Firebird (3 page)

She shook her head with an incredulous expression. Blake was the leading principal male. He supposed it was like telling the invisible girl in school she was going on a date with the prom king.

“Okay,” he said, clapping his hands. “Back to center again.”

* * *

“Oh my God!” Glenna and Katie squealed over the daily recap of her rehearsal with Jackson while they applied makeup for the evening’s performance.

“How the hell do you dance with him breathing down your neck like that?” Katie asked.

Prosper rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t breathe down my neck.”

“We saw him,” said Glenna. “He definitely does. And he was staring at your ass.”

“For ages,” Katie agreed. “Totally staring.”

“He was not.” It had only been a few days, but it was already starting to get old. Aside from Glenna and Katie, the other dancers snubbed her, and she had a feeling Glenna and Katie only talked to her to hear more about Jackson Spencer.

She understood the attraction, unfortunately. It was a constant battle to act natural around him, to not let her eyes linger on his bulging arms or his thick thighs or the glimpse of flat, defined stomach whenever he stretched his arms over his head. Of course his gruff personality threw frigid water on any hot fantasies she had, and she had plenty of them, an entire repertoire following on the heels of the sleeve-roll-and-spank dream.

Glenna was about to launch into another barrage of questions about Jackson when Kristen and the other principals arrived in the room. Kristen planted herself at a mirror on the other side of Glenna and began rattling through her makeup case. Glenna turned her back on Kristen, a wonderful show of solidarity. But it offered Prosper little protection from Kristen’s wrath. The prima glanced over at Prosper with a haughty look as she lined her lips, then smacked them together.

“Bitch.”

Glenna gasped, but Prosper shook her head. “Ignore her,” she said to Glenna. Prosper fussed over invisible flaws in her foundation, trying to follow her own advice, but Kristen seemed determined to be heard.

“Look. She thinks she’s a star already. Too bad he’ll probably recast in a week, once he realizes she can’t do it.”

“Don’t be a cat,” Blake said to Kristen, his usual dance partner. “Leave her alone.”

Kristen applied her false eyelashes and copious eye shadow. She was dancing the lead in
The Nutcracker
and had most certainly assumed the Firebird part was hers. “You know, I didn’t work my way up to principal to have the best parts stolen by a bitchy little upstart from the corps.”

Her friend Elsa, another principal, giggled. “You’re mean.”

“I don’t know what he sees in her,” Kristen sniffed, appealing to Blake. “And you’re the one who’ll have to drag her around the stage trying to make her look good. No way she can pull this off on her own. I mean, the Firebird! That’s a really challenging role!”

Blake slanted a skeptical look at Prosper through dark eyes, flipping back his black wavy hair. He was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. Chiseled features, olive skin. Being one of very few straight male dancers, he got a lot of attention, from the principal ballerinas down to the groupies in the corps. At one time, like all the other girls, she’d had a crush on him. She saw in the mirror what he thought of her and quickly dropped her gaze. He turned his back on her, focusing on Kristen.

“You get all the best roles, Kris. Let her have this one. You got the Tsarina—”

“I don’t want the fucking Tsarina! The Tsarina doesn’t even dance on pointe! Next thing he’ll be casting us principals as fucking dancing princesses.”

“Well, they do need twelve,” Blake said, baiting her.

Elsa made a hissing sound and rolled her eyes.

“Don’t listen to them,” said Glenna under her breath. “Jealous bitches. That’s all they are. Jealous and rude.”

“I know.” Prosper tried not to care, but there was an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach that wouldn’t go away.

* * *

When she arrived for rehearsals the following day, Blake was stretching by the barre. She stopped inside the door, remembering how he’d looked at her in the dressing room the night before.

“Do you even know him?”

She jumped. She hadn’t heard Jackson come up behind her.

“No, I don’t know him. Not really.”

“Blake.” Jackson beckoned him over. In her ear he said, “Lift your head up. Keep it up.”

She tore her gaze from the floor as Jackson did the introductions.

“Blake, Prosper. Prosper, Blake.”

Blake smiled at Prosper and shook her hand as if the evening before had never taken place. She forced her own smile in reaction. Jackson ushered them to the center of the floor.

