[ Truyện Tiếng Anh] Mercy

Author : Annabel Joseph

The floor was hard and cold against my shoulders, under my . He couldn’t get a carpet?
At least an area rug?
I guess this is what he paid me for, this difort and chill. My muscles started to ache from lying still and holding the demanding pose. If I didn’t love him so much I would never submit to this, but Ipletely adored him, so here I was. And yes, he paid me quite well for my services and regularly asked me back, which I found both flattering and reassuring.
I looked up at him from under my eyelashes but I doubt he even noticed my gaze. His eyes were fixed, as always, on my supple dancer’s body offered before him. I watched his powerful strokes, vigorous and intense. He was actually quite robust for a man of seventy-five. His name was Pietro and he was an artist. And me? My name was Lucy, and unfortunately I wasn’t quite sure from day to day who or what I really was. I guess if I had to choose I would say I was a dancer first, who just happened to fall into nude modeling on the side. It was high art stuff, not , although I knew plenty of dancers who took the route to make ends meet. Like most dancers, I wasn’t precious about my body. I knew it was nice and I used it when it suited me. But wasn’t really my thing. It seemed so squalid, so I was glad for this gig, being painted by a real artist.
The broad strokes Pietro made scratched loudly in the silence, that abrasive sound of pencil on textured canvas that I knew so well by now. Sometimes it irritated me, but sometimes...

Mercy
Mercy Page 1

Mercy

Annabel Joseph

Chapter One: Lucy and Mr. Norris

The floor was hard and cold against my shoulders, under my . He couldn’t get a carpet?

At least an area rug?

I guess this is what he paid me for, this discomfort and chill. My muscles started to ache from lying still and holding the demanding pose. If I didn’t love him so much I would never submit to this, but I completely adored him, so here I was. And yes, he paid me quite well for my services and regularly asked me back, which I found both flattering and reassuring.

I looked up at him from under my eyelashes but I doubt he even noticed my gaze. His eyes were fixed, as always, on my supple dancer’s body offered before him. I watched his powerful strokes, vigorous and intense. He was actually quite robust for a man of seventy-five. His name was Pietro and he was an artist. And me? My name was Lucy, and unfortunately I wasn’t quite sure from day to day who or what I really was. I guess if I had to choose I would say I was a dancer first, who just happened to fall into nude modeling on the side. It was high art stuff, not , although I knew plenty of dancers who took the route to make ends meet. Like most dancers, I wasn’t precious about my body. I knew it was nice and I used it when it suited me. But wasn’t really my thing. It seemed so squalid, so I was glad for this gig, being painted by a real artist.

The broad strokes Pietro made scratched loudly in the silence, that abrasive sound of pencil on textured canvas that I knew so well by now. Sometimes it irritated me, but sometimes it relaxed me and I floated off into daydreams listening to it go on. Sometimes, instead, I pictured the lines of my own body as he put them to canvas with his hands. Pietro made large works, sprawling and spare, all shading and lines, although my body and face were definitely there. No abstract, amorphous, unrecognizable figure. It was definitely me and part of me got off on that fact. He thought I was beautiful. He’d told me so when he hired me. “I need your beauty,” he’d rasped to me outside the theater like a desperate man. The very next day, I’d knocked on the door of his studio. He’d guided me inside, coaxed me out of my clothes and said, “Beautiful girl.” Then he turned me so my back was to him and started to sketch my curvy little .

But it wasn’t about ***, not even for a second. Believe me, no *** was ever involved. Even though Pietro undressed me like the most solicitous of lovers every time I came over, we were not lovers. We were nothing more than friends. Not even friends really. He was more like a mentor. Or maybe a grandfather, a nice grandfather who gave me advice. I loved Pietro with my whole heart, loved him like the father I’d never had, and Pietro was always kind to me the many hours we spent together at work.

He scratched at a line with his finger, adjusting the shading with a frown. When I thought that my back would break from the strain of the pose, he smiled at me and sighed.

“It is time for a break, I think.”

“How did you know?”

“The little lines in your forehead, they draw together like this.” He made a funny face, an exaggerated imitation of my discomfort. I laughed, shrugging on the robe he handed me.

I looked at the canvas while we chatted and rested. It was almost done, I guessed. The last two works of me had been standing poses, which was much more relaxing. I could stand for an eternity not moving a muscle, piece of cake. But this pose had me on my back with my arms up over my head, and my legs curled loosely at my side. It was a lovely pose, I could see that on the canvas, but it hurt to hold it for such a long time.

Luckily, Pietro was conscientious about giving me breaks. He only refused to let me up when he was in the throes of “the muse.” When I did take a break I felt guilty, because it always took time for him to get back into that same space he’d been. It always took five minutes or more just to return my arms and legs to that perfect angle he craved. I would let him manipulate me into position, loose and compliant. It was sort of like ***, only Pietro wasn’t my lover.

No, my lover had left me last week. Did I say he was my lover? He was my fiancé, actually.

The operative word being was. He was my fiancé, until he left me at the altar. He was my fiancé until he realized he was in love with someone else. He had never loved me even though he’d said he did, and I hadn’t loved him, and that was the worst thing of all.

But I preferred not to talk about Joe. I’d finally reached a point where I could conjure his face without bursting into tears. And around the time I reached that point, I decided not to conjure his face anymore at all. I was a practical person in matters of the heart. I had never been in love. I realized that now, after the wretchedness of last week, that I had never been in love and probably never would be, because there was something wrong with me. I couldn’t feel things right, or maybe I just didn’t want to.

Not feeling things came in handy in many ways. As a modern dancer, you’re grappled and grasped pretty regularly. You spend hours punishing your body at the barre, at rehearsals, at choreography, at nightly performances. As an art model, you’re manipulated and posed. When you make your life by your body, it’s actually better not to feel too much. To feel only what matters. Stretch. Breathe. Turn. Soar. I felt my body move in space and that was enough.

This would be the third work I’d done for Pietro. The first two had sold as a set to an anonymous buyer for an obscene amount. After they sold, Pietro had given me five thousand dollars and said he felt it wasn’t enough. I tried to refuse it because he already paid me an hourly wage that was more than fair, but he insisted, telling me it would uage his guilt.

