Firebird (17 page)

“I can’t believe it.” Glenna sighed. “I’m so jealous. You
have
to try to get a peek at him naked. I want to know how he’s hung.”

“How he’s hung?” Prosper echoed. She was undergoing training every night now because his cock was too big to fit in her ass. “If I see, Glenna, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Damn right,” she said. “We
all
want to know.”

Prosper looked over at the dancers gathered at the end of the hall. What would they think if they knew? Would they even believe what was going on every day and night between them? It was hard to imagine it didn’t show. She thought some of them saw it. Blake saw it.

Blake knew.

In rehearsals Blake was friendly and supportive. He partnered her carefully. They had grown to know each other very well—as dancers who danced together frequently do—gotten to know each other’s weight and balance and particular quirks. They shared small jokes, sections of the dance where he pretended to drop her. They laughed over steps where she once kicked him accidentally that he never let her forget. But every so often she caught a look from him that gave her pause.

Later, her first night back at performance, he cornered her outside the dressing rooms.

“Did the doctor clear you to come back?”

“I was at rehearsal today, remember?”

“Rehearsal is one thing.” He plucked at a piece of lint on her poufed tulle skirt. “This is a performance. You should be resting.”

“I’ve been resting for two weeks. And this is just
Nutcracker
. Hopping back and forth in a line, traipsing in a circle. It’s not hard.”

He smirked. “Ooh la la. Now that you’re Jackson’s protégé, you’re too good for the corps. I knew it would happen soon enough.”

Was he teasing? Was he flirting with her?

“What do you want, Blake?” She looked past him to where the other dancers milled around waiting for stage calls.

“I just want to be sure you’re okay. You hit your head pretty hard, and you’re back at work already.”

“I got cleared at the doctor’s. Jackson insisted on it.” She bit off the last word, cursing herself for bringing Jackson back into the conversation. She looked up at him sideways.

“Yeah, I know. Don’t bother to blush. And to be honest, I think you’re an idiot. But it’s your life.”

“It’s not—It’s just—We’re just—”

Blake held up his hand. “I don’t want to hear. You’re lying anyway.”

“I’m not lying. We’re just… Look. I know we’re just… I know he’s just…”

“Just using you?”

“Mmm. Maybe. But I’m probably using him too.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better to think that.”

“I don’t just think it. It’s true. Not that it’s any of your business, but we aren’t really together.”

“So if you aren’t really together, then you could go out with me, couldn’t you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Go out. Have coffee. Or dinner and dancing. Just go for a walk.”

She snorted. Now that she had a big “I’m okay with being used” label on her forehead, suddenly Blake wanted to get to know her better. “Have coffee? Go for a walk? Me and you? I’m sure your friends would choke on their spit.”

“I don’t care. Anyway, if you aren’t really together, we should go out. Why not?”

“Whatever, Blake.” Prosper dodged around him and hurried to the wings, hid herself in a sea of white tulle and rhinestone tiaras. Dinner and dancing? Had he taken to drinking before performances? She ground the toes of her pointe shoes into the ground and thought to herself that a year ago she would have jumped at the chance.

But that was a year ago. Now she moved through class, rehearsals, performances to the beat of
his
name in her head.
Jackson. Jackson. Jackson
. Sometimes he came to watch her perform in the evenings. She begged him not to tell her if he was coming, because if she knew he was in the audience, she could barely remember the steps. When he did stay, he watched her closely. If she made mistakes, he noted them, and she paid for them later over his lap.

* * *

“No!” Jackson yelled.

Firebird
rehearsals continued as always every day after class. The choreography was almost set, but Jackson seemed more, not less, agitated as the days went by.

“No, try it again. Stop!”

Prosper dropped off pointe and crossed her arms over her chest. Blake glared at Jackson.

“No. There are three beats before the lift. You have three beats to throw yourself at him.
You
,” he said, pointing to Prosper. “He doesn’t run to you; you run to him. Stop being a pussy and do it.”

“I was!”

“You run at him like you expect him to miss you. Look at him! He’s going to catch you. If he doesn’t, we’ve got other problems to worry about.”

