The Girl in the Mirror (Sand & Fog #3) (25 page)

I need to check tomorrow that those and the monitors are working.

I take the keys from the Black Star file, open the door for her, step in, and drop the bags.

Holy fuck.

Enormous open floor plan.

High ceilings.

Wood floors with raised and drop-down areas.

Everything soft of color and elegantly sparse.

Like Krystal.

White walls.

Chagall paintings.

A vase of daylilies.

One wall all windows.

Wraparound private terrace.

All this for one girl?

This is how they send her off to college?

Yes, I get it, Alan. I know why I’m here. You sent Krystal into the real world, but you don’t want her to ever experience it because she’s never been there.

“Krystal”

By the end of my first week of classes, I’m halfway convinced I should to go back to California.

My dance classes at Juilliard are no better than they ever were in Pacific Palisades, even though no one knows who my family is. We’re in that figuring-out-who-is-who state still after five days, sizing each other up, and the pettiness of the ballet world has dominated from the get-go. I haven’t made a single friend, though we’re all new here, and the struggle for standings is in full force. Girls prevent me from taking a spot at the barre, staring me down, and there are the relentless snide comments on slightly too loud hushed whispers. They comment on my clothes. The designer totes I carry my gear in. Even the mysterious guy of undefined relationship—i.e. Jacob Merrick, bodyguard—who walks me from the car to the front door every morning and is there waiting on the steps when I leave.

Yes, I can hear every word my fellow dancers speak as intended. And yes, they are unkind, especially after I’ve gotten a harsh critique from one of my instructors. And yes, I have a target on my back like I did at home. Only this time I’m not sure what I’ve done, if anything, to put it there.

Some of the students know each other, and I’m the new girl here. There are small cliques inside the giant clique that is ballet and seems to exist everywhere. Privileged girls, working classes girls, scholarship students, the best of the best from everywhere. Talent, the great equalizer, but not the great harmonizer. We’re fighting for grades, fighting for notice, fighting for roles, and outside school we’re going to be fighting for those precious slots as members with the elite companies of the world, and we all know it.

I hoped life in the dance world would be better here, but I was wrong about that. Perhaps there is no way to escape the misery in a competitive environment of girls.

None of this should be surprising.

It’s how the world of ballet is.

Disappointing, yes. Surprising, no.

The only thing I didn’t mentally prepare for was the added complex variable of Jacob. No, didn’t see that one coming or how agonizing it would be living with a guy I like who treats me like an object: wait in the kitchen for Krystal in the morning, move Krystal to Juilliard, wait for Krystal, and bring Krystal home.

Never a word.

Never anything.

Just Jacob doing his job and me feeling like an object.

Then him off to his room in the loft until morning and me roaming that giant open space trying not to climb out of my skin or crumble and try to fix things. If he wants space from me, Jacob can have it.

Living together and living without connection.

Hard, but doable.

Like everything in my life: hard but doable.

Dance is my priority. I’m in New York as planned, and I’ve dedicated my entire life to this: to learn, network, and land a coveted place with a prestigious dance company. Everything exactly as I want it. It’s time I shake off the mental hold of some guy I could never have a future with anyway. This is my one shot to make it. It’s past time to get Jacob out of my head.

Guys ruin focus and weaken the body. Inside my head I replay Burgess Meredith saying
women weaken legs.
True for boxers, but turn it around and it’s true for ballerinas. Guys weaken legs…and the heart…and the head…and damn near everything.

I struggle not to cry as I pace in slow circles, hands pressed into my hips, and stare at the floor. I need to rein in my thoughts to start dancing again. I’ve only got the studio for an hour and I’ve far from impressed my teachers this week. I need to cleanse my thoughts of Jacob Merrick, but it’s hard because how everything has been left between us is my fault, and I’m as miserable at home as I am in school.

I’m about to hit play on my music library again when the practice room door opens.

“Hey, LA girl, aren’t you done yet?”

I turn to see Cassandra Mendez stride in. God, what’s she doing here? The worst of the worst of the mean girls. The best in the class, superior rich girl manner, and unabashedly destructive whenever her mouth is running.

