Unfortunately it was only her first day back at work, so she was too tired and disorganized to think on her feet. She grasped for a plausible, innocent explanation.
“He… he was at the bar when the accident happened. He doesn’t want me to work now, after the head injury and everything. He wants me to concentrate on Firebird, so he’s letting me stay in his guest room for free. But that’s all it is. Just staying at his place. Like a roommate. I have my own room.”
That wasn’t a lie. She did have her own room, not that she ever used it. Glenna didn’t have to know that.
“So you’re totally living with Jackson Spencer. Is that what you’re saying?” Her voice rose to a disbelieving squeak. “Basically you are totally living with him in his house! Just you and Jackson!”
Prosper laughed. “I know what it sounds like, but it’s not like that. We’re just…” She waved her hand. To say we’re just friends would not be true. To say they were lovers would be more accurate, but she couldn’t say that, not when she knew Glenna had been sent to get the gossip by the other dancers who watched from across the cafeteria like hawks. “He’s just helping me out. That’s all.”
More truth. He was helping her. He was part lover, part life coach, part sadistic tormentor. His help took the form of patient reminders to eat healthy meals and rest, and instructions on how to be more proactive about reaching her goals. He made her create lists and timetables for progress. The torment came when he started calling her “girl.” Training sessions, careful and exacting lessons on how to address him, to serve him, to please him sexually. She put her head on her hand, starting to daydream.
“Prosper!” Glenna said. “You can’t just wave your hand like that! So what is he like? The real Jackson Spencer? Is he a slob? Does he have girls over? Is he a male slut? Does he have any weird, gross habits?”
Prosper’s mind flicked to the night before when he’d collared and leashed her and made her suck his cock with the lead wound tightly around his fist. “No, nothing too weird.”
“I can’t believe it.” Glenna sighed. “I’m so jealous. You have to try to get a peek at him naked. I want to know how he’s hung.”
“How he’s hung?” Prosper echoed. She was undergoing training every night now because his cock was too big to fit in her ass. “If I see, Glenna, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Damn right,” she said. “We all want to know.”
Prosper looked over at the dancers gathered at the end of the hall. What would they think if they knew? Would they even believe what was going on every day and night between them? It was hard to imagine it didn’t show. She thought some of them saw it. Blake saw it.
Blake knew.
In rehearsals Blake was friendly and supportive. He partnered her carefully. They had grown to know each other very well—as dancers who danced together frequently do—gotten to know each other’s weight and balance and particular quirks. They shared small jokes, sections of the dance where he pretended to drop her. They laughed over steps where she once kicked him accidentally that he never let her forget. But every so often she caught a look from him that gave her pause.
Later, her first night back at performance, he cornered her outside the dressing rooms.
“Did the doctor clear you to come back?”
“I was at rehearsal today, remember?”
“Rehearsal is one thing.” He plucked at a piece of lint on her poufed tulle skirt. “This is a performance. You should be resting.”
“I’ve been resting for two weeks. And this is just Nutcracker. Hopping back and forth in a line, traipsing in a circle. It’s not hard.”
He smirked. “Ooh la la. Now that you’re Jackson’s protégé, you’re too good for the corps. I knew it would happen soon enough.”
Was he teasing? Was he flirting with her?
“What do you want, Blake?” She looked past him to where the other dancers milled around waiting for stage calls.
“I just want to be sure you’re okay. You hit your head pretty hard, and you’re back at work already.”
“I got cleared at the doctor’s. Jackson insisted on it.” She bit off the last word, cursing herself for bringing Jackson back into the conversation. She looked up at him sideways.
“Yeah, I know. Don’t bother to blush. And to be honest, I think you’re an idiot. But it’s your life.”
“It’s not—It’s just—We’re just—”
Blake held up his hand. “I don’t want to hear. You’re lying anyway.”
“I’m not lying. We’re just… Look. I know we’re just… I know he’s just…”
“Just using you?”
“Mmm. Maybe. But I’m probably using him too.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better to think that.”
“I don’t just think it. It’s true. Not that it’s any of your business, but we aren’t really together.”
“So if you aren’t really together, then you could go out with me, couldn’t you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Go out. Have coffee. Or dinner and dancing. Just go for a walk.”
She snorted. Now that she had a big “I’m okay with being used” label on her forehead, suddenly Blake wanted to get to know her better. “Have coffee? Go for a walk? Me and you? I’m sure your friends would choke on their spit.”
“I don’t care. Anyway, if you aren’t really together, we should go out. Why not?”
“Whatever, Blake.” Prosper dodged around him and hurried to the wings, hid herself in a sea of white tulle and rhinestone tiaras. Dinner and dancing? Had he taken to drinking before performances? She ground the toes of her pointe shoes into the ground and thought to herself that a year ago she would have jumped at the chance.
But that was a year ago. Now she moved through class, rehearsals, performances to the beat of his name in her head. Jackson. Jackson. Jackson. Sometimes he came to watch her perform in the evenings. She begged him not to tell her if he was coming, because if she knew he was in the audience, she could barely remember the steps. When he did stay, he watched her closely. If she made mistakes, he noted them, and she paid for them later over his lap.
“No!” Jackson yelled.
Firebird rehearsals continued as always every day after class. The choreography was almost set, but Jackson seemed more, not less, agitated as the days went by.
“No, try it again. Stop!”
Prosper dropped off pointe and crossed her arms over her chest. Blake glared at Jackson.
“No. There are three beats before the lift. You have three beats to throw yourself at him. You,” he said, pointing to Prosper. “He doesn’t run to you; you run to him. Stop being a pussy and do it.”
“I was!”
“You run at him like you expect him to miss you. Look at him! He’s going to catch you. If he doesn’t, we’ve got other problems to worry about.”
Prosper pursed her lips and looked at Jackson. Moving in with him hadn’t softened him toward her in the studio at all. He prodded; he railed. He demanded, and he dared her to fight back. She looked down at her pointe shoes. The ribbons were fraying, the satin by the toes was ripped. The boxes were soft from sweat. A mess, just like she was. She glanced up at him from under her lashes.
“Blake and I will work it out. It will take a few times.”
“A few times?” Blake cut in, shaking his head. “This is a dangerous lift. Why can’t I do a traditional overhead lift? Catch her by the waist, then overhead—”
“Because traditional is boring. I want you to catch her in flight. This is passionate, sexy. I want to feel excited when I watch this pas de deux. I want to see you subdue her to your will.”