“What did you sell them for?” I had pressed.

“A lot. A bidding war. Two buyers.” Then he’d told me the amount and my mouth dropped open. I pocketed his check without another word.

But Pietro was deserving of every success. He worked hard at his art and his vision was original and striking. I wondered as we worked what this one would sell for. To me, it was even more beautiful and provocative than the others. I wondered if he thought the same thing, if it mattered to him. What will this bring me? How much money will I make? I wondered if he looked at me differently now. When he looked at me, what did he see? Beauty, as he claimed, or something else? A , compelling body to sell for money? Lots of money, it seemed. But I was more than happy to be a vessel for his success.

I left Pietro’s at four o’clock to go to the theater. We had no rehearsals on Tuesday, just a nightly performance at eight. I was meeting Grégoire for dinner beforehand. Grégoire, my dance partner, and my best friend.

Grégoire was a couple years older than me, thirty years old to my twenty eight. He had cried on my shoulder the day of his birthday. “Thirty?” he’d mourned. “It’s too awful to be true.” And it was awful, because we were dancers. Our performance life spans were miserably short, especially with the kind of punishing dance we did. I already nursed aches and twinges that worsened by the week. I hoped to make it to thirty five, but even that seemed an unlikely event.

So I held Grégoire in total empathy that night, stroking his soft black hair and crying along with him. Life after dance was something I never thought of, something I hadn’t planned for, at least not yet.

“Lucy!” He waved to me as I neared the stage door. He was leaning against the wall jabbering on the phone. Talking to his boyfriend no doubt, who he claimed to love desperately, but who was rarely around. “He works,” he explained. “He’s not in the arts.” The sugar daddy, who had a real job. Every dancer needed one, just as I’d had, only I hadn’t been able to hold onto mine.

I waved back to him and crossed the cracked pavement. The ground outside the theater was littered with cigarette butts and plastic water bottle caps. Disgusting dancers, I thought to myself.

I went inside to drop off my bag in my dressing room, my eyes adjusting to the darkness from the blinding light outside. I was so sun-struck I almost collided with someone in the corridor. He steadied me and I looked up at him with an embarrassed grin.

“Sorry, I’m blind.”

He answered with a smile and left his hand on my elbow just a little longer than seemed right. And I can’t explain it, but the way he held my arm felt...well...almost inappropriate in some way. When he finally let go I scurried down the hall, fighting the urge to look back.

But it was hard not to, because even in my blindness I noticed he was an extremely attractive man. Even sun blind, he’d made me feel hot and agitated with nothing more than the strange firmness of his touch. Sandy blond hair, a broad face and mouth, and blue eyes that couldn’t possibly have been as light as they looked. It was just the sun, I thought, that made them so singular. It was only the sun that made me feel so unglued.

I pushed into my dressing room and found Elinor there. I dropped my bag, and I normally would have walked right back out. But he might still be back there by the stage door, and for some reason I didn’t feel up to facing him again. Instead I resigned myself to small talk with Ellie. Elinor was a dyed-in-the-wool dancer, artistic and pure. Talking to her...

Mercy
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But he was gone. I burst from the stage door and gestured impatiently for Grégoire to hang up. Grégoire, the blessed antidote to Elinor. Grégoire was as far from precious as they come, especially considering he was a gorgeous, gay euro-boy come over from Paris to the delight of us all. He spoke English like it was his bitch. I wished often that I was a man because I loved him so much.

“How are you, gorgeous?” he asked, ruffling my hair.

“I’m fine.”

“How’s Pietro? You posed today, huh?”

“Yeah, he’s fine. He’s good.”

Grégoire was both fascinated and jealous of my art modeling. When I’d first begun as Pietro’s model, he’d demanded blow by blow accounts of every boring session. Now he seemed to finally be getting over it. “How’s Georges?” I asked.

“He’s out of town for the week. I miss him already. He gave me quite the send off last night.”

I braced, hoping he wouldn’t go into details, but of course he did. I listened, half aroused and half aghast. Georges and Grégoire shared a pretty intense *** life, more intense than anything I’d ever had. I guessed it was a sugar daddy gay thing but yeah, it turned me on. I found my mind returning to the man in the corridor, the man of the insistent elbow grasp, and I wondered what his *** life was like. A garden of delights, like Georges and Grégoire enjoyed, or the bland but satisfying niceness that Joe and I endured? And yes, I had only endured it.

Outwardly, I guess most would have been happy. He to me with such care and attention, it would have made any woman pleased, but I faked ninety-nine percent of my . He to me with such careful attention that it crossed the line from erotic to clinical. Nothing was worse than when he went down on me. I shuddered just thinking of it, how considerate and solicitous he’d been. When I shuddered, Grégoire thought I was cold and pulled me closer.

“Let’s pretend we’re married,” he said.

“Again? We pretend that every day.”

He put his big hand on my and squeezed it. “This time, pretend like you mean it, Lu.” The sway of his matched mine as we walked together. Grégoire was not a swishy gay man, although he could be if he wanted to. He was actually quite proud of his straight act, which he honed and perfected. His lover, Georges, was not completely out of the closet. When he took Grégoire out around town, he was expected to act straight. And of course as a dancer, Grégoire had to be masculine and he was. Actually, people umed we were lovers because he was so absolutely masculine when we danced together. And I suppose in a way we were lovers. There’s really no other way to express that dynamic between devoted partners who really know each other. Who know each other’s center, each other’s lines and planes and joints. Grégoire knew me like a ball player knows his ball, like a musician knows his instrument, like a carpenter knows his tools. He was attuned to every single thing about me and my body, and when he danced with me everyone could tell.

Of course, I had other partners. I danced with many partners in the company who were very good and skilled and knew me very well. But Grégoire was my partner, my best match, and I was his. It was a wonderful relationship, one I felt blessed to have.

* * *

Later that night, I woke up at three A.M. from a nightmare. It was the same nightmare I had several nights a week, the feeling of having a hand clamped over my mouth so I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t scream. I had the same unbearable feeling on waking, the desperate need to cry, to weep. I knew that if I could only cry, things might start to get better. The need for me to cry was so acute that it was painful. I screwed up my face, tried to force those wet droplets from the corners of my eyes. But nothing, no tears came. They never did.