I check the clock. “I have another twenty minutes.”

She leans with her elbows atop the piano. “Ah, yeah, but it’s Friday and that hot guy is waiting for you on the steps.”

I ignore both comments. “I’ll be done when my time’s up.”

She laughs as she pushes to stand in perfect posture. “No rush. I don’t want the room. I thought maybe you’d like to know your boyfriend’s here.”

I almost say he’s not my boyfriend, then I stop myself and go to my bag and grab my outer clothes. I sink down on the wood floor and start removing my pointe shoes.

She crosses the room and drops down close to me. “What’s your story, anyway? I can’t figure you out.”

Without looking at her, I say, “No story. I’m here to study dance like everyone else.”

Her flawlessly shaped brows shoot up. “Don’t give me that. Everyone has a story. No one here seems to know anything about you. Why’s that, Kryssie?”

My face snaps up from shoving my junk into the bag. “Don’t call me that.”

She stares, amused, and I tense since I can’t tell by her expression if she meant anything by that or if it was random bitchiness.

“OK? I guess you don’t like nicknames,” she says lightly as she starts to stretch. “Good to know. I don’t mind them. You can call me Cass, Cassie, or D-ra.” She looks up. “But never Sandra. That one bugs.”

I continue to pack up.

“No need to get frosty. I’m just trying to talk to you. You don’t talk to anyone so I thought I’d give it a shot. No one here seems to know anything about you. California is to hell and gone, but the dance world is small, so someone should know something. And you’ve got a guy always with you. Everyone is gossiping about you. Not surprising. And hey, we’re all one family. Sort of. We should get to know each other a little, right?”

She says that like she’s trying to figure out a riddle, and I hide my face by pulling on my baggy mid-thigh sweater then my UGG slippers.

I stand up and pull the strap of my tote over my shoulder as I cross the room.

“You’re not even going to say goodbye?”

I turn to her once I’ve got a smile plastered on my face. “Bye.”

She springs up and trots across the room. “Hey, listen. I’m not your problem here. The other girls I can understand you being standoffish with, but me? No problem. I think we’re a lot alike.”

Cassandra gives me a glowing smile that transforms her severely beautiful face into something arresting.

“And how is it you think we’re alike?” I ask, even though I’m positive it’s a mistake.

“Do you know why they all hate me?”

I flush. I wasn’t aware she knew what the other dancers thought of her. It never shows in class.

I shake my head.

“My father is Milo Bassard.”

My eyes widen though I command them not to. Jeez, Louise, one of the most renowned artistic directors in the world and the head of the Nelson Bassard Ballet Company.

She nods into my silence, her lips in a downward curl. “Exactly. And your next question I’m sure is what am I doing here? I have a strained relationship with my father. The jerk hardly acknowledges I’m his daughter and what little interest he has in me doesn’t include nepotism or being accepted into the NBBC. I have to succeed on my own. But no one here believes that. They think I have a leg up at Juilliard because of my dad. Everyone thinks you do, too, because you really haven’t danced that well this week and you’re so tight-lipped with everyone. Though there isn’t a student here that hasn’t noticed how the administration goes out of its way for you. And I’m telling you, you need to stop being a bitch to everyone and open up a little or they’ll ruin your chances here faster than you can say first-class ticket to California.”

I stare up at her for a moment, wondering if she’s being sincere or if this is a mind fuck of some kind I haven’t figured out yet.

I pull back the door. “Thanks.”

To my displeasure, she follows me into the hallway. “See. Cards up with a heads-up. Playing nicely here. So what’s your story?”

I shrug. “Nothing. I’m from California and I didn’t get accepted into a corps with a professional dance company after high school so I came here.”

Her brows pucker. “Me either, and at the risk of sounding conceited, I dance better than you do. At least what I’ve seen from you so far.”

Conceited—she has the right of that—but honest as well. Even if I were at the top of my game, which I’m not, Cassandra is better than me.

I slowly let out a breath. “I’m better than what you’ve seen. Getting acclimated and settling in hasn’t been easy.”

