Dangerous Dancer

“Before I forget,” he said and moved his hand away from mine and resumed his attention back to his document, “Mark DeBurg is hosting a benefit gala next month for the We Are People Project, which I have already RSVP’d our attendance to.” He paused and took a sip of his coffee, but my attention was captured by an article about women who were refused careers by their domineering husbands.

The scoff I had imagined inside my head, left my mouth, and before I had chance to comprehend what was happening, I felt the paper I was grasping, ripped from between my fingers and scatter across the table. “I’m talking to you, and when I speak you should respect your elders and damned well listen,” he sneered, menacingly.

My vision blurred from the prickles of heated tears, as I looked down at the two shreds of paper still clutched in my hand. I felt a cold sweat break out when I turned my head to look at him, but he continued to talk as if nothing had just happened.

“It will be a fancy affair and the music will be classical, the dancing obviously, Ballroom, and before you open that mouth of yours to challenge me, I know you can’t dance for shit, our wedding day proved that, so you will enroll in Ballroom classes and learn,” he stated. He grabbed a pen from his breast pocket and added his signature to the document still clutched in his left hand.

“Ballroom classes?” I gasped. I knew I would attend whatever the hell he stipulated, if only to escape the confines of this house. “With you?” I asked, finally clearing my throat.

He glanced at me and smirked, “I can already dance Ballroom. Besides I’m far too busy for that nonsense.” A feeling of relief washed over me like a tidal wave knowing he wouldn’t be present to belittle my every faux pas.

“I have to go, I’m already late,” he snapped and rose to his feet. “Here, call this woman today, she came highly recommended by Savannah Roberts,” he said, slinging a business card towards me.

“What about my cheek?” I asked meekly, unable to look at him as I bent down to the floor to pick up the card.

“Like you said, you can conceal it. I’ll be checking up on you later,” he replied. I shrunk in my seat when he placed a kiss on top my head and squeezed my shoulder. I was unsure if it was a squeeze in warning or a squeeze in affection.

My eyes bore into his back as I watched him arrogantly saunter away from the room, whistling. My inner fury began to snake its way up through my core while I looked at the business card in my hand.

Niki Chenkov. Instructor.

Dance ‘til You Drop.

Ballroom and Latin.

Before I knew it, every piece of crockery that was on the table was smashed to smithereens as I watched my pent-up frustration, anger and, hurt explode around me in a heated daze.

To everyone on the outside looking in, Max was a charmer, a loving and doting husband and I was a lucky woman, yet what really happened where Max was concerned, no one else could see. My life was fast becoming a living nightmare for one, tailor-made at the hands of Max, and each second that I was submerged in fear of my own husband, was leaving a permanent mark on my heart.

But I knew there was only so much I would be able take before I, Raine Peters, would eventually find my balls and fight back.

CHAPTER THREE.

I sat in the cab outside the studio of Dance ‘til You Drop inhaling through my mouth and exhaling through my nose as panic clawed its way through me.

I hated dancing with a passion. I was always that girl sat on my own at prom, never being asked to dance and having to watch all my friends at school have the time of their lives as they spun around the dance floor with their partners, joy and happiness radiating from their faces while I sat scowling wishing that just once, I would be lucky enough to be asked. My prayer was answered half-way through the night in the form of my teacher, which made my growing embarrassment even worse. I quickly declined before fleeing from the room past a group of boys heckling my way.

It was the same when I had left high school and started to frequent night clubs, I would be that woman who stood at the edge of the dance floor shuffling my feet from left to right meekly, waiting for some fine, strapping, hot guy to ask me to dance. For some reason, I only attracted the guys who looked like they had been hit with the ugly stick, which then in turn led me to lie and claim I was a lesbian just to thwart their unwanted advances.

Through college, I avoided parties like the plague unless there was plenty of free alcohol, then I would be that person sat in the corner paralytic drunk and mumbling incoherently.

When Max entered my life, I felt like all my dreams had come true. He made me feel special, that I was worthy of his attention and I fell for him quick and hard. Looking back now, as I sit having a near panic attack and the driver rapidly loses his patience with me at my unwillingness to leave his cab, I can see where Max’s controlling behavior started, but I was too blinded and in awe of him to see his intentions then as anything but love.

The day after I had accepted his proposal, he started with little comments about my clothing, then he insisted I had an entire new wardrobe, all of which he hand-picked to his own satisfaction. Next it was my hair, he said the vibrant red I dyed it was too crass and insisted I would be more suited to my own natural hair coloring of chestnut brown. Then it was my drinking, he would substitute my love of Vodka and lime for a mineral water and ice, insisting that my body was a temple and that I should take better care of it. He would always finish his sly put downs with the same word’s; If you truly loved me Raine, this wouldn’t be such an issue for you.

I somehow managed to keep my shame of being unable to dance a secret from him. The functions he started to have me attend with him were more to rub shoulders with other lawyers, promote his business, charity events and the like, and at every single one of these events, he insisted all my role was, was to remain by his side, smile and look like the trophy girlfriend every man there knew I was and would be envious of.

When our wedding day came, this was the first time I experienced the not so nice side of Max. When it was our time to have our first dance as husband and wife, I had wanted to run and hide under one of the tables. As he gracefully tried to move me around the room, I kept stumbling, I trod on his feet, I couldn’t hold my frame and with each passing second I suffered my humiliation in front of one hundred and fifty guests, Max’s anger increased tenfold. As soon as that song had ended and we bowed to our guests, he dragged me from the room by my arm and let rip at me for embarrassing the hell out of him in front of all his friends, colleagues, and family. He avoided me like the plague for the rest of the night while he slowly got drunk on whisky, then when the night was over he apologized profusely and begged my forgiven

ess before we consummated our marriage.

Over the course of our two-year marriage, apologies, begging forgiveness and make-up sex seemed to be the norm where Max was concerned and although he had come close to raising his hand to me a few times, last night was the first time he had over stepped the mark. I couldn’t help but think, that deep down in the depths of my churning gut, the bitch in the emerald green dress had something to do with it.

“Miss, I can’t sit here all day! Are you removing yourself from my cab or do you want me to drop you somewhere else?” Came the less than dulcet tones of the cab driver.

Forcing myself to sit upright from my slouched position, I flashed him a small apologetic smile and with shaky hands I delved into my purse and handed over some bills. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, “keep the change for your inconvenience.”

His scowling, aged features turned bright as he flashed me a toothless grin and gushed his thanks in bucket loads. With a deep breath and slow robotic moves, I found myself on the sidewalk, alone and nervous as hell as I watched the cab pull away. You can do this Raine.