“I didn't report him missing. It looks suspicious.”
“You covered well,” he says. “Don't worry. I'll handle it.”
“What do you mean, you'll handle it?” How can he handle it?
“I asked you if you knew how much power I had. Conall had good money. I have god money. I will handle it. They will be moved off your trail. Trust me. You do not have to worry about this. The only person with the power to put you in prison is me. And I refuse to relinquish that power to whatever jackass reported your husband missing.”
By this time, I'm standing at the barre, going through my warm-ups, trying to calm my anxiety and the trembling in my limbs that doesn't want to go away.
“Did you cancel your waxing appointment? That was today, right?” he asks, changing the subject as if this issue with the police truly is nothing.
“No, I didn't cancel. But I didn't go. I was distracted and forgot.”
“Yes, you've been distracted all week. What was going on at your performances? I counted thirty-two mistakes spread across four shows. What am I going to do with you?”
I swallow hard. “P-punish me?”
“Yes.”
I take a long, slow breath. My body immediately wakes up at this possibility. Should I be scared? Should I be aroused? I don't know what to feel, but he's going to touch me. Beyond the pas de deux. Something profoundly personal is about to happen here. And I don't have the luxury of pretending he's some secret lover and not my blackmailer, not after the words that just passed between us. And yet, still I want him.
But first he wants to see the new solo I've been working on with Mr. V. It's another one of Odette's solos from Swan Lake. He gives me some corrections, sounding irritated, losing patience with me, and I'm crying the next time I run through the solo.
He turns off the music mid-stream. “Enough,” he growls. “What in the fuck is wrong with you?”
He doesn't shout at me, but this level of displeasure from him aimed in my direction makes me flinch.
“Do you or do you not want to be a principal dancer?”
“Yes, Sir. I do.”
“Tell me what's going on with you. You're dancing like someone else. You're dancing like someone who is never getting out of the corps. Why?”
I shield my eyes against the spotlight on me and stare out into the vast darkness. I shake my head.
“Tell me!” he demands. “Why are you so distracted?”
I shake my head again.
“Are you still afraid of the police? I've told you I'll handle it.”
“No, Sir.” I am, but that's not why I'm tripping over my feet like some gangly teen. Finally I tell him. The words just spill out of me. “You didn't touch me last week.”
“Of course I touched you. We danced.” There’s a silence, and even though I can't see him, I imagine I can. And in my mind's eye, I see the light bulb go on over his head.
“Oh,” he says. It's the most smug, self-satisfied Oh I've ever heard spoken aloud. A moment later he says, “Put on the blindfold.”
My body responds to this immediately. The words put on the blindfold create a pulsing throb between my legs, and I'm sure this will be my new normal. It's a trigger, a prompt. Those four words slip inside me, make me wet like some kind of arousal drug.
I hope he doesn't expect me to do the new pas de deux with him, because I know I won't be able to focus on it. I put on the blindfold and stand at the barre, one hand braced against it as if I need it for balance just to stand. And I wait.
A few minutes pass, and he is there, standing behind me, his chest pressed against my back, his hand resting on my hand on the barre. He leans in close to my ear.
“You're going to be punished, and you're going to be waxed. And then you will dance the pas de deux with me without a single misstep. Do you understand, Ms. Lane?”
“Y-yes, Sir,” I gasp.
“Thirty-two errors,” he growls. “It's unacceptable. You're better than that.”