“Prosper and I have already been rehearsing. I’d just like to try out a few sequences I’ve been thinking about to see if they work.”

“Sure,” said Blake. Jackson directed them through some partnering without music, just marking steps. He stood back and watched as they got a feel for one another.

“Shorter than you’re used to, yeah?” he asked when Blake almost strangled her reaching for her neck instead of her waist.

Blake chuckled. “I’ll get it.”

“Here,” Jackson said. “Like this.”

Jackson took Prosper’s hand and stood behind her, taking Blake’s place. He was even taller than Blake, Prosper realized. It was a trick of proportion. His thicker body made it seem as if he should be shorter. They did the same sequence, but Blake’s tentative partnering was gone, replaced by hands that propelled her.

All her daydreams about being partnered by him were forgotten. The reality was a hundred times better. Jackson turned her, steadied her as she reached back, took her hand as she went into an
arabesque
on pointe. She extended the lines, his fingers alone holding her perfectly balanced. His hands didn’t waver, didn’t move an inch as she threw him her body weight, her momentum. Their eyes met for one intense moment.

“You see?” he said to Blake. He released her, and she felt loose and heavy again.

Blake took over. His fingers and hands felt lackluster after Jackson’s unyielding grip.

“No,” said Jackson as they began the steps. “You’re supposed to be trapping her. Hold her. Grasp her. You can’t let her get away. Prince Ivan traps the Firebird against her will. And you—” He pointed to Prosper. “I need to see fear in your eyes. This sequence is going to be very dark and sexual. Attraction, capture, desire.”

Prosper flushed hot at his words, but Blake shook his head.

“Desire? Attraction? But she’s a bird.”

“She’s not just a bird. It’s not that simple. She’s a wild, exotic, mysterious creature you’re drawn to. Forget that she’s a bird—think of her as an impulse. A fantasy. Plenty of years to settle down with your prim Tsarina. You have this one chance in the dark garden with the Firebird. It has to be good enough to convince her to return later and save your life. Yes?”

Prosper stood with her hands behind her back, staring off. Wild, exotic? Mysterious? She had been miscast. She read it in Blake’s eyes as they swept over her, in the derisive tilt of his lip.

“Again,” Jackson snapped.

* * *

Four times. Four times he ended up having to partner her to show that clod Blake what he had in mind. She picked up everything instantly, reproduced it easily, but Blake acted as if Jackson was asking him for the moon. Blake didn’t like her, fine. That much was obvious. It was fucking churlish, though, to let it show. He figured one of the other two principal males could dance it better, but he really needed Blake’s height.

Hopefully in time Blake and Prosper would gel together. As soon as he thought it, a part of him rebelled. He wanted her to remain the elusive, mysterious Firebird. It was Blake who would need to open up to her, figure out how to desire her, at least onstage.

He considered sticking around the theater to watch Prosper in the show that evening. But watching would be an empty thrill for him now that he’d partnered her. He remembered the feel of her small hand in his, the feel of her waist under his fingers, slim and sinuous, the thin leotard the only thing between his fingertips and her warm, smooth skin. And her gaze when he’d propped her in the arabesque. Ah, she’d felt it too.

He sighed and headed home instead, paced around his apartment, and finally booted up his computer. A little cyberporn would take the edge off. But instead he Googled Prosper Ware, uncovering a few ballet-related pages. A small bio on the Townsend Web site outlined her dance schools and a few short stints in companies in Cincinnati and Dayton. He learned her birthday and that she was twenty-five years old. She looked younger. She was far too young for him at any rate. Why was he still thinking about it?

He clicked off-line and rubbed his eyes. Ten o’clock. Maybe he would go out. He leafed through the nightlife magazine he’d picked up at the diner, looking for a band to see or a likely nightclub to find the type of girl he sought, only to be sidetracked by the personals section.

Fetish
. Seven pages full.

* * *

“One mocha cappuccino!”

Prosper closed the magazine as Derick swept to the table with her drink. It had been a week since she’d had time to pick up another mag, another week gone by that she hadn’t found an after-hours job, and now she was wasting time looking at fetish ads.

