The headboard and footboard were designed to look like bunches of woven-together branches, while each of the four posts resembled tree trunks. The trunks reached to the ceiling and supported a canopy of more intertwined iron branches. Light silk curtains hung down from the canopy, enclosing the space inside. The effect was undeniably, overwhelmingly protective, like a hideaway in a forest bower. I’d seen a bed like this before, on the set of Sleeping Beauty. It was similar to the one the princess slept in as she waited for the prince to awaken her, but that bed was made of painted plywood and aluminum, constructed by set designers. This bed was real, for sleeping in. The mattress and box spring were still in plastic, with two sets of new queen-size sheets and fluffy down pillows propped against the decorative headboard.
I walked closer, and then I paused, my eyes darting around the room. There was only one way this bed could be standing here in all its magnificence. Liam had broken into my apartment. I knew from experience he had no problem with locks. He’d come here when he knew I’d be performing at the theater, and probably brought delivery people too. Was he still here, spying on me from the bathroom or some hidden corner? I did a quick, nervous inventory of all the possible hiding places, but no, he was gone.
I traced the etching on the vine-like footboard, trying to quiet the alarm bells in my head. It wasn’t normal to break into someone’s place and leave a bed like this without asking. He barely knew me. Or did he? He’d kissed me and held me in my blanket shelter, and talked to me about intimate, personal things. About bondage, and dominance and submission. Hell, I’d pretty much begged him to fuck me. I’d also cried in front of him—twice. So maybe he thought he knew me well enough to make a grand gesture like this, or maybe it was an apology for upsetting me. Maybe he was so rich he was out of touch with what was considered normal.
I climbed onto the mattress and lay back, luxuriating in the soft pillow top, and inspected the pair of plastic-encased sheets. Eight-hundred thread-count luxury in crisp white Egyptian cotton. There was a note card slipped down inside one of the packages with a W embossed on the front. I pulled it out and flipped it open.
This bed will keep the devils away.
That was it. Nothing else, no signature, no elaboration. I stared at the silk curtains enveloping me, and the detailed, twisting ironwork of the frame. This was the most beautiful, extravagant gift I’d ever received—but it came with a bunch of uncomfortable memories, memories of his hands, his lips, his arms around me. My psychotic breakdown and his freaked-out retreat. He would expect me to call him and gush over this, but I didn’t have his number anymore, and I couldn’t find his house if I tried. He’d probably wait all evening for me to contact him in gratitude. What would he think when I didn’t?
He’d think I wasn’t worth this beautiful gift. Maybe he’d come and take it back as stealthily as he’d delivered it.
No, he wouldn’t. Before he did that, he’d come over here to see why I didn’t call. What if he came tonight? I made up my new bed and changed into my pajamas, and crawled behind the curtains in a mild panic. For two, three, four nights I waited for him to knock, or just pop the lock and come in, but he didn’t come.
All that came were vivid dreams of Liam at my bedside, leaning down to kiss me in my forest bower like Sleeping Beauty’s prince.
*** *** ***
I didn’t buy the bed with any ulterior motives. It was a gift, freely given, but I was disappointed not to hear from her that night. Or the next night. Or the next. Maybe she was pissed that I’d broken into her place, but I’d only wanted to surprise her and cheer her up. She must have thought I was a world-class psychopath.
It was probably for the best. She was a damaged, delicate person. She needed help, not extended sessions of kinky sex. I used company resources to look into her past, to see if there was something I could do, some anonymous way I could help her. I was 99.9 percent sure it was God-fearing daddy who’d hurt her so badly. What I didn’t know was what he’d done to her or how long the abuse had gone on. It had been sexual in nature; that seemed an obvious assumption. The rest of it, I didn’t know.
What I did know with one hundred percent accuracy was that I had to let go of my fantasies about sleeping with Ashleigh. She had a lot of issues to take care of before she’d reach a place where we could connect. She wasn’t even into BDSM. Well, not yet anyway…
No. I couldn’t daydream about breaking her to the lifestyle. I didn’t have the time or the skill to fix a woman as messed up as her. Oh, there were messed-up chicks in the scene, sure, and sensitive, white-knight guys who loved to try to heal them. I’d never been one of those guys.
