“Fucking princess ballerina over here.” Though I can’t really see his face in the shadows, I can hear the sneer in his voice. “You got my money,princess?”
“It’s prima ballerina.” I correct him with a smirk of my own, though I’m far from being a “prima” anything. “And yes, I’ve got your money.”
Unzipping my bag, I reach inside for the wad of cash carefully hidden at the bottom. For just a second, panic claws at my chest when I don’t immediately feel it, but then my fingers brush over the familiar edges and I nearly sigh with relief.
If there’s one thing that would guarantee me a slow, painful death, it would be showing up empty-handed.
I hold out the stack and he steps forward to take it. The pale glow of the streetlights illuminate his face for once, and I catch a glimpse of pale skin and a snaking winged beast crawling up his neck and cheek.
As if realizing he’s exposed himself, he shifts backward again, depriving me of any further hints as to Typhon’s identity.
Not that I’d actually do anything with that information, even if I had it. Going to the cops is out of the question, not just because I’m well aware I’d be in jail myself if I told them everything I know. But because I know I wouldn’t survive long enough to make it to the trial.
People who cross Typhon never live very long. And everyone in our circles knows it.
Holding out a Ziploc bag, he drops it in my outstretched hands. “You know the deal. Same time, same place.” He snorts, and there’s a hint of amusement in the sound I’ve never heard from him before. “Who knew a bunch of snotty ballerinas would be my best customers?”
“Gotta keep our figures somehow,” I say with a forced laugh.
It’s not actually a joke. Staying thin while still having the energy to do what we do every day is a balancing act, and a lot of ballerinas turn to… other methods to keep their stamina up and their weight down. I just happened to be smart enough—or reckless enough—to put myself on the other side of the equation. I get a nice little cut of the sales, which goes straight into a high-yield savings account I never touch unless it’s an absolute emergency. Once I’d proven myself a responsible and reliable seller, Typhon even started including a bit extra for me to keep for myself as reward for a job well done. I never quite got the courage to tell him I don't use the drugs I sell, so I just pocket the extra cash and hope he never finds out. Even though he gives me the drugs for my own personal use, I can never be sure exactly how his mind works and for all I know he'll still see it as stealing from him.
And pissing off Typhon is high on my list of things to never do.
He watches me tuck the drugs back into my duffel bag, then gives a short, sharp nod of approval. “See you, PB.” And with that, he disappears deeper into the shadows.
Turning my back on those same shadows, I stroll out of the alleyway. One of the first lessons Typhon taught me was to never look like you’re in a rush. Especially when you’re leaving a suspicious location after dark. Makes you look guilty, and looking guilty is how you get caught.
It’s a lesson I’ve taken to heart, and now I take my time as I head home. I even pull my phone out to make a pretend phone call, laughing at some joke my nonexistent friend has told. Nothing about me should scream criminal and yet, I still can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching me.
Probably just nerves, I tell myself as I pull open the door to my apartment building. No matter how many times I make these deals, I always spend the walk home worrying thatthistime will be the time I get caught.
As usual though, nothing happens. There’s no swarm of armored police officers surrounding my building, demanding my surrender. It should be a relief, and I try to force my shoulders to relax as I make the trek up the stairs to my apartment.
But unlike most nights, I just can’t shake that “being watched” feeling. Even with all the blinds closed, I can still feel the skin on the back of my neck crawling, as if there are fingers physically running up and down my spine.
I wish Ariel, my roommate, was home. But she had work after practice, so it’s just me in this small, empty apartment.
Stashing my bag—heavy with my dance equipment and enough cocaine to get me locked up for life—in my closet, I reach for the bottle of whiskey beneath my bed and take several large swallows. Nothing helps me relax like a couple shots of Jim Beam before bed.
I must be more exhausted than I realize, because I’m barely able to strip out of my leggings and t-shirt before the alcohol hits. Stumbling to the bed in nothing but my panties, I collapse face-first into the mattress.
* * *
Gideon
Using the key I had duplicated after a brief meeting with Isabella’s rather reckless roommate in a bar a few weeks back, I slip into the apartment. All of the lights are still on but there hasn't been any movement inside for a solid twenty minutes. Which means she must have gotten into the secret stash of liquor beneath her bed.
Naughty girl.
Still, caution is the name of the game. In the event I’m wrong, or she didn’t drink her usual three shots, she could wake if I’m not careful. Lucky for me, I’ve had plenty of practice moving through spaces without notice. As long as her roommate doesn’t come home early, I should have plenty of time to retrieve my little doll.
Slipping into her bedroom, I take a moment to admire my sleeping Little girl. Even in the dark, my mind provides the details I can’t quite see. I’ve spent nearly two years watching her, studying her, learning every curve, every line, every single inch of her sweet face.
And now she’s finally mine.
My heart races with an excitement I haven’t felt in years, if ever, as I bend to slide my arms beneath her sleeping form. Thanks to the tranquilizer I spiked her alcohol stash with, she doesn’t even flinch when I haul her up into my arms.
She’s so much lighter than I expected, and I can feel her bones poking through her skin. My poor little doll, depriving her body of what it needs just to fit some arbitrary standard the ballet has placed on her.