“Whatcha reading?”

“Oh nothing. Just—”

“Personals, huh? Looking for love?”

Prosper laughed at his teasing. “I’m too busy, Derick.”

“You’re never too busy for love.” He craned his head to look at the paper. “Any likely candidates?”

She shrugged. “I’ll let you know if I find someone. But actually I was looking through these ads to find a job.”

“A job? I thought you were a dancer.”

“I am. But it’s expensive to live in New York.”

“Tell me about it, honey.” Prosper knew Derick’s real job was working at an art gallery, another job that didn’t pay quite enough. To her relief a group of customers entered, drawing Derick back to the counter. Again she turned to the fetish ads.

Lots of male submissives, lots of professional dommes, a smattering of couples looking for a third. Not really what she wanted, even if she was looking. Which she wasn’t. Some single men looking for a girl on the side, some swingers seeking couples or play partners, a few older doms looking for nubile young flesh to mark. She was about to close the paper when an ad at the bottom of the last page caught her eye.

SWM, mid 30s, dom, safe, sane, seeks fit, petite sub F 20-30ish

Must be sensual, crave training, accept pain.

Play partner only, no commitment. Pleasure guaranteed.

Red hair a plus. Let’s meet & talk. George (A405)

She stared at the ad a long time.
Fit, petite. Red hair a plus.

Pleasure guaranteed.

No way was she answering a personal ad. She wasn’t that desperate, was she? She wasn’t ready for the complexity of a relationship with a new dom.

But George (A405), this dom, wanted no commitment.
Play partner only
. And he apparently had a thing for red hair.

She bit her lip between sips of coffee, trying to talk herself out of doing something she really shouldn’t do. He could be a predator or some married guy sneaking around getting his kink on. But what harm would there be in meeting and talking? With a sigh, she closed the mag and stuffed it in her bag. This was ridiculous. Truly the idea was ridiculous. She needed to focus. She was dancing the lead in a ballet. She had to find a new place to live and a source of supplemental income. These were things she
needed
to do.

She did not
need
to enter into a new D/s relationship right now. No.

After class she drifted to the rehearsal room and found Jackson as agitated as she was. It was just the two of them. Solo work again. They exchanged brief greetings and got right to business. They’d been working daily together for almost two weeks now and still hadn’t exchanged more than a few words, most on the first day.

But it didn’t matter; they communicated perfectly. He explained what he wanted, and Prosper tried to deliver it. If she didn’t get it, she tried again. If she still didn’t produce what he wanted, he would put his hands on her, show her what to do. It both thrilled and devastated her when that happened. She hated doing things wrong. She hated frustrating him. She hated the tense impatience she sometimes felt in his hands when he put them on her.

Today she saw it in his face. He explained a difficult combination and asked her to do it. She got it on the second try, and then he wanted it faster. She tried to concentrate on his barrage of instructions.

“Faster, faster! Toe, toe, toe…quickly!”

“I’m trying.”

She did it again and again. He still wasn’t satisfied.

“Not fast enough! And look at your arms. Sloppy.” He clapped his hands at her. “Concentrate. Again!” He beat out the tempo he wanted on the floor with the ball of his foot, then clapped it, louder and louder. Then, just as she almost had it, he slapped her ass.

No, he didn’t slap her. It wasn’t a slap. It was a blow. She fell off pointe and spun on him. God, had he just spanked her? She backed away, rubbing at the sting.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was trying to speed you up.” He frowned, the offending hand now idle at his side. “I didn’t mean to do that. Did it hurt?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “The speed you want for that combination hurts.”

“I know. I know I ask a lot of you. Maybe we should just call it a day.”

Prosper nodded and turned away, crossed to pick up her bag. She could still feel the stinging outline of his hand on her ass, a sting that was familiar and yet, coming from him, unexpected and strange. She looked back at him jotting notes in his notebook. “Is everything okay?”

He looked up. “Uh, yeah, Prosper. Everything’s fine, I’m just distracted today. We’ll pick up tomorrow.”

He dismissed her by turning back to focus on his notes.

Chapter Three