December arrived, Sleeping Beauty became Nutcracker, and she traded her poufy ball gown for a sleek snow-fairy tutu. I told myself that if she really wasn’t okay, she couldn’t dance as beautifully as she did, but I knew that for a lie. If she was anything like Ruby, the more miserable she was, the harder she pushed herself. As for me, I continued to struggle with an unholy urge to possess her. I ached for her slim, muscular body as I lay alone masturbating in bed. I distracted myself with work and parties and girls whose names I couldn’t remember an hour after they left.
By mid-December, I weakened in my resolve to leave Ashleigh alone. I started going backstage after shows to hang with Ruby, but really to catch glimpses of her. I’d see her for mere seconds before she disappeared into a hallway or dressing room. It felt like spying, or stalking, but she never saw me because she never looked up and around her. She was a ghost in a white tutu, and after she changed, a fragile dancer in black sweats. She seemed to have friends…that reassured me…but she never left to go anywhere with them after the shows. She hid in the corps dressing room and left the theater long after the other dancers. I asked Ruby what she was doing and he shrugged.
“She work on her shoes, maybe. Sewing ribbons. Maybe she practice or work out. Whatever. Why you care?”
He’d long ago sensed my interest in Ashleigh, and it annoyed him. “Why don’t you care?” I said back. “You danced with her once.”
“Once.” He looked up from his phone. “Once was enough.”
“I didn’t think she was that bad.”
He grimaced so hard his face looked like a raisin. “Her technique…not so bad. But her shoes were awful. And she had this smile.” He made a fake, bright pseudo-smile. “It freaked me out.”
“You do that same smile onstage, brother.”
He grinned at his phone, snapped a picture of himself and showed it to me. “This smile, yes?”
“No, that’s the smile you use when you’re about to be an asshole to a woman. I’m talking about this smile.”
I did his oily-ballet-prince smile and he took a picture of me. “I send that to everyone,” he said, nodding. “You look like an idiot.” He pushed more buttons on his phone, scratched his chest and leaned back in his chair. “Ah, Brandi. She text me sexy photos. You care if I play with Brandi?”
I wasn’t going to admit that I couldn’t remember who Brandi was. “Go for it, if you want.”
He waved his phone. “She’s texting me looking for you. Maybe I send her that idiot-looking picture.”
I could tell by his grin that he’d already done it. “When are you going to settle down with a respectable girl?” I asked as he showed me Brandi’s extremely explicit photos. Oh yes. I remembered her now, based on her labial piercings.
“Soon as you do,” he retorted. “You’re much worse than me. Maybe you settle down with Ashleigh, eh?” He snickered, flicked through Brandi’s photos a few more times, then threw down his phone and picked up his bag. “You call Brandi if you like. Tonight I’m busy.”
“With who?”
; “With life. Why you still here, Li-am? Why you hanging out at an empty ballet theater? Call Brandi, have fun. You break her in and maybe next time I’ll join you and we do her together.” He illustrated his suggestion with an interlaced mélange of poking fingers.
Brandi had already been broken in by most of the guys in our group. Both of us knew that. He left without a backward glance while I sprawled in his dressing room’s plush recliner. Why you still here? I knew the answer to that question, but I wasn’t a person Ashleigh needed in her life right now. I was a player, a pig, and frequently an asshole. She had emotional issues which I may or may not have exacerbated. Those intertwined branches on her bed were there to keep me out, not in.
I thought about Brandi, and Michelle, and Raine, and Bubbles, and all the other girls I could fuck any time with no repercussions and no stress. I would probably call Brandi later. Probably.
Why was Ashleigh hanging out at the theater all hours of the night?
I vaulted out of Ruby’s recliner and paced his room once or twice. Then, against my better judgment, I headed down the deserted corridor toward the corps dressing rooms.
*** *** ***
Since my Sleeping Beauty debacle with Rubio, I’d become obsessed with doctoring my toe shoes. I’d developed an exacting ritual to prepare each pair so I had three or four ready to go at any given moment. First I sanded down the satin tips of the toes for traction, then bent the shank in a slow and careful process. I sewed my elastics and laces on at a specific angle and only then did I go to work on the boxes, alternately kneading them and banging them on the dressing room floor until they lost their echoing “knock.” Bang, bang, bang.
My practice behavior grew equally compulsive. Dance was all I had now; I had to make it count. I came early to class and warmed up twice as long as my fellow artists. I grimaced through each exercise, needing every movement to be flawless. When I had a bad class, I fell into a funk for hours. Performances were a little easier to deal with, since adrenaline distracted me from all but the worst faults. Bang.