Firebird (19 page)

She was completely trapped. Her arms were useless, clipped wings. She was his, captured and subdued. He was inside her, splitting her open, advancing and withdrawing, subjugating her from the inside out. The tension that had gathered around her clit suffused her entire center and radiated up to her nipples.

“Oh, oh…please!”

He reached under her and found one hard nipple, twisted and pulled it between his fingers. The tension in her pelvis became a throb. Her ass clenched around his dick, and she collapsed onto her stomach. He drove into her, pulling her hair as she ground her clit against the floor, making noises like an animal. She felt fire and shattering drumbeat pulses through every nerve and vein. Her blood thrummed with a furious, erratic rhythm, and then she felt the sudden rush of completion, the release of all her pent-up, anguished lust. The walls of her ass contracted again and again on his dick. The intensity of the orgasm astounded her, turned her inside out. She gasped, unable to think or vocalize as the waves of pleasure took her. Then the sharp climax ebbed into a slow slide of aftershocks, leaving her feeling limp and replete.

She hadn’t asked permission. She had been powerless to do anything at all. She rested, still impaled by his cock as he reached his own orgasm. Her skin slid across the scratchy carpet as he pumped against her, pummeling her hard with strong hips and thighs. She didn’t brace or make any move to evade him in his forceful climax. She just let herself exist, drifting, glowing, conquered by the power of his lust.

* * *

The days flew by. Time seemed to slip through her fingers. Class was suspended the week before Christmas for twice-a-day performances of
Nutcracker
, although
Firebird
rehearsals still went on between shows. The set pieces began to arrive, and Prosper saw the technicians in the wings working on the orange and copper backdrops. A large apple tree that figured into act 1 was rigged to glow with lights in the darkness of the twelve princesses’ dance.

Prosper worked less as Jackson fine-tuned the other dances, and she had no part at all in the final act, when Blake, as Prince Ivan, and Kristen, as the Tsarina, had a glittering wedding amid the climactic fanfare of Stravinsky’s score.

She haunted the backstage and watched Jackson interact with the others. She could tell he was excited to finally be seeing the ballet in its final form. She was excited too but increasingly nervous. The costume arrived and had to be taken in, to the cluckings of the costume mistress. Jackson frowned over it but didn’t lecture. She posed for the publicity photos in full costume and makeup with a great plume of red feathers decorating her hair.

Finally the day arrived when Jackson left for Chicago. He wouldn’t let her drive him to the airport but left straight from rehearsals. That night after the performance, she broke down in the dressing room and cried. By now only Glenna spoke to her regularly. The company gossips had decided that yes, she and Jackson were a couple, albeit a secret one. The secrecy seemed to irritate them more. Some were jealous and snide because of it. Others looked down on her with holier-than-thou derision. With Jackson leaving her behind for the holidays, she looked all the more pathetic to those who judged her. Kristen was in her element, rallying the entire company against her. In the dance world, sleeping your way into roles was considered playing dirty. Well, they had no idea how dirty things really were.

Prosper tried to push it all from her mind. She couldn’t go back. She couldn’t change how things were. And she couldn’t change the future, change the fact that he would leave her soon, leave her behind in this company where everyone, even the director, seemed to hate her. She couldn’t think about any of it, because it all upset her too much. She thought about asking Jackson to take her to Chicago. She needed a change, needed a new direction.

She needed him.

She was falling apart without him. She couldn’t eat; she couldn’t sleep. Whenever he called, she pretended everything was fine because she didn’t want to ruin his holidays. But without him, without his strength and encouragement, she began to be tortured by doubt. She became more and more certain she couldn’t handle his ballet. What on earth was she thinking? She would never be able to pull it off. When she royally fucked it up, he would be furious with her. They would part on bad terms, and she would be alone.

The days crawled along in a blur. At last it was New Year’s Eve. Jackson would return on the third of January, if she could just survive until then. And after two final performances of
Nutcracker
on New Year’s Day, she could hang up her long tulle tutu until next year. Everyone was tired of
Nutcracker
, and she was so worn out that her costume was practically hanging on her. She had to cinch it in with needle and thread.