She laughs. “Glad to hear it. The better part. You might last a full term if you toughen up your hide.”

My hide, huh? That’s not my problem—my gaze fixes on my problem waiting at the bottom of the stairs—but I don’t correct her.

She juts her chin in Jacob’s direction. “What’s the story with him?”

I look over to find her practically drooling. “He’s a friend. We share a loft and he’s helping me figure out my way around the city.”

“You live together?” She shakes her head. “Friend? I don’t believe that. He sure doesn’t stare at you like he’s in the friend zone. And why would you want to put him there? Are you blind?”

Burning color returns to my face. “We’re just friends.”

“Oh, so you’re one of those?”

My cheeks are scorching now. “What do you mean by that? One of those?”

She arches a brow. “There are only two kinds of ballerinas, doll. Those who are sluts and bang them and toss them. And those who are frigid virgins afraid that having any semblance of a normal life will ruin their career. I’m taking you for the latter if you live with that and keep him in the friend zone.”

I lift my chin and stare her down. “I’m neither. I’m not involved with Jacob. That’s all.”

Her eyes sharpen and fix on me with an insulting smile that makes me tense.

“Oh. I get it. You were involved and he dumped you. Well, you better get used to it and figure out a way not to have it mess with your head every time it happens. It’s the nature of the beast. Guys ending it when you are no longer a pretty dancing fantasy but ten hours a day of rehearsal and early nights to sleep. Really, what kind of guy wants to be with a ballerina after having shoved in his face the reality of how we live? It happens, Krystal. They smarten up and end it once they’ve gotten fucking us out of their systems. Doesn’t mean it can’t be good before they run.”

“Wrong. I ended it with him.”

Not the exact truth, but I’m not going to give Cassandra the satisfaction of thinking she’s read me and Jacob correctly. Or any part of my life, for that matter. Something about her is off-putting.

She shakes her head again, making a tsk-tsk-tsk sound.

“I’ve got to run,” I say, cutting this off.

“Do you have tickets for the ABT Gala tomorrow night?”

I nod.

“I do, too. We can meet up there, if you want to. Or I could swing by your place and give you a lift. You can bring your friend. I think I might want to get to know him.”

As I hurry down the steps, I hear her say, “Don’t forget to invite him.” I continue past Jacob and he falls in beside me in his official bodyguard style. Walking next to me with a neutral distance between us, head forward as his eyes behind his sunglasses alertly study the terrain around us.

I cautiously glance up at him, hoping he didn’t catch any of that exchange with Cassandra, but I can’t read his face. Buckingham Palace Jacob, though really, at this point it’s stupid ever to expect anything else.

He doesn’t talk to me until we’re in the waiting car.

“Are we stopping anywhere on the way home?”

The knot rises in my throat. Always the same question when he picks me up. I shake my head, not turning my face from staring out the window.

After we pull into the underground garage, he opens my door and follows me to the elevator. Inside, he takes his spot by the control panel as I stand far back, staring straight forward at the iron gate. Floor by floor we go to the top.

When the door opens again, I precede him out and down the hallway, and wait by my door for him to unlock it.

I go to the kitchen and dump my things on the large island before starting to rummage for something to eat as he waits quietly for further instruction.

Open a cabinet, slam it closed. Again. Again. He went shopping—or someone did—while I was at school, but God, why did he buy all this garbage? The guy needs to eat, but it’s like food temptation from hell. Everything I want to eat and can’t.

I glance over my shoulder at him. “I’d appreciate it if you buy stuff like this that you’d keep it in your room.”

He doesn’t look at me as he unclips his gun from the back of his belt beneath the tail of his shirt. “It was delivered this morning. Your mother must have ordered it. I’m not a butler. Talk to her if you want the list changed.”

I toss a bag of Oreo cookies onto the counter. “What I want is to come home and not find stuff like this here.”

That he ignores, and to be fair, rightly so. I’m acting pathetically. Time to pull it together. He’s doing his job and who cares who ordered the freaking food?

From the fridge he grabs a beer. “Do you have plans tonight?”

I count to eight inside my head. “No. I’m staying in.”