Audition (North Security 4)

“Auribus teneo lupum,” I say. “Explain it to your boss, so he understands the proverb. So he understands the situation you’re in.”

She glares at me. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Holding a wolf by the ears. That’s the literal translation from Latin. It’s dangerous to do nothing, because you’re close enough to get bitten. But it’s also dangerous to do something, because that means letting go of the wolf. Basically it means you’re screwed either way.”

“You don’t have to face this alone,” the fuckface director says, running his hand down her arm.

“So true.” I gently lead Bethany away, sending a quick slice to the pressure point on Fuckface’s wrist. He yelps and curls his hand close. Oops. “North Security has quite a bit of experience holding wolves by various body parts. We’ll keep you safe.”

She pushes away from me, from both of us. “Maybe you didn’t understand. I’m not hiring you.” She glances at Fuckface, who’s still cradling his hand like a baby bird. “If you don’t want me to resign, I’ll fulfill my contract here—but you can’t make me accept this security. If you’re really concerned about this, and about the other dancers, you can hire general security for the theater.”

“You want to rent a cop? I knew you would make this difficult.”

“I’m not sorry,” she says, her eyes shooting fire.

“Neither am I. It’s hotter when you fight me.”

“That’s highly unprofessional,” Fuckface says, glaring at me.

“I’m only saying what we’re both thinking.” I acknowledge the lithe body wrapped in leotard and tights, my gaze meandering all the way down to her worn ballet shoes. On the outside they look merely frayed. On the inside, it’s another story. I imagine she’s bruised, maybe bleeding. No doubt there’s tape to hold her feet together. The life of a professional athlete isn’t pretty. Much like that of a professional soldier. “I’m not opposed to double-teaming on principle, but when it comes to this particular woman, I think I’d prefer to have her all to myself.”

Bethany draws herself up. The effect is that of a queen. She could be wearing rags and chains around her ankles. Actually, the leotard and ballet shoes serve the same purpose. They don’t diminish her. They only emphasize her inherent dignity. It can’t be touched, not even by two assholes fighting over her. “Mr. Landon, I’ll see you at practice tomorrow. As for you, Mr. North, I don’t expect to see you again. It hasn’t been a pleasure. Goodbye.”

CHAPTER TWO

Author Charles Dickens was only 12 when his father was imprisoned for debt. Young Charles had to leave school and work in a boot-blacking factory to help his family survive.

Bethany

My coat is two sizes too large. The pockets are torn out. There’s something questionable smudged across the back, but it doesn’t matter. No—it’s better this way. The coat, the boots, the earbuds that don’t play any music. All of it’s armor for the train. I keep my eyes down, my chin up. The cars jolt forward. And stop. Forward. And stop. We let our bodies lean into the movement with practiced precision, hundreds of people swaying so that we don’t have to touch. It’s sort of a dance. A dance of survival. The French Quarter is notorious for being dangerous, but I learned to put my guard up well before I moved here. The streets of New Orleans taught me that from a young age. The earphones and heavy burlap messenger bag are my shields. They help me become invisible. New Orleans taught me that, too.

Mist coats me as I emerge from the tunnel. A smoke shop. Cell phone repair. Knockoff purses. Every store sleeps, the gates rolled down to the concrete, as if even the building needs to ward away the chill. I pull my coat tight. The Chinese restaurant is officially closed, but yellow light presses against the window. Thousands of dollars change hands every night in illegal gambling—mah-jongg with high stakes. I skirt the building to the fire escape. Metal groans from the wind. It screams when anyone actually climbs the stairs. Cold whispers through my gloves. On the third floor the scent of charred meat makes me cough. I can’t actually blame my neighbor. Decades ago some enterprising landlord split up the apartment into two parts. I’m lucky enough to have the tiny kitchen. The elderly man next door makes do with a microwave inside and a bucket grill outside the window. Burgers, hot dogs, bacon. All of it cooks a foot away from my apartment. I duck through the bent casing and land lightly in the middle of my space. One hundred and twenty feet that belong to me. I pull the bag over my head and toss it onto the bed—and shriek when the bed catches it. A shadow separates from the dark blanket. “Nice place you got here,” says a familiar taunting voice. “I made myself at home. I’m sure you don’t mind.”

“Of course I mind.” My heart pounds loud enough to drown out my words. “This is my apartment. What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

Josh stands and circles me, forcing me to turn and face him. “The same way you did. The same way any rapist or murderer can get in if he wants to. Why the actual fuck do you leave the window open?”

“Because I’m directly over the ovens. If I leave them closed, the place basically cooks all day.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t do me any good to ask why you rented this shit box.”

“I can afford it,” I say, my voice sharp. I’m not in the habit of explaining myself. I worked hard to make sure no man could demand answers of me, but Josh has me spooked. How the hell did he beat me here from the theater? He’s still wearing his tux, which looks even crisper in the backdrop of my crappy apartment. “Not that it’s any of your business. Besides, there’s nothing here to steal.”

Dark green eyes flicker. “There’s you. You’re the most valuable thing in the apartment. The most valuable thing in the whole fucking city.”

My cheeks warm. How strange to get a compliment from the man who insults me at every turn. Then again, maybe he didn’t mean it as a compliment.

He spoke with tight-lipped anger. With derision.

I turn away so he can’t see my expression. There’s nowhere to go. One hundred and twenty feet have shrunk to the size of my body. A worn bookshelf serves as my closet. A countertop and small oven line the other side of the room. Stockings and leotards hang from the cabinet knobs, drying after I washed them in the sink. My panties hang from a row of hooks. Humiliation squeezes my chest. Hot tears burn my eyes. I refuse to cry in front of him. There’s a washateria in the building next door, but it’s easier to wash my clothes by hand in the sink. So what if I live in a crappy apartment? He has no right to judge me. He has no right to be here.

“I did wonder about the bathroom,” he says, and I jump. He’s not on the bed any longer. He’s standing behind me. So quiet. So agile. I work with professional athletes every day, but I know when they move. He’s some other creature—made of shadows and fury. “Do you climb onto th

e counter and piss into the sink? Do you lean your pretty little ass outside the window and shit onto the alley?”

Embarrassment mixed with a complete lack of power. It’s like I’m back in elementary school. Boys would pick on me. They’d yank my braids and toss my lunch in the dirt. It’s because they like you, my mother said. I didn’t want them to like me. Still don’t.

Well, I’m not in elementary school anymore. “Leave or I’ll call the cops.”