Prosper pursed her lips and looked at Jackson. Moving in with him hadn’t softened him toward her in the studio at all. He prodded; he railed. He demanded, and he dared her to fight back. She looked down at her pointe shoes. The ribbons were fraying, the satin by the toes was ripped. The boxes were soft from sweat. A mess, just like she was. She glanced up at him from under her lashes.

“Blake and I will work it out. It will take a few times.”

“A few times?” Blake cut in, shaking his head. “This is a dangerous lift. Why can’t I do a traditional overhead lift? Catch her by the waist, then overhead—”

“Because traditional is boring. I want you to catch her in flight. This is passionate, sexy. I want to feel excited when I watch this pas de deux. I want to see you subdue her to your will.”

Prosper blushed.
Damn it
. Why was she still blushing over this? Jackson had talked to her a hundred times already about his ideas on the ballet, and now she couldn’t look at it innocently, not anymore. He’d taken a traditional tale where the prince catches a Firebird and turned it into high D/s pornography, at least in her mind. After the new year they would begin practicing the entire work in preparation for the start of the spring season. This was the only section he kept changing. He kept making it more complex. More difficult. More dangerous.

“Catch, swing, turn her around, catch her in your arms like this—” Jackson mimed a passionate bear hug.

Blake still looked doubtful. “If I miss the turn, if she swings even slightly off balance, she’s hitting the floor! And she’s going to be moving fast, she’s going to be up in the air—”

Jackson waved a hand. “This is Prosper we’re talking about. Perfect Prosper. She’ll hit her mark. You just hit yours. I want it to look like you’re catching a bird in midflight. And you,” he said, spinning on her. “Stop being so afraid. We’ve talked about this before.”

Jackson’s ballet wasn’t easy. Jackson wasn’t easy. He pushed and pushed. He pushed her at home; he pushed her at rehearsals. Her feet ached, but worse, her nerves were shot. He walked over and took her arm to lead her back across the rehearsal room.

“Again. Head up. Run fast. You’re trying to get away. I want to see fear in your face and panic in your body. Let Blake partner you. Work with him. And Blake, you control her. You’ve caught her. She’s yours. Show me in your face how that makes you feel. Show me how you make her give up her freedom to you.”

Prosper squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. Blake stood, waiting. She ran; she leaped. He caught her in a grasp that hurt her, swung her over his head high in the air. His hands left her. Free of the earth, she arced upward for a millisecond, then came down. She squeaked as his strong arms gripped her on the way down. He hugged her as Jackson had demonstrated. It felt crushing. Her toes just skimmed the floor.

“Okay,” said Jackson. “Was that so hard? Repeat five hundred times; make it bone memory. The audience will gasp. It will all be worthwhile.” He looked back down at his dance book, already moving on to other steps. Prosper thought he thought she could do anything in the world. She wasn’t so sure.

“Jackson,” she said. “If I slip, if we get it wrong, I’ll fall on my back. Or if he drops me in the catch afterwards, I’ll snap one or both of my ankles.”

“That’s ballet, isn’t it, girl?” Jackson looked up at her, unwavering. “If you don’t want to get hurt, don’t get it wrong.”

* * *

They walked home together later that night. Jackson was quiet, but that wasn’t unusual. Rehearsals had gone well aside from her abiding anxiety about the lift. She and Blake had tried it fifteen times in a row afterward, until the skin he grasped at her waist was so raw and sore she had to bite her tongue to keep from crying out. It wasn’t bad partnering to grab her that way. It was good partnering. Clutching, good. Dropping, bad.

And Prosper fought her own fears to make it work every time. Tensing or shrinking during a lift could make a slight dancer unliftable, while good balance and propulsion could make a heavy dancer effortless to lift. Partnering in general was such a complicated and precise art, but lifts even more so. The female had to keep her abdominals tight, but her body loose. She had to keep herself perfectly centered in space but not rigid. The man provided the muscle and the counterbalance in the event of a waver. The male had to learn with each female he partnered how to guide her particular body to the right axis in space. With the best pairings it developed naturally, almost like falling in love. With others it was a struggle. It was a conscious effort to figure the other out and adjust to the balance each time.

She looked over at Jackson, head down, shoulders hunched against the bitter December wind. It was almost Christmas, and while the decorations and twinkling lights of the neighboring townhomes were lovely, they did nothing to take the edge off the frigid wind. She suppressed a shiver. He took his scarf off and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“I told you to start dressing more warmly. This isn’t peacoat weather. Especially when you weigh ninety-five pounds.”