These nightmares had been happening for months, long before my recent breakup with Joe.

That dry tense feeling when the tears wouldn’t come, it drove me to desperation. In the beginning I used to actually scream trying to bring the tears to my eyes, but all my screams brought were the police, yelling and banging on the door to see if I was all right. I ured them that I was fine, that’d I just had a nightmare. Thank you, officers. Sorry. Good night.

If you saw me from the outside, you would never suspect that I was a person who woke up regularly with the excruciating need to scream. That I was a person who couldn’t bring tears to my wide green eyes no matter how hard I willed it. That I was a person who was dead inside.

The truth hurts, but that’s what I was. My body was the only thing that made me alive.

On the outside, I just looked like a normal person. A dancer with a healthy body, muscular and lithe. I had very pale skin, the result of a life inside theaters and studios, hours at the barre.

My hair was red, longish length, and waved into curls when I didn’t have it up. And my dark green eyes, they were nothing spectacular either...not like his, I found myself thinking. No, I looked totally typical and normal from the outside. Not to say I was a depressed, unhappy person either. I don’t know how to describe what I was. I guess I was someone who was waiting to become someone. Which was unfortunate, since I was pushing twenty-nine.

* * *

On Wednesdays my company had a tra***ional class before rehearsals. I came in the stage door almost hoping to collide with the blue-eyed man again, but he wasn’t there. Why couldn’t I get him out of my mind? We had exchanged one touch, been in each other’s space five seconds at most.

What had he been doing backstage anyway? I knew he wasn’t a dancer. He was too old, and had been wearing business clothes. I didn’t recognize him as any of the administrative suits. He certainly wasn’t the type of man who organized and ran small dance companies. What type of man was he, then? What did he do? Something very powerful, I thought, and I don’t know why I was so certain of that. Had he ever seen me dance? And why should I care? I went into the rehearsal room and threw down my dance bag in frustration. I started to stretch next to Grégoire at the barre. Reach. Bend. Breathe. Point. I flexed my feet, went up on my toes, felt the strength in my muscles along with that faint but ever present twinge of ache. My mind emptied as the rehearsal captain began and I soon lost myself to the push and pull, the straining and agony, the soothe and sweep of modern dance.

Our company was considered avant-garde, although we used classical technique and even sometimes danced en pointe. We used new and buzz-worthy choreographers and non-tra***ional music, and performed acrobatics that made people marvel, bringing more and more fans to our shows. We were a relatively small company, twenty four dancers, but we were growing and had just moved into a larger theater space earlier in the year.

And my place in this scrappy little company? I suppose I was one of the stars, although when you dance for a small company and don’t make much money, you don’t feel like a star.

Nor did I have much of an ego. I didn’t dance for the ovation. I danced because I had to dance, because it was who I was. But I was able to do the more spectacular tricks of the choreography, which earned me respect and made the roses fall at my feet. It was a good life, and now, since my breakup with Joe, it had become my whole life for better or worse.

These exercises were bone memory, a me***ation. I could cycle through them half asleep.

Point. Reach. Turn. Bend. It was so simple and precise. It was comfortable absentia, a mantra for the body that I couldn’t live without. I leaned back into a graceful, languorous stretch. I smiled, catching Grégoire’s eyes over my shoulder. Then my smile froze and I almost fell off balance, because there, over Grégoire’s shoulder, my eyes found him.

It was all I could do not to whip my head around, turn back to take a longer look at him leaning against the wall. He stood casually, his arms crossed over his chest, but his eyes had been fixed on me.

I swallowed hard, tried to keep my mind on my work. A flush rose in my cheeks as I realized I’d flubbed a tendu. Somehow I knew without a doubt that he noticed. In fact, I pictured him smiling that same amused smile he’d given me in the hall. I fixed my eyes on some point across the room and kept them there. I refused to look at him even when I turned to work his way. I was so tired of thinking of this man and now he here he was, in class, the one place I could usually relax. The whole time I fought with myself to put him from my mind, all I could think was that his eyes were really that blue.

When we finished at the barre, I turned to Grégoire.“Who is that?” I asked, nodding over my shoulder.

Grégoire looked in his direction. “That, my dear, is a new patron of our company. Smile nicely for the very rich man.” He gazed over at him with a broad, fake smile. I pinched his arm hard.

“Stop it, G! What is he doing here?”

“I don’t know what he’s doing here. Seeing where all his hard earned dollars go. Watching class. Watching you, right now.”

“Stop looking at him.” I felt like I was back in middle school, in the cafeteria checking out boys.

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“He’s still looking at you,” breathed Grégoire.

I looked over at the man finally, and his eyes met mine and held them until I flinched first and looked away.

“What is he, some kind of businessman?”

“Yes.”

“He dresses like one. Is he gay?”

“He’s a very rich and very straight developer,” Grégoire chirped back. “His name is Matthew Norris.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I met him yesterday. We were all drooling over him. He was meeting with Maureen.”

Maureen, the business manager of the company. I glared at Grégoire as he shot another admiring glance Mr. Norris’s way. “I thought you had a boyfriend that you just adored.”

“I do. I can look. He’s looking at you again.”

“So what?” I feigned disinterest but Grégoire saw right through me.

“You’re not attached anymore,” he said with an all-too-knowing grin. “He’s still looking at you.”

To my relief, the rehearsal master called us to attention and continued the class.

* * *

After the show that night I went back to Georges’s place with Grégoire. He’d begged me to come since Georges was out of town, but as soon as we got there, I figured out what he was up to. He immediately booted up his boyfriend’s computer.

We searched using the keywords Matthew Norris, developer, New York, and I was amazed at how many results came up. I browsed over the pages for a while until I started to feel like a stalker, and then left with a show of boredom and went into the other room. But Grégoire kept at it, dug through articles and postings to turn up facts on him. He called out them out to me while I pretended disinterest in front of the TV.

“He’s divorced,” he yelled out. “Years ago. And you wouldn’t believe what he had to pay her to get out of it.”

“Did he cheat on her?”

“It doesn’t say. Hold on, I’ll try to find out.”

