the things I’ve left for her. With more calories, her practice is translating to muscle development. Those late-night practices won’t go to waste, and that’s needed because we’re closely approaching the beginning of our Christmas season.

I’m probably a shitty stalker, and I’ll admit I’ve given up before her every night this week, gone home after convincing myself it would be so much worse if she saw me. But each night I watch her, my need for her grows more intense, and her determination leaves a warmth in my stomach even the winter chill can’t chase out.

She wants to give me better, wants to be better. But then I remember the goddamn post office…

I should have known better. Casting a girl who’s so malnourished she can barely dance might have been the beginning of the chain reaction of lows, but maybe not. I wonder what point I went from observer to irrevocable fool, chasing her to a fake address. I should have left her memory on the stage the first time I’d seen it and ran. Of course developing an interest in something so beautiful would end in pain.

The post office confounds the issue of why she’s not eating on her own, rather than explaining it. If she’s willing to eat the food I leave for her, why the hell isn’t she seeking it out? She must know she needs it, that I need her to be healthy. The shows are sold out, and it wouldn’t do to have a disappointing ballerina on my stage, no matter how small the role.

I can’t for a moment pretend she’s not made a fool of me. In so little time, she’s taken over everything. I can’t think about choreography because, in the back of my mind, I worry about how thin she is. I’m not at the theater. I’m driving back from the damn post office.

I’ve made very little progress in stalking her. You’d think that would be the least my obsession could manage, but no. Never did I imagine I’d be wishing I was better at following women home, but Lyla not only brings me to new lows, she digs them for me. How does someone as wealthy, connected, and successful as me fail at stalking someone?

Maybe it’s a matter of luck. I’m more an opportunist than a hunter? I haven’t found her all alone in the dressing room naked again, and what I’ve found online has been dated and less than helpful. But I’m getting tired of the placid, upper-crust approach. It’s time to get hands-on.

I return to the theater and head straight upstairs to the offices where the security cameras cover most of the building. It’s a central space for the directors and producers contracted here, but it’s not my office, so I can’t stay here indefinitely.

I flip through the camera angles until I find Lyla in one of the rehearsal rooms. I’m briefly pleased before I realize I’m still furious with her. What would the fucking IRS say when I tell them my ballerinas live at the post office?

As I watch her dance, voices echo on the stairs leading up. Standing in front of the security camera display, I might have noticed them, but I was too busy watching Lyla, coaching and correcting her from here. Smiling slightly when she seems to hear me despite the impossibility of that.

“It’s going amazing. Don’t worry about it,” a deep male voice says. I don’t realize I recognize it until the door opens, and I find none other than Carter Livingston and his director. Both men freeze momentarily, staring briefly before Carter pushes into the room.

Gray hair frames his face. His flat brown eyes focus on me with a spark of malice that wasn’t there the last time we spoke. I say nothing for a full minute, and neither does he. It’s rare that someone forces me to speak first, but very well.

“Are you lost?” I ask, trying to keep the worst of the bite out of my voice. As far as he knows, we’re competitors, but we have no reason to dislike one another. It probably wouldn’t help my reputation to growl at him even though I’d like to.

“Not lost at all, Mikhail, looking for the light maps.”

I raise my brow at him in question. Why the fuck would you need those? I ask with my eyes, and this time, he fills the silence.

“Our rehearsals start next week. It's such a shame Lyla wasn’t ready. She isn’t fit for this production yet, but I guess she might be good enough for yours.” His tone says he cares for her, but his eyes have a predatory shine.

I’m not sure how he heard the news I cast her, but I can think of about twelve people who would have taken the time to report back to him. I don’t say anything, and there aren’t enough words to describe what I’d like to say, but I do consider punching him. He may have tradition, but he’s more than lacking in vision.

Instead, I nod at him agreeably. She’s not good enough for mine either, but that doesn’t matter right now. We still have some time, and if her rate of improvement holds steady, she’ll be just fine for my show.

“She begged, you know, to come back to me. People saw it, too. I know you’re a proud man, Mikhail. Do you want to be second choice when she’s not half the dancer she used to be?”

He’s trying to manipulate me, but it’s working. Did she beg him to come back? Are the rumors true? My blood pressure rises as I clench my jaw and fire pain through my system. He winks at me, and the sensation is like oil coating my skin. Slimy bastard.

He finds the plans he was looking for.

“Ah, perfect.” He hands them to his director and half turns back to me. “I’ll be seeing you, Mickey. Who knows, maybe if you can get her back into shape, I might take her after all.” The two of them head down the stairs.

“Don’t fucking call me that.” I manage to unlock my jaw a moment later, but they’re already on the stairs, their steps and conversation far too loud to hear what I have to say. Potent rage sinks into every part of my being, and I’m not sure who will suffer most for it.

Carter Livingston is hosting his Christmas production in this theater. The man she danced for, possibly fucked too, will be here with his company. The same one she was tossed out from. And he might try to win her back.

He can’t have her. She’s mine.