Page 14 of Nemesis

“It takes a spineless man with a limp dick to call victims whores.”

Ivan audibly chokes on his drink beside me. My head tilts.

“Excuse me?” I ask, utterly bewildered by the woman’s words.

“I suppose it’s funny to watch women be forced to withstand the sexual advances of these old fucks just to keep their jobs?”

She’s got a mouth on her, too, it seems.

My lips twitch into a smile, and I’m anxious to see the response it has on the woman looking up at me. She doesn’t disappoint. The tendons in her neck bulge beneath the vibrant flush of her cheeks. For a brief second, I wonder if she’s going to try to throw a headshot at my sly grin in the middle of the banquet hall.

“And I suppose no one taught you not to eavesdrop on conversations that are none of your business?” It might be the most I’ve bothered to say in a while, English, Russian, or otherwise. That’s when my mind catches up to the second part of her statement. Hypocrite I may be, I can’t help but ask, “Who touched you, little ballerina?”

In my next scan, the surroundings look different. I’m not looking for exits or threats this time. All I see are power-hungry men, conspiring and scheming with a drink in one hand and a dancer in the other. It was the same in Russia. The universal language of wealthy frauds.

The woman chuckles, but the cold sound holds no humor. Her tall heel takes a step back. My foot follows.

“All the same,” she mutters, shaking her head.

“Hm?”

“Men,” she whispers. Another step slides back. “You really are all the same.” Pure rage burns through her moss-green eyes.

There’s something thrilling about facing the heart of a flame. Something that jolts my senses from the dull state they’ve gotten so used to. Everything about her is vibrant. The blazing hair, those flaring green eyes, even the curses that spew from her painted lips.

“Assholes,” she mutters under her breath before turning on her heel and cutting a path straight through the room and out the door.

“Friendly tip,” Ivan says from my side. “In America, we try not to insult the woman we’re interested in.”

I barely hear his snide comment, craning my neck to mark her path.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, already moving through the room in the direction the dancer disappeared without even understanding why.

The crowd parts around my hurried path, champagne splashing across the marble floor as people lunge to get out of my way. I’ve already stepped one foot outside of the banquet hall when my attention is pulled to a forgotten stack of pamphlets on a nearby table. Sure enough, a professional headshot of a red-haired woman stares back on the folded page.

“Tonight, the principal role will be fulfilled by Octavia Clarke. Ms. Clarke (age twenty-one) joined the Manhattan Ballet Company Board & Train program at age twelve on the McCourtney Skill Scholarship, funded by donors like you.”

Octavia.

The name cuts through my skull like a hot knife, obliterating every other thought. Isn’t the principal ballerina supposed to be the one in front? Throughout the show, she always seemed intentionally stashed in the very back of the stage, behind layers of tulle and feet.

The night’s chill envelops my limbs as I slam through the theater doors, gaze wild and raw in search of my fleeing ballerina. It was unwise to run from me. All it did was ensure I’d follow, even if I’m not entirely certain why. You don’t tease a terminally bored tormentor with a good time.

For the first time in weeks, I can feel the rush of blood racing through my veins. Something in my chest came alive the moment she strolled up and challenged me. I don’t know if it’s the fight I’m chasing towards, or if it’s simply the need to do something other than return to my empty apartment and drink until the sun comes up.

A glimpse of red glints under the moonlight.

There you are.

I cut around the fountain and take the broad Lincoln Center stairs two at a time, desperate to catch up to the long ponytail swinging in the distance. Her steps are uneven, leading me to wonder whether she injured herself at some point during the show. She favors her right leg the slightest bit; each click of the tall heel lands harder than the left.

“Octavia,” I call out as soon as I close the distance. She’s not expecting me to know her name, so maybe it’ll give her pause.

Success. She freezes for a brief moment in the middle of the street.

“Fuck off,” she shouts, refusing to look back my way. Then she throws up her middle finger in an entirely American gesture before storming to the other side of the street.

An angry cab driver blares his horn as I cut across the walkway, holding up my hand to stop traffic. Jesus. I definitely have a death wish tonight.