I rolled my eyes. Even if he discovered Mr. Norris was a cheating scumbag, he wouldn’t have told me because he clearly wanted me to hook up with him. Even if he discovered he had leprosy, ate babies in satanic rituals, and ran a meth lab, he still wouldn’t have told me on the off chance we’d actually go out.

“Damn, he has a girlfriend,” he sighed a moment later. Then, “Oh, they recently broke up.

Ha!” A triumphant laugh. “He’s available, Lu!”

I didn’t reply but a part of me got excited. He’s available. Did he want me? He was a single man, rich, handsome, a patron of the arts. Grégoire said he’d been watching me during class...

But what did he actually want with me? The way he’d looked at me... He’d looked at me like he already knew me. He’d handled me in the hall like I was already his. That’s why it had felt so strange. It had been a possessive grip when he had no right to possession. He was clearly a man who was used to getting anything he wanted, but just because he donated to the company didn’t mean he could choose a girl from the ranks for his pleasure. For his pleasure. Why on earth did my mind automatically go there? Maybe he only liked my dancing. Maybe he just wanted to be friends.

No, I didn’t get that vibe from him. When he looked at me, when he’d touched me, it wasn’t friendliness I felt. My mind snapped from its train of thought when Grégoire started printing.

“God, G.” I sighed, rolling my eyes. “What are you doing this for?”

“For you, dearest,” he said in my ear, and then dropped a photograph in my lap.

Yes, it was him, larger than life. The blond hair, the blue eyes that haunted my dreams. The broad face, the masculine features, the perfect smile. I shivered and felt strangely afraid. I handed it back to him. “I want you to have it. Something to stroke to while Georges is out of town.”

“Oh, come on!” He shoved the picture back into my hands. “It took me fifteen minutes to figure out how to blow that up for you.”

“I don’t want it.” I ignored him even though he was inches from my face, smiling his mischievous smile. “I have absolutely no interest in this rich prick.”

“He’s not a prick. I know you’re not big on guys right now,” he said, “but this guy! What do you think he’s worth? How many millions?”

“Why does that matter?” I shook my head. “It probably just makes him weird.”

“Weird?”

“Yes, weird. All rich people are weird. And he’s totally weird. I can tell that he is.”

“Georges is rich, and he’s not weird.”

“Yes he is, if what you tell me about your *** life is true.” Grégoire laughed, jumped over the sofa and curled up with his head in my lap. “Oh, Lucy.” I didn’t reply, just ran my fingers through his sleek black hair.

“You know what? I think you’re really, really sad.” He stroked my leg, soft and slow. “I think this thing with Joe has tripped you up.”

“It hasn’t. It’s just made me realize some things about love.”

“Love?” Grégoire snorted. “You don’t know anything about love, Lucy Merritt.” He teased, but his words hit a little too close to home. Anyway, who was he to lecture me about love? “I’m going,” I muttered, pushing him out of my lap.

“Aw, don’t be mad.”

“I’m tired. It’s late, you stupid French pretty boy. I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a nice night.”

“Don’t forget your photo,” he said, holding out the picture of Matthew Norris.

“Thanks.” I crumpled it into a fistful of paper before shoving it in my bag, feeling full of fear and frustration and lust.

* * *

As soon as I got home, of course, I took out the photo, smoothed out the wrinkles as best I could. I lay on my bed and looked at it a long time, trying to inure myself to the beauty of his face.

And yes, I found him unbearably beautiful, which was strange, because he was far from a classically beautiful man. He actually looked rather coarse and rough around the edges.

Animalistic, my uncooperative mind whispered. Yes, that was exactly what he was, animal male disguised in a suit. The proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing, and me, I was the sheep. I looked at his eyes a long time hoping and wishing it wasn’t true, but then I remembered his hand on my arm, his look in the rehearsal hall, and I knew that it was true. I was his prey.

As much as he compelled me, I was scared that he wanted me. Really scared. I was pretty sure he wasn’t a criminal or a rapist, and the truth was, if I didn’t want to see Mr. Norris, I didn’t have to. I thought about all the trivia Grégoire had yelled out to me. He mentors inner city children for Big Brothers and Big Sisters! He donates a ridiculous amount of money to charities.

He owns that beautiful new skyscraper over on Marsden. He’s made all his millions from nothing, he came from a dirt poor family in the Midwest!

I looked into Mr. Norris’s sharp, piercing eyes and tried to imagine him as a young child, poor and hungry. I studied his perfectly tailored suit and crisp white collar and tried to imagine him in ill-fitting clothes, no books or toys to play with, no trips to the doctor when he was sick. I thought I could see it there a little, in the small wrinkles around his eyes. Or maybe he was just tired. I didn’t suppose rich, ***y businessmen like him had much use for sleep. I’d grown up poor too, in the Deep South. Raised by a single mother who’d sacrificed everything—her youth, her money, her happiness, so I could dance the way I’d been born to. Just after I’d finally “made it,” been hired into a company in Atlanta, she’d been hit by a car walking to work.

I crumpled the picture back up. Ludicrous to think we had anything in common. Just because we were both born poor trashy people didn’t mean we belonged together now. All we really had in common was that he was a new patron of my dance company, and that he seemed to have a hard on for the talent, which was me. I uncrumpled it and tore it into a thousand pieces so I wouldn’t be tempted to look at it again.

I lay in bed late into the night though, trying to erase the photo from my mind. Trying to erase the feeling that we had more in common than dirt poor beginnings.

* * *

I was really tired the next day and dragged myself to rehearsals in a funk. I avoided Grégoire and hid out in my dressing room until Elinor arrived, at which point I grabbed my pointe shoes and settled on the floor in the hall. I buried my face in the newspaper, working on the crossword puzzle. I was just tying my shoes, trying to figure out a nine letter word for love, when I saw a pair of expensive loafers come to a stop on the floor beside me.

Holy ****.

I looked up at him. My heart pounded in my chest and I had to make myself breathe.

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“Hello, Lucy,” he said.

“Hello, Mr. Norris.”

He frowned a little. “How did you know my name?”

“How did you know mine?” I said right back, before the politeness filter in my brain kicked into gear.

