“Read my mind.”
I nodded, understanding that all too well.
“This is ours,” he said, answering my original question.
“Then I'll stay here, forever, with you.” I tightened my hold around his hand.
He sat up straighter, the look on his face suddenly changing from thoughtful to unreadable. My words tripped a line, and he was retreating back behind the gate.
“I have something else to give you,” I blurted, not wanting to lose him to his own self-imposed confines. “Another gift. Is there room for me to…” I bit my lip, not wanting to spoil the surprise, but needing to ask. “Is there a room with enough space for me to move around?”
The look he sent me went straight between my legs, causing the blood in my veins to rush. “Come with me, Ballerina Girl.” He stood, offering me his hand. “I have something else for you too.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Scarlett
Her mouth is the spell, her hands the ingredients, and her love, my magic. — Brando Fausti
His eyes are a tragedy, his sharp silhouette a sword, and his mouth a cage that refuses to release all of the undiscovered pretty words. — Scarlett Rose Poésy
Thesomething elseBrando gave to me actually turned out to be another room. The same room he had skipped during the tour. He called it the “dance room” for good reason.
The room was bare to the bone, except for the new walls and the grand mirror placed in a corner, a barre running the length in front of it.
Again, the mirror looked like it had been purchased in France, the details impeccable and romantic, even if the paint was chipped and peeled. A matching wooden beam divided the room.
After Brando opened the door and let me in, I asked him to grab my bag from the master bedroom. The tools of my trade would be needed—my pointe shoes and a radio that ran on batteries.
I had been planning this for some time. And the room delighted me. It set the perfect backdrop to my second gift.
Brando stood by the door, his shoulder leaning against it, watching me.
“I’ve never seen you do that before.”
I stopped mid-shake and stared at my crimson pointe shoe. It took a moment for my mind to register what I had been caught doing. The action had become second nature to me. He had been staring at me as I beat my pointe shoes before. It was something I did to make them less noisy while on stage—it lessened some of the enchantment if the shoes made thunderous sounds. No one enjoyed a noisy ballerina. But this was the first he had commented on the process—on this extra precaution. “I’m searching for monsters, shaking them out if they’re hiding.”
“Monsters.” All of a sudden, he was on alert, his nostrils flared. As though he had scented something potentially foreboding in the air around me.
I nodded. “That’s what Maja Resnik used to say when I was a little girl.” I repeated the words she used to say to me as a child (over and over) in Slovenian, and then translated them into English. “Monsters are a threat in our profession. We must always shake out our slippers before we put them on. Monsters can hide in the depths and can cause much pain and suffering to our most valuable feet. What is to become of the footless dancer? She shall not perform! Now, shake, shake, shake…”
“Monsters in your slippers.” Brando rarely became perplexed, but I knew he had when his eyebrows drew down, his eyes narrowed, and his head cocked to the side. He crossed his arms over his chest. The tendons stood out in his neck, a sure sign that he was agitated.
I hid my smile. “Glass, Brando. Shards of it. Another dancer who had been quite successful during Maja Resnik’s time—but not as successful—put glass shards in Maja’s slippers. She was lucky. No permanent damage came from it. But that’s why she drilled it into me from such a young age that I had to always shake, shake, shake…”
His eyes glossed over with heat—that rapid-fire burst that he hid seconds later. I didn’t miss the flex of his arms behind the crisp white shirt. “Is that a common occurrence, Ballerina Girl?”
I shrugged, finishing up. “I know what people see—beautiful, graceful ballerinas, women who twirl and look like they’re dancing on air—but it can be competitive, Brando. Rife with jealousy. But for the most part, things have changed since then.”
The news seemed to flabbergast him—mean-spirited ballerinas!—before he turned to stone once more. “Never forget.” His words were forceful. “Always check. Shake those shoes.”
“I will.” I stood and stretched my arms. And then I slid the length of my left leg up the beam in the middle of the room, coming to a sideways split against the wood. Half of my body became flush against it. Then I used my right leg to stand en pointe.
“I’ve never seen you do that before.” He cleared his throat. “Looks painful.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “It’s not. It actually feels good to stretch.” After more stretching, I pointed to a chair that had been placed in the room. “Sit, Brando Piero. Take your shoes off, get comfortable, stay with me a while.”
Once he was settled, I pressed play on the radio. Static crackled and popped in the background before the song I had choreographed my dance to began to play.