Prosper weighed more than ninety-five, but not by much. She’d begun to lose, not by any real effort, just the punishing performance and rehearsal schedule at this time of year. And yes, every so often, she decided not to eat. She liked to feel light, empty. It was easier to dance that way. But she knew she had to maintain her weight. Her clothes were getting loose, and she’d been fitted already for her Firebird costume. If she lost or gained weight, even a little, the tight silhouette wouldn’t fit right.

Unfortunately when she was at the apartment with Jackson, food was the furthest thing from her mind. Even now, during this silent, tense walk to Jackson’s street, when they didn’t touch for fear of being seen, she burned for him. He’d made her his Firebird, but more than that, he’d lit her up. He’d set her on fire.

At the Townsend, they worked. They collaborated. At his apartment, he took her in his arms and everything else fell away. There was only his naked, golden skin and his heavy cock in her hands, between her legs. Hairy chest against her smooth one, strong knees pushing her thighs apart, arms she was powerless to escape. Hard hands that pinned her down and a gaze that could pin her down even harder. Softly whispered directions, barked commands. Rough fingertips exploring her skin.

He glanced over as if he could tell what she was thinking. She might have had flames licking out of her ears from the thoughts in her head. Maybe he was thinking similar thoughts. Two more blocks. Two more.

“Talk to me about the lift, Prosper.”

Okay, maybe not thinking similar thoughts
. She pulled her peacoat around her more snugly and nestled her face into Jackson’s scarf. It smelled like him. Aftershave? The soap he used? She would steal this scarf, hide it so when he was gone she would still have it to remember him by. Remember his smell, remember the way he wrapped it around her whenever she shivered.

“Prosper.” He was looking over at her. She pulled her nose from its soft, fragrant haven.

“I’ll get it. It’s just a little scary.”

“Is it because you don’t trust Blake?”

“I trust Blake.”

“Don’t tell me lies. Look at me. Do you trust Blake?”

She did a small half shake of her head and shrugged again. It was too complicated to explain. “I mean, I do trust him—”

“Has Blake hit on you?”

That question she did not expect. She looked over at him with a frown. “Would you care if he did?”

“Has he or hasn’t he?”

“Once. A couple of weeks ago.”

“What did you say?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. We never even finished the conversation. I think he was just joking.”

“I doubt that.”

They both fell silent.

“About you and me, Prosper… Everything’s still okay?”

She took a deep breath. Her palms were starting to sweat. “What do you mean?”

“You’re enjoying living with me still? I mean, you don’t want to move out?”

She didn’t even have to think about it. “No, Jackson. Not at all.”

“I know I’m hard on you at work. And I ask a lot of you at home too.” He stopped, and she looked over at him. Their breaths intermingled, white and wispy, in the air between them.

“I just want you to know…” He paused and shifted, rubbed his lip. “That lift. I know it seems hard right now. But you’ll get it.”

She swallowed. Half a block.

“Yeah. Yes, I will. Can we go home now? I’m really starting to feel the cold.”

* * *

At dinner they talked about Christmas.
Nutcracker
would continue until the first week of January, so Prosper couldn’t get away. Jackson could and planned to visit his family and friends back in Chicago. Prosper knew he felt guilty about leaving her behind at the holidays. And to be honest, the idea of it upset her. Sure, she could spend the night of Christmas Eve after the performance with her dancer friends. Partying, drinking. She could sleep in Christmas morning, do whatever she wanted. But she’d be doing it without him.

Still, she had known. He had an entire life back in Chicago, and her life was here. She had a job that required her to perform, a contract. He could take two weeks away; she couldn’t.

While they talked about the holidays, he had asked questions about her family. Prosper didn’t have much to say that he would understand. Apparently he came from a healthy family, a family that wanted to come together for the holidays. He had two brothers and two sisters, seven nieces and nephews, and parents who still followed the holiday traditions of his youth. He described Christmas Eve with his family, football and pizza for the guys while the women baked cookies for Christmas Day. Later they hung up stockings and sang holiday songs with the little ones. He described it all with such enthusiasm and detail, Prosper almost felt herself there.