He laughed. “Please call me Matthew.”

“Okay, Matthew.” But it felt strange to call him Matthew. He looked like someone I should call Mr. Norris, especially looking down his nose at me as he was. I looked back at my puzzle and recommenced tying my shoes. My heart was beating so hard I was sure he would hear it.

“You can do that without even looking.” He sounded impressed.

“Yes. I’ve tied these shoes thousands of times.”

I looked up again and he smiled down at me, and I hated how I felt under that breathtaking smile. He offered me his hand.

“We haven’t met properly, have we?”

I stood up then because he expected me to. It’s more accurate to say that he pulled me up, although he did it so naturally that there was no hint of force. But I came to my feet as if something propelled me, and what propelled me was his large, impossibly strong hand. He introduced himself formally, in a deep voice that held only a trace of Midwestern accent.

“Matthew Norris. I’m a big fan of your dancing.”

“Lucy Merritt,” I replied. “Merritt with two t’s.”

That seemed to amuse him and he smiled.

“It’s nice to meet you, Lucy Merritt with two t’s.”

I stood there feeling ridiculous, seeing Grégoire out of the corner of my eye, and a few other dancers eavesdropping on our conversation like a bunch of gossip whores.

“So what are you doing here again?” I asked, a little peevishly. “Don’t you work?”

“Oh, yeah, I work,” he said, and the smile he gave me then didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“A busy patron of the arts... So you’re here checking out your investment?”

“One of them, yes.”

I looked down at my feet, hating the blush in my cheeks. I was irritated that he made me feel this way. I couldn’t quite believe he’d come out and said that to me, especially with half the company watching.

“I find your dancing very inspirational,” he continued. You’re a true pleasure to watch.”

“Thank you,” I mumbled to the floor.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“A little.” I looked pointedly at the dancers milling around.

“I’m harmless, I promise.” He leaned closer and I had to look up at him, look in those piercing eyes that seemed far from harmless to me. “I just appreciate a thing of beauty when I see it, Lucy Merritt.”

I panicked. I threw a glance at the other dancers and blushed an even deeper shade of red.

“I’m not a thing,” I finally managed to say. “And I have to go to class now. Excuse me.” I didn’t wait for a reply, just shouldered my bag and practically ran down the hall. And prayed, really prayed that he wouldn’t be watching class today. Thankfully he wasn’t, although Grégoire frowned at me from across the barre.

“What is wrong with you?” he sniped while we stretched. “You really pissed him off, you know.”

“So what? He’s a big boy.”

“Yes, he’s a very big boy and he just donated a lot of money to the theater.”

“So that means he can take his pick of the dancers?”

“Oh, come on. He’s interested in you. What’s so bad about that?”

“He’s weird, G!”

“No, he’s not. I talked to him after you left. He’s a really nice guy. I tried to defend you, you know. I told him you were actually a pretty nice person. Which you used to be.”

“I don’t need you apologizing on my behalf. Anyway, he called me a thing.”

“He was complimenting you, Lucy. I heard the whole conversation, believe me.”

“Well, he looked at me like I was a thing. Like I was his thing. Just because he donates money to the company—”

“Oh, Jesus. A rich guy wants to ask you out. Cry me a river! Don’t you see? This is what you need right now, a nice sugar daddy rebound romance.” I stretched with punchy intensity, leaning over to touch each toe. What I needed was for him to shut up, which he never seemed to do. “I don’t need anything right now, okay? No men, no dates, no rich creepy guys looking down their noses at me.”

“Whatever.” He did some effortless jumps, then leaned down to hug his ankles with a sigh.

“Lucy, I love you,” he said, his voice muffled by his shins. “Don’t be mad at me. I just want you to be happy again.”

“I love you too, G,” I finally muttered. “And I am happy,” I lied.

Chapter Two: Gala

Mr. Norris did not return to the theater the rest of the week, or at least if he did, I didn’t see him. I wondered if he’d call me. I was sure he could get my number if he wanted to. But he didn’t and I felt foolish for expecting it. Why would he call when I’d been such a raving bitch to him? I felt partly guilty and partly relieved that he’d disappeared. And yes, partly disappointed, if I was honest with myself. But I didn’t dwell on him. I threw myself into my dancing. Harder, faster, more expressive. I pushed my body to quiet my mind.

Georges came back into town after the weekend and he and Grégoire had a passionate reunion. I found myself again on my own every night after work. I had other friends I could have gone out with, but instead I kept to myself. I felt confused about Mr. Norris, and now abandoned too. Abandoned by Grégoire and abandoned by him. I left the performance each night in a funk and retreated to my depressing apartment, alone.

I rented a room in part of a gentrified house, a charming old mansion that had been sliced and diced into lots of tiny efficient apartments. They were all weirdly shaped, and some had kitchens in the bedrooms. My room didn’t even have a bedroom. It was just one large, odd shaped room. From the outside, the house was a beautiful house. But the inside was not beautiful at all, just strange. I often thought it was just like people, just like me. Beautiful and impressive on the outside, but sliced and diced and strange within.

So it seemed appropriate for me to occupy this ugly house that, from the outside, appeared lovely and perfect. I stayed in that pathetic little apartment even though I hated it. I stayed long past the time I should have moved on. At least it was cheap and convenient to the theater. If I got out on time, I felt pretty safe walking home. If I got out too late, when the crowds had already thinned, I usually took a cab the few blocks. There were bars and restaurants all around and when they closed, drunk men poured into the streets. Not that I was afraid of a few drunk men, but they could be scary in the wrong time and place.

All that depressing week, during the day, we rehearsed hard for the Gala. We had two Galas a year, one in the fall and one in the spring. It was early October now, chilly weather and brown leaves blowing in the street, so Gala was in the air. Some of the dancers really got into it and worked with the office staff on themes and decorations. They brought in caterers, florists and planners, and in the end it was always a grand and impressive night.

The Gala was an opportunity for the richies to come out to see us. To rub elbows with us and make us feel like whores. They paid for some time with us, forced intimacy, and they got it because money can talk. It’s not like they expected a lap dance or anything. Most of the big money patrons were white-haired old couples, so a lap dance probably would have finished them off. But it just felt icky in a way, to smile and socialize with them those two nights a year.

