What’s the point of holding back? What’s the purpose of denial?
The director looks up when she enters. There’s no surprise. I told him she would fight the protection. Most people do. Celebrities. Politicians. Accepting that they need protection means accepting that they’re unsafe.
The mind will fight that conclusion long and hard.
She’ll fight this for other reasons—because I’m the one offering protection.
There was no knock at the door. No demure waiting for permission to enter. Only as she stands in front of the desk does she hesitate. Such a good girl. It’s hard for her to assert herself, but she does.
“Mr. Landon,” she says, her voice tight. “Did you give this man permission to follow me?”
“The threats—”
“Everyone gets threats.”
I lean beside the window, looking out, scanning for suspicious people. “Everyone gets e-mails from shitheads. You’re too fat. Too skinny. I wish you were dead. Those are the kind of threats other dancers get, right? The world is full of random assholes. Except that’s not what yours say.”
Her eyes narrow. “He had no right to show them to you.”
“Actually he did. They’re the property of the ballet company. They were sent here. Which is interesting. I’m sure this person could have sent them to your apartment.” Her dark eyes shutter. “Ah, but he tried that. No response. He escalated the game to get your boss involved.”
Her jaw works. “I’m sorry about that,” she says, addressing the director. “I didn’t mean to disrupt the dance company. If I need to resign my position, I can do that.”
Alarm fills his eyes. He’s looking at her with more tha
n an employer’s interest. “Of course not, Bethany. Don’t even say that. I’m only concerned about your safety. You’re my responsibility.”
A subtle tightening of her lips. “I’m my own responsibility.”
The director manages to look hurt, which makes me wonder how far he’s pushed his interest. Would he fuck a ballerina who worked for him? Of course he would. Would Bethany let him fuck her in order to be the good, dutiful dancer? That hungry brown gaze sweeps over her body. Too desperate. He hasn’t had her yet. It’s those damn ethics that get men in trouble. He didn’t want to overstep. My brothers have that shit, too. Me? I’m fresh out. I will step all over her lithe little body, framed so prettily in ivory spandex.
“Bethany.” His voice becomes coaxing. “You’ve only been with us for one season. What would happen if you leave now? You have so much more to learn. I have so much more to teach you.”
Christ. Bethany’s danced with the world-class touring company Cirque du Monde. She’s been on a global tour with the violin prodigy Samantha Brooks. She’s a thousand miles above this rinky dink dance joint, a thousand miles above this guy, who only has the job because he flunked out of his MFA with his best friend, who inherited a shit ton of money. They started the avant garde dance company to challenge the institution, which is ironic considering they’re white men in the one percent.
I pull up the photograph on my phone. A typed letter on the letterhead of a fifty-year-old hotel in lower New Orleans. They could tell me nothing about any possible-stalker guests. I’ve already tried that angle. “‘Dear Bethany,’” I read aloud. “‘Why don’t you look at me? I’m waiting for you. I’ve been waiting a long time.’”
“Personal correspondence,” she says with the same good effort in the face of the same sheer futility. “That’s my personal correspondence.”
This woman will never stop fighting. It’s the truly twisted part of me that finds her a turn-on. I don’t want her surrender. “It’s evidence for when your body turns up in a dumpster.”
Anger flashes through her dark eyes. It would be more comforting if it weren’t also accompanied by panic. “You don’t know that. You don’t know anything.”
I swipe right a few times to the last letter. “‘Don’t make me come find you. It would only add interest to the debt. I wouldn’t have a choice, and I don’t want you hurt.’”
She looks away. “Everyone gets threats.”
“Not everyone has an old acquaintance wanted by the CIA.”
“Mr. North says your brother is some kind of criminal,” the director says, standing as if to approach her. The concerned look on his face disguises the concern for the reputation of the dance company, which is what he showed when she wasn’t in the room.
Even with the desk between them, she tenses.
She doesn’t want to be touched right now. She’s always been formal, always held herself in a way that politely invites men not to fuck with her, but the gate is extra high right now. The letter has her scared. Which means there’s no goddamn way I’m leaving this office without protecting her.
I’m the only one allowed to scare her.
Landon reaches for her. One arm around her shoulder. I don’t launch myself at him, though it’s a close thing. She tenses. “We should call the cops,” he says. “You said no to that, and I respected your wishes, but we can’t ignore this.”