Audition (North Security 4)

Marlena looks pale, her lips tight with anger or shock.

Anger. Shame. Anger. Shame. My feelings circle them both, unable to land. “No, you’re right. It’s not my job. I just thought that maybe the flow would—”

“The flow does what, exactly? You think you can make it better with your cute little changes to the steps?” He sounds incredulous. Mortified heat burns me from the top of my head to the tips of my shoes.

“Maybe,” I whisper, hating myself and hating him.

“Get this straight.” A finger points at me, and I flinch back. I hate myself for it. “I’m the director. You’re just moving parts. Keep your opinions to yourself and get your ass in order before you ruin another run-through. Got it?”

“Got it,” I whisper. My throat closes up, tears burning at the corners of my eyes. I will not let them fall. I will. Not. Let. Them. Fall. He could break my legs in front of everyone. Better that than this.

The dead silence in the studio has taken on a character of its own. It feels like poison ivy. It feels like shame. The same searing shame as when the woman at the food bank in the church basement pursed her lips and told me that I’d overfilled my bag. I’d taken too fucking much. Gotten too big for my food bank britches, even while my stomach ate itself for survival. She made me put the box of noodles back.

I want to melt into a puddle on the floor, but somehow I make it through the rest of practice. Landon’s words echo in my head. Just moving parts. I’m a puppet on a string. I’m as good as a prostitute. It’s a sick sort of validation. I’ve been right all along. They only want me for the meat on my bones. Everybody, from Mamere on down, thinks this is it for me. Twirl and dance, little doll. There’s nothing else for you. Who needs a brain when you can let your arms hang in first position and the master will make the moves?

Failure. I’m a failure. I’ve kept myself off the street through literal blood and sweat, and the world still wants to slap me into line.

Wrenching open my locker with all my strength feels good. Right. Like I could rip it off its hinges, and the locker would deserve it.

And then I see the letter.

I actually feel the blood drain from my face. My first instinct is to squeeze my eyes shut and see if it goes away. No. It’s still there. My hand trembles on the metal lip of the locker door. The others came in envelopes, through the mail. This came hand delivered. Under any other circumstance, I might find it almost adorable. The letter is rolled into a small scroll. It’s attached to a flower.

A dead flower.

A flower that’s been dead for some time. It’s the dried-out husk of what once was a tulip. The brittle edge of the petal feels sharp enough to cut my finger, but of course it doesn’t. Wait, what am I doing? I shouldn’t be touching it. But I already did. I’ve already made one mistake. One mistake in a long series of mistakes, beginning back in childhood, when I got the stupid idea that I matter for more than my body.

Since I’ve already touched the flower, I shove the whole nasty bundle into my backpack.

Out at the curb, Noah waits in one of North Security’s black SUVs. He scrambles from the front seat to open the back door when he sees me coming. “Class let out early?” His eyes hold a cautious curiosity.

“Yes. I need to go home.”

This is not the whole truth. What I need to do is go to a real home. A home that doesn’t smell like Joshua North. A home that doesn’t tie knots into my muscles and keep me awake at night. But I can’t do that, can I? It was one thing to be reckless when I thought the letters were idle threats. An unwell individual having twisted fun. A letter in my locker feels dangerous on a deep, awful level. Someone had to stand in the hall while I was in class. Someone had to look at my things. Someone had to carefully place the flower on my backpack so it would be at eye level when I opened the locker door. And all this—all the guarding, all the sleepless nights—has done exactly nothing to prevent it.

Back at the pink mansion, of which every inch belongs to Joshua North and no part belongs to me, I stalk into his office. Anger has overtaken the fear, bubbling in my veins like poison champagne. I wrestle the flower out of my bag. Josh heard me coming. He always does. He sits behind his desk in an attitude of casual waiting. It’s bullshit, and I know it.

I let the flower fall from my fingertips.

“What the hell is that?” He’s on his feet, leaning over the desk, emerald eyes boring into mine. “Was this in the mail?”

“No. In my locker.” It’s his fault. I want to blame it on him so badly.

Naked fear flashes through his eyes like heat lightning. “Fuck, Bethany. Did you say anything to Noah?” His voice is a boom of thunder. The storm is directly above us. No time to take cover. “Did you tell him about this on the way?”

“No.” I sound petulant. Small. I don’t care.

Josh’s phone looks like a fragile sheet of glass in his hand. Actually, that’s what it is. The fact that he hasn’t shattered it by the force of his grip is astonishing. He presses it to his ear. “I need you back at the studio. He left something in her locker. Yes. A flower, and another one of the fucking letters. Search the whole place. Shut it down.” The phone falls to the table next to the flower with a clatter. Josh doesn’t even flinch. “That’s not a regular tulip. What kind of flower is it?”

“What does it matter?” I roll my eyes. I’m going back in time. I’m sixteen again, only worse than when I was sixteen. So much worse. When I was sixteen, Joshua North couldn’t help but kiss me in the alley outside the dance club. Now he’s got his knuckles pressed down on his desk. So much restraint. What a good guy. He glares at me. “It’s a tulip. Don’t you recognize tulips?”

“Can’t say that identifying flowers has been a big part of my job description. I’ve been too busy putting down threats to our national security.”

“Oh, wow.” My voice sounds tight with tears and rage. I hate that too. “Is that why you thought you could take over my entire life? Because you’re so good at killing people? You’re not exactly acing this job, I hope you know.”

He draws himself to his full height. Josh towers over me, his shirt straining over his muscles. “You need to go into the bedroom until I have a handle on this situation. That’s the most secure place. I’ll post someone outside the door.”

“Fuck you,” I spit. “I’m not hiding in your bedroom any longer. It hasn’t done any good. Clearly.”