Socialize with people we had nothing in common with except that they gave us money to do what they liked. But that was the life of the modern dancer and we were contractually obligated to participate and smile. The theater buzzed with plans and preparation while I obsessed privately about blue eyes and a hand on my elbow.

This fall it was to be a Greek theme. Grégoire and I rehearsed a new work that we would perform exclusively for the guests. I found myself getting caught up in the piece as we rehearsed.

It was lyrical, sensuous, the story of a Greek statue come to life from cold, emotionless rock. I loved my costume, an ivory wisp of a gown that floated and spun when I danced. The piece would probably be performed as part of our next season, but for now, only our most generous patrons would have a sneak peek. Gala tickets were expensive because of this exclusivity, and somewhat scarce, which made them even more desirable. The Galas typically sold out before the previous one was even over. Did I expect Mr. Norris to grace us with his presence? Yes. In truth, I did.

That’s why, the night of the Gala, I was totally stricken with nerves. I paced in my dressing room, hopped and turned and stretched endlessly. I ran through the motions and tricks of the dance in my head, over and over, and trusted in Grégoire to hold up his end. He watched me from the vanity, eating an apple in silence. I’m sure he knew that Mr. Norris was in my thoughts, but for whatever reason, he didn’t tease or badger me about it. Maybe, like...

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Yes, that’s what it was. We were both nervous. How long since we had been nervous together before a performance? I couldn’t remember the last time, and I guessed he couldn’t either. It gave me a full and hyper feeling, like my chest was going to burst from excitement or dread. It took me back to ten years before, when Grégoire and I had been faceless dancers in the corps of the City Ballet. How far we’d come since then, how much we’d accomplished, and how much we’d aged. I started to feel almost wistful on top of all the nerves. Darling Grégoire, my lover of a partner. I couldn’t wait to feel his hands on me, couldn’t wait for us to move together, to bring the music and steps to life. But I couldn’t say a word to him of why I was nervous and shaky, so we sat in uneasy silence and waited to be called to the wings.

Finally, it was time for us to take our places. This piece began on stage, no flourish of an entrance. We padded out behind the curtain and umed our still positions. He put his arms around me as I arched into the lovely lines of the statue I would play. He looked at me and winked, squeezing my side with the faintest pressure. How I loved him. Help me, G, I said with my wide, frightened eyes. Help me. I’m nervous. I’m scared. What if he’s not here? What if he is?

Then the curtain opened and between the both of us, the dance unraveled in a perfect arc. No missteps, no awkward lifts or late beats. Together we nailed it and it was intoxicating. When I reached for him, he was there. Always, with Grégoire, the perfect amount of pressure, the exact amount of force to propel me where I needed to go. As for me—my every line was perfection. I prayed that he was watching. He had to be. Please. I wanted him to want me again, to find me the thing of beauty he’d described even though I’d been so terribly rude. I selfishly wanted him to want me even though I’d pushed him away.

When the piece ended we received a standing ovation, and armfuls and armfuls of flowers that filled my nose with their sweet scent. These Galas were always over the top. Between graceful reverences, I scanned the small audience for Mr. Norris, but all I saw was a sea of bald heads and tuxedos, and old matrons in garish silk gowns.

After the curtain call, they brought up the lights in the theater. The wealthy guests swarmed the stage and the champagne and hors-d’oeuvres flowed. I went to the dressing rooms with the other dancers to change and tone down my stage makeup. By the time I returned the party was in full swing. Many deferential and polite patrons of the arts sidled up to me and complimented me.

I smiled so much my face started to ache, but I appreciated their words. We had moved them emotionally and that seemed a worthy thing, and their feelings were honest and heartfelt.

Grégoire hovered around me, playing the straight guy, except with the gay patrons, who saw through his act with a wink.

But even amidst all the glamour and champagne, the lovely Greek setting and the flattering praise, I grew melancholy because he had not come after all. Our wealthy patron Mr. Norris was nowhere to be found. Around midnight Grégoire brought me some champagne with a sympathetic smile, leaning next to me on the fake Greek balustrade.

“I thought your beau would be here,” he said.

My beau. What a bizarre word to use for him. It was too gentle a word for what he was.

Maybe Grégoire used it ironically, silly French boy. No, Mr. Norris was not my beau. In my fantasies at night, beau did not describe what he was to me. Lover. Conqueror. Master. Animal.

Even, ridiculously and embarrassingly sometimes, husband. But beau, no. It was far too soft for what Mr. Norris was to me in my dreams.

“No, he’s not here. I haven’t seen him,” I said, shaking myself from my reveries.

“But you wanted him to be here.”

“Yes, and so did you,” I shot back.

He smiled a wry smile. “You were great tonight, Lu.”

“So were you. It was fantastic. It really was.”

He took a deep breath. “I had that feeling I haven’t had in a while, that something I did was truly beautiful. That something between us grew and developed and was...transformed.”

“Oh, G.” I hugged him hard. He held on to me as we hid back in the wings and I thought if I was able to cry, I would have cried in G’s arms, for so many things. For happiness and sadness, for confusion, for disappointment that lodged like an awful lump in my throat until I thought I would choke.

He let me go and we peeked out at the glamorous spectacle from our hiding place. We lapsed back into our usual sneering comments when he returned with more champagne.

“To being dance whores.” He held up his glass up to mine.

“To being dance whores,” I agreed. That was what it felt like, these events, one hundred percent, even if you’d danced better than you’d danced in your life. If you pay for me to dance, I’ll pretend that we’re friends. Poor Grégoire had a suit jacket full of phone numbers, both male and female. I looked around at the blue haired rich ladies and their pompous rich husbands.

Where would I be at eighty years old? At a party like this? Living vicariously through others?

I grew more and more despondent the later it got. I wondered if Mr. Norris had withdrawn his ociation with the theater. Over me? Silly. But what if he had, because I’d been rude to him, because he scared me? And just as I was mulling over that unpleasant thought, I felt a hand on my elbow, a pressure I remembered. My blood rushed loud in my ears. I turned and there he was, a foot away. He wore that same unflappable, broad smile.