The dancers of Townsend, from highest principal to lowliest corps, traditionally celebrated their own “New Year” the night of New Year’s Day when the curtain came down on the final performance. Prosper thought she would go to the party. No matter what they thought of her, she was a member of the company too. She was as relieved about the end of
Nutcracker
as the rest of them. She would go and hold her head up, as Jackson always told her to do.

She would go because she was so lonely that even being at a party of people who hated her was better than going home alone.

* * *

Jackson looked around the New Year’s Eve party. Typical collection of Chicago dancers and dance whores, friends and hangers-on who either didn’t or couldn’t make it in the actual world of dance. He’d been invited here by his friend Kurt, who’d recently organized a small avant-garde troupe called the Movement Project. He’d gone to a couple of rehearsals and shows and was impressed by what he saw. Their quick, intricate style of modern dance struck him as ideal for Prosper’s skill set.

Prosper. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. He even talked to Kurt about her talent, about
Firebird
. He stopped short of asking if Kurt might consider making a place for Prosper in his troupe.

Hell, he didn’t even know if Prosper would be interested. They hadn’t talked about February, about what was going to happen when he had to leave; in fact, both of them stubbornly avoided the topic. They’d agreed to “no strings attached,” but over the weeks they’d spent together, he felt drawn ever closer to her. He wanted to be with her. He wanted more time with her. He wanted to ask her to come to Chicago, not just because he was selfish, but because he truly felt she’d be happier there.

But
Firebird
would open up opportunities at the Townsend she wouldn’t want to miss, opportunities she’d worked toward for years. It was a highly respected company, and it was in New York, the capital of the dance world. Why would she choose to leave just to try her hand at a small struggling group like Kurt’s? He went back and forth in his mind, weighing the pros and cons of every possibility.

Around him, drunk revelers danced and hung on each other. He felt his shoulder jostled and turned to see a curvaceous blonde woman smiling at him. He knew her, tried to place her.

“Jackson! It’s Courtney. Don’t you remember me? We danced together at school.”

Courtney, Courtney. The only Courtney he remembered had been a skinny, thin-lipped girl who had repulsed him in partnering classes because of the pimples on her back. He looked again. Some plastic surgery on the nose, Restylane in the lips. No more zits.

“Courtney. Hi. Yes, of course I remember you.”

“How’ve you been? You look fantastic! Kurt said you’ve been in New York.”

“Yes. I’ve been mounting a production of
Firebird
there. New choreography, everything.”

“Really?” Her shrill voice and disproportionate lips were squicking him out. She stepped closer, and he stepped back. “Where? Anyplace I’d know?”

“The Townsend Ballet.” He turned away and took a drink of his beer. “We begin serious rehearsals next week for an opening in February.”

“Wow, the Townsend. They have a great reputation.”

“They’re a small company, but they have good hardworking dancers. A good director.”

“Well, I’m happy for you.” She pulled a theatrical pout. “But when are you coming back to Chicago? We need your talents here.”

When she said “talents,” she put her hand on his lower back. He shifted, and her hand moved lower.

“Oh, I’ll be back. I’ve promised to do some choreography for the Joffrey Ballet.” He pulled back a little as her hand moved even lower. Was she going to squeeze his ass? He turned to face her, but then she used the opportunity to thrust her chest in his face. He looked down, remembered skinny dance-student boobs. More enhancement. They looked like double Ds now.

“Are you still dancing?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m teaching. I got married. Big mistake. Just had a messy divorce. God, it’s just horrible out there, the single life. Are you seeing anyone right now?”

Her casual tone didn’t hide the desperation behind her voice.

“I am seeing someone. A dancer. For a few weeks now.”

“Oh, that’s great!” The fake enthusiasm in her voice didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Is she at the Townsend?”

“Yeah. She’s dancing the Firebird actually. Just a coincidence.”

“Oh, sure.” Courtney winked. “A coincidence. I believe you.”

Jackson laughed and shrugged. “Whatever it is, it’s a good thing.”

“But she must be based in New York. If you’re coming back to Chicago—”

“Well, we haven’t quite worked that out yet.”

“Is she here tonight?”

