“It’s really none of your business,” I said neutrally. I wasn’t going to share with Sergei that I was barely holding it together. That I spent more time in the shower crying than jacking off, and often I did both simultaneously.
“No, of course not.” He displayed that predatory smile of his, all toothy and thin-lipped, like a crocodile. “Well, I have more to say about your career here at the company, but I think it would be a more appropriate conversation for us to have over drinks.”
“Trying to get me drunk, huh?” I was so over the bullshit. Let’s just call this what it was rather than dicking around.
Sergei shrugged like he had a secret he wouldn’t tell. “I suspect you might be a little more relaxed with a drink or two in you.”
I nodded. “You’d be right. All right, fine. Let’s do drinks. Should I bring my fake ID, or do you want to pretend you’re my dad and order for me?”
I’d expected a glare from him at least, but Sergei only smiled, sensing his victory was already in sight. “I do love a challenge, Mr. Bell. But as I’m just a few years short of being your father’s age, perhaps you should bring your ID.”
I seriously doubted it. We made a date for that Friday night. I knew I was playing with fire, but what else did I have going for me? With a few good roles, Sergei could literally make my career. With that on my résumé, I could even join a different company and transfer away from the city that constantly reminded me of you.
Maybe that was all Sergei wanted—to give me some pointers as to how I could perform to the best of my abilities. More likely he wanted to fuck me. Either way, I no longer had my demon boyfriend to go home to, so why the hell not see what the fucker had to say?
I usually stayed in on weekends and wallowed in my misery or else called for you until my throat was raw and my lungs ached. Bruno had been trying to get me to go clubbing with him for months, so when he saw me putting on a nice shirt and suit jacket, he was all over me.
“You have a date?” Bruno asked, equal parts curious and pissy. For whatever reason—maybe because of our threesome—Bruno felt the care and feeding of Orlando Bell should fall on his shoulders now that you were gone. That only made me feel more like a tool.
“I’m having drinks with Sergei.” I didn’t see a reason to hide it. It would probably be all over the studio by Monday that I was sucking dick for a part. Whether it was true or not was irrelevant. It made for a good story, and it wouldn’t be the first rumor like that as to how danseurs got promoted in the company.
Bruno gave me the usual bullshit, and I tuned him out while trying to control my hair with a comb and product. Getting more and more irritated by my nonchalance, Bruno finally said, “What would Henri say?”
I turned away from the mirror to glare at him. “Who the fuck cares what Henri would say? He’s not here. He fucking left me, as you well know, so what I do or don’t do is none of his goddamned business. I’ll suck ten cocks for a part.”
I didn’t mean to shout that proclamation, but then maybe you were listening. Part of me hoped so. I wanted to hurt you the way I was hurting. How would you like to see me on my knees in front of Sergei, whom you hated? My abstinence hadn’t done shit. Maybe fucking another guy was what it would take to bring you back to me.
That’s all I wanted, Henri, to have you back. I was willing to doanything.
I thought Bruno would lash out at me—I was looking for a fight—but instead he did something way worse. He hugged me close and rubbed my back in a way that reminded me so much of you. I couldn’t accept that kindness from him or Xavier, because it was too much a reminder of the care you gave me.
I couldn’t have Bruno worrying about me anymore. Our lease was coming up for renewal, and I had enough money of my own now to afford a single. The company offered subsidized housing in a few of the apartment complexes near the studio. Then I could mourn in private without having my every emotion broadcasted to my best friend. Our friendship might even improve if we weren’t always breathing down each other’s neck.
“By the way,” I said to Bruno when he finally released me. I was barely holding back tears. “I’m moving out.”
The gay barSergei suggested was swanky and dimly lit, where closeted, corporate types went searching for one-nighters with pretty gold-diggers. I’d bet this was one of Sergei’s usual haunts. I was kind of relieved that he was so transparent. I knew my role in this charade as soon as I walked through the door. I could have walked right back out, but I didn’t. I went looking for him. I couldn’t claim later that I was innocent.
“Mr. Bell.” Sergei beamed and stood to embrace me. One of his hands slid to the lower part of my back and rested there like my ass was his for the taking, not so different from in class, when he copped a feel under the guise of “adjusting my posture.”
“Should I still call you Master?” I asked him when we sat down. I wanted Sergei to know that I knew exactly what this was about—whathewas about. I wanted to rattle him a little, but I soon learned, the man was truly shameless.
“Master is always acceptable, but Sergei is fine, too.”
The table was small, and the chairs were close enough together that our knees touched. Instead of pulling away, which was my instinct, I left my legs where they were. I determined then that I wouldn’t flinch, no matter what. I would do this thing with eyes wide open.
We ordered drinks. The server didn’t bother to ID me. I’m sure I wasn’t even close to the only under-twenty-one in that place. We were all very good boys, weren’t we?
“You know,” Sergei began with a wizened air about him. “From the moment you auditioned, I knew you were something special.”
I shot him a skeptical look. “You hated that audition.”
He shook his head. “No. I was taken aback by your boldness. Your talent was very raw, but I knew that I could shape you.”
He wasn’t wrong. I’d grown a lot as a dancer in his company. My control was impeccable, and my moves were consistent. My strength and stamina only got better with practice. Sergei was mean and sometimes cruel, but he’d instilled in me an expectation of excellence that I’d internalized. One critical comment from him meant I’d remain in the studio for hours to perfect my form.
“And you have,” I complimented him.
“Yes, and now I think you’re ready to progress to the next level.”