He nodded to my partner first. “Beautiful work tonight, Grégoire.” He pronounced his name perfectly in French, the way I never could.

Grégoire blushed like a boy and stammered his thanks. They shook hands like straight men would do, and I worried for a moment that G might actually faint. But he didn’t, and then Mr.

Norris turned in my direction.

“And you, Lucy Merritt with two t’s. Stunning. I really don’t have words.” I didn’t have words either. I just looked back at him, speechless, sick with embarrassment and lust. He may have been acting like our last conversation never happened but I still burned with mortification over it. He turned from me, made more polite small talk with Grégoire, and then, with a strange subtle agility, he dismissed him. As Grégoire left us, he shot me a warning look. Don’t this up, you little dork.

I turned back to Mr. Norris. Matthew. I’d called him Mr. Norris so many times in disdain.

I’d never remember to call him Matthew now.

“Mr. Norris?” I began. Ugh, you idiot. “Um, Matthew, the last time we talked...please forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Yes there is. I was so rude to you. I apologize, I really do.” He smiled, that kind, easy smile, and leaned close to me so my eyes fixed on his lips.

“I apologize for calling you a thing,” he said. “Although in my defense, I did call you a thing of beauty.”

I looked up at him and somehow managed a smile. His own smile was infectious, but he still scared me. Why did he scare me so much? I couldn’t put my finger on it. Wild animal male, I thought to myself. Dangerous and unpredictable. And here we were, alone together back in the wings where no one could see us. Mr. Norris, the wild animal, and me, his prey.

But he wasn’t wild. In fact his manners were impeccable. He took my glass and offered to bring me more champagne. He left, fully trusting me to wait there for him, and I did although my brain was pleading with me to fly.

When he returned to me with our full glasses of bubbly, I waited for the typical moronic toast. To dance whores, I envisioned him saying, holding up his glass to me. But no silly toasts or comments were forthcoming. He only sipped his champagne and looked out with me as the room began to thin.

“Where were you?” I asked finally, to fill the awkward silence. “Earlier tonight? When the party began?”

“You missed me?”

I blushed a thousand shades of red.

“Well, you remember that I work,” he said. “I had a phone call I had to take and unfortunately it went on and on. I did see your performance though, and I’m glad for that. It was just lovely.” And the way he said lovely, it wasn’t gushing or fake, just hopelessly kind.

I turned my head away in self-preservation. If he didn’t leave me soon, I would humiliate myself over him.

“How long have you been dancing?” he asked. He had a strange way of talking to me, sort of formal and stern, but his voice never rose above that quiet, calm tone.

“I’ve danced forever. Since before I can remember, I’ve been dancing.”

“Did your parents dance, too?”

“No. Why?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just wonder where this kind of talent comes from. Genetics, nurturing? Or just hard work?”

I stared out at the rows of seats in the theater. “I’ve worked pretty hard.”

“Hmm. I’m sure you have.” He looked at me again like he was looking at a thing. “How long will you continue to dance, Lucy?”

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“Until I can’t anymore,” I answered without pause. He looked hard at me then. Was he trying to guess how long I had left? “Have you ever danced?” I blurted out to distract him from thinking about my age.

That made him laugh, loud and hard. “Oh, no. Fortunately for humanity, no, I never have.

And I never will.”

His self-deprecating words made me giggle. “Maybe if you’d had lessons.”

“Yes, maybe.” He laughed with a nod.

I bit my lip. I had no idea what else to say. He rendered me speechless and I can’t say how. I could see how he excelled at business. He had a manner about him that had me at his feet.

“So, do you like these things, these ‘Galas’?” he asked.

I felt embarrassed, as if he’d somehow overheard the snide comments Grégoire and I had made all night.

“No, not really.”

“Why don’t you?”

I wanted to say something cutesy and glib, but the way he stared at me compelled me to absolute truth.

“Because they feel really fake. Artificial.”

“And you don’t like that? Make-believe?”

He didn’t say it suggestively, but my mind flew to the silly make-believe fantasies he’d spurred in my mind. Or maybe he did know. Ugh, why couldn’t I stop blushing? I could feel it creeping up into my cheeks again.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “I like make-believe sometimes. When I’m in the mood.”

“Hmm. And what puts you in the mood for make-believe?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I finally shrugged and said, “I don’t know.”

“I’m not big on make-believe,” he said, looking out over the crowd.

“But dance is make-believe, isn’t it?” I waved my arm around at the pomp and glitter that surrounded us. “And you’re here, dressed up in your tuxedo and bow tie.”

“Well, sometimes you just play along, don’t you?” And by you, I guessed he meant people in general, but I felt it directed at me. You just play along, Lucy, don’t you?

The champagne was making me warm. I rubbed my cheeks.

“Are you tired?” he asked me in a strangely mesmerizing voice. It sounded like an inappropriately intimate thing to say, because what it really sounded like to me was that he thought I should go to bed. His bed.

“I’m just getting a little drunk. It doesn’t take much.”

“I guess not,” he said, running his eyes up and down my body. “Someone as little as you.”

“I’m not little.”

“You’re smaller than me.” It was true, I was quite a bit smaller than him—the strong, tall, animal man beside me in his expensive shoes and bespoke designer tux.

“I may be small, but I’m strong.”

“Yes. Strong, I believe. Perhaps even stronger than me.” I looked at his broad shoulders, his solid thighs. Even his hands were strong. Stronger than him? Not likely. He moved a little closer to me. He was so virile, so ***y. It had to be the alcohol that made me feel like throwing myself at him. Why had I drunk so much?

“Well, you’re little and strong, and you’re a hell of a dancer,” he said, as if that settled things. I watched him sip champagne, perfect and rich, and I knew he thought for sure he would have me.

“Yes, I do dance,” I said, shaking my head to clear it. “But I do a lot more than that. I’m a lot more than just a dancer and I can do a lot more than pretty pony tricks.” He looked at me, his eyes narrowed. I quickly looked away. Why had I said that? “I think I’m drunk, Mr. Norris.”

“Matthew.”

“Matthew, I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”

“Why don’t you let me drive you home?”

“No,” I said too quickly, then blushed red and hot again. “No, um...we’re supposed to stay until the end.”