“No,” said Jackson, turning away again. “Work duties.
Nutcracker
.”

“Oh,
Nutcracker
.” Courtney rolled her eyes. “Fun. Well, listen,”—she trailed a perfectly manicured finger down over his bicep—“if you’re bored later, after the ball drops, since your dancer isn’t in town…”

He frowned. “Thanks. But I’ll probably take a pass. I’m in love with her.”

He stopped. Where had that come from?

Courtney shrugged, apparently having plumbed the depths of her self-humiliation.

“Good for you. That’s great. Well, in that case, a kiss for New Year’s.” She lunged forward, and he turned his head to catch her pillowy lips on his cheek.

“Okay, happy New Year!” he said. “It was nice to see you again after all these years.”

“Sure, Jackson. And really, if you change your mind after the ball drops…”

“I don’t think I’ll change my mind. I actually think I’m flying back to New York tonight.”

Is that really what he was thinking? He must have been, because he put down his beer and headed home to pack. He was going to fly back to New York early, he decided. Because he was in love with Prosper Ware.

Chapter Fifteen

The Townsend party was in full swing by midnight. New Year’s Eve had passed, but the dancers were creating a little New Year’s Day cheer of their own. Kristen hosted it, so Prosper expected to be turned away at the door, but Blake arrived just behind her and swept her in on his arm, pulling her toward the kitchen, which was acting as the bar.

“Glad the Ballcracker is over for the season?” he asked with a genuine smile.

“Yeah.” She looked around and saw the usual mix of expressions directed back at her. Curiosity, jealousy, hate. One or two people smiled at her. Probably drunk already or not Townsend dancers. The place was wall to wall, hot and loud, with pounding music. Kristen’s apartment was large and furnished in bright colors. Some of the dancers were already making out on the huge sofa. She smiled at Blake. “If it wasn’t for you, Kristen wouldn’t have let me in.”

“She asked me the other day to drop you in rehearsals. I think she was only half kidding.”

Prosper tried to laugh, but she couldn’t. It was a horrible thing for someone to say, and knowing Kristen, she’d meant it. He leaned down to speak next to her ear over the din of the music.

“Don’t let them get to you.” He squeezed her elbow. “Get something to drink. Enjoy the party. It’s hard-core
Firebird
after this, so enjoy your freedom while you can.”

She nodded and waved as another partygoer pulled him away.

She turned and went to the kitchen. Kristen gave her a cold smile and nudged the guy next to her, someone Prosper didn’t recognize. Her boyfriend? He looked shifty and mean. They made a perfect pair. She changed direction and ran into Glenna. They hugged and exchanged some small talk as best they could in the noisy, crowded space. Since she’d moved in with Jackson, Glenna had remained a faithful friend to her, but they didn’t have much to talk about anymore. Prosper thought that pretty soon even Glenna would stop trying to be nice. Depressing. She needed a drink. She pushed back into the kitchen and was surprised to see Kristen shoving a beer in her face.

“Drink up, Prosper. It’s a party, yeah? Happy New Year!” She hugged Prosper, then backed away. “Have you been losing weight? You look great. Jackson’s working you to death, I guess. Wish it was me!” She giggled and clinked her beer with Prosper’s. “Drink, drink! Be merry.”

Interesting. Drunk enough to be friends with her now, she supposed. Prosper took a swallow of the beer. Ugh, it was the bitter kind, but she choked it down anyway and made her way back out into the living room. Dancers were jumping and grooving to the pounding house music. She moved over to the wall and watched while she nursed her drink. No one moved like ballet dancers. The movement and energy was hypnotic. In fact, she started to feel a little hypnotized. Why was she feeling so woozy? She really had lost weight. She was a lightweight. She hadn’t even finished one beer, and she was gone.

No, seriously. She was gone. She clutched at the wall, overcome with dizziness. The faces around her blurred, and the voices grew softer and then louder. She was having trouble even making out who was speaking or where the voices were coming from. She hadn’t drunk that much, had she? God, she felt so tired, and her legs wouldn’t hold her up. She was going to collapse, and everyone was going to laugh at her, all the weird, unrecognizable people moving through the haze around her brain.