“That’s a shame. If you’re tired.” He spoke to me sympathetically although I’m sure he knew I lied. Maybe that’s why he looked at me sympathetically. Poor girl. Poor little cowardly liar.

“Well, I won’t exhaust you with more conversation.” His tone was changed, distant and cool. He looked at me with muted reprobation.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted miserably. “I really, really am.”

“For what?”

“For being so rude, when you’re just being nice to me. I don’t know why I do it. I really don’t.”

“Oh, it’s probably just a matter of being tired, and maybe a little nervous and scared.”

“Nervous and scared about what?”

“Nervous and scared about me, I suppose, and what I might want from you. Yes?”

“I’m not nervous and scared,” I protested without much conviction, because he was scaring me to death. His gaze pinned me and again I squelched the urge to flee. “I have nothing to give you, honestly. So, I don’t know. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?”

“No, I don’t, Mr. Norris.”

“Matthew,” he said again. He looked at me, cool and thoughtful. “Okay, Lucy. Okay.” He rubbed his lips, the first nervous gesture I’d ever seen him do. “Okay, Lucy,” he repeated again, and then he turned and walked away. I fought the urge to follow him, to run after him apologizing. Again, I’d repelled him. Why? Why was I such a mess around him?

Why did he make me so afraid?

As soon as I thought he wouldn’t see me, I ran all the way back to my dressing room and slammed the door. I sat at the table where Grégoire had lounged earlier and put my head down in my arms. I couldn’t face Grégoire or Mr. Norris or any of them. I couldn’t face anyone out there in that crowd. I hid in that dressing room long past midnight, until I was sure every single one of them was gone. I waited and hid and trembled, coward that I was.

Chapter Three: Coffee

When I finally left the theater, the cleaning staff had to let me out. It was late, dark and quiet. I think it was probably almost one. The bars hadn’t closed yet so I decided to chance the short walk home. The way that I felt that night, I dared anybody to come my way. I felt the way I felt when I woke up from my nightmares, like I desperately had to cry and scream when I couldn’t do either.

I stalked down the empty sidewalk thinking about him, trying to understand why I felt the way I felt. And what on earth must the man think of me? That I was a train wreck, unbalanced and weird. That I was an immature bitch, not the talented dancer he thought I was at all. All the things I hated about myself, I was sure he saw them quite well.

I wrapped my coat more tightly around me. It had been a hard few weeks for me. I wondered about Joe, if he had married the love of his life yet. Kim, his ex. Did Kim know what love was? Joe said she did. Did she really love Joe? Kim and Joe both seemed like grown-ups, so much wiser and smarter than me. I could dance and I guess I was pretty, but what else was I?

A liar. A coward. A mess.

I heard some voices then, male voices, low and nasty. Dangerous laughter. I lifted my head to see a few men standing by a stoop between me and my house. I put my head back down. I wouldn’t let them scare me, I wouldn’t, but my body rebelled. My body felt fear. My heart pounded fast because of the way they looked at me, like they were going to do something. Like they were on the edge of action, making a decision. When I passed by them they fell into step behind me. My blood whooshed almost painfully in my ears.

“Hey,” said one of them.

I kept walking.

“Hey, I’m talking to you, bitch.”

My breath backed up in my chest. Should I start running? They would catch me in an instant and probably have a good laugh over it. So I didn’t run. I just kept walking.

“Hey, you little bitch. You too good to talk to us, you skinny little whore?” I just kept walking, one foot in front of the other. I might have shaken my head, a pointless gesture. If they were going to do something, so be it. I wasn’t going to run and I wasn’t going to scream. I was just going to keep walking, one foot in front of the other, because I’d survive this or not, just like everything else.

Then I saw two more men approaching from the other direction. Oh great, it was a party now. Come one, come all, some girl is trying to walk home alone and it’s after midnight, so she’s fair game. But then the men behind me stopped and crossed the street. I soon saw why. The man coming towards me was one of the most threatening, muscular men I’d ever seen, and next to him, even dressed in a tuxedo, Mr. Norris looked pretty threatening himself.

“Come on,” was all he said to me, and he put his hand on my elbow like he’d done twice before. This time he guided me over to a black SUV and pushed me into the back seat. No, he didn’t actually push me. He just opened the door and helped me in. I guess it was the fury on his face that made me feel manhandled. He got in beside me and slammed the door behind us. I just sat in silence, not looking at him.

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“Felt like getting raped tonight?” he finally muttered.

“There were no cabs. I left the theater too late.”

“I offered you a ride home.” I watched the muscle man leaning against the door outside, lazily rolling a cigarette.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“My driver.”

We both just sat there, two feet apart. It was chilly in the car and I shivered.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“What are you doing here?”

“What do you think?” he snapped.

And that was enough. I started to cry. The sound of my sobs disturbed me but there was no way to silence them. I pulled my coat around me like I could pull myself together, but I couldn’t.

I couldn’t stop. It had been far too long since I’d cried.

He sat still and silent next to me and watched me, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown. I cried forever, months worth of tears. I cried staring out his front window, then dropped my head in my hands until my fingers were slippery with tears. How long had I needed to cry like this?

An eternity. I cried until I was breathless, until I felt weak. He didn’t try to soothe me or hold me, although he did eventually offer me a tissue. I realized he had dug in my own bag to get it.

He held it in his lap, my big ugly dance bag, while I dried the tears and blew my nose. After a moment he offered me another one, and then another again.

“Thank you for helping me,” I said when I was finally calm enough.

“Are you finished now?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I act this way around you.”

“Don’t you?” He flicked his wrist impatiently and looked away with a frown.

“What do you want from me?”

“Let’s get some coffee, Lucy. We need to talk.”

At some unseen signal, the driver walked off down the street, and Matthew climbed into the driver’s seat while I stayed in the back.

“Why do you have a driver, if you can drive?” I asked him.

“He’s more than my driver.” And he left it at that.

* * *

He drove me to a coffee house right near the theater. I’d never noticed it before but he seemed to know it well. I must have looked like a mess as we waited at the counter for our drinks, but I really didn’t care. It was after two by this point, and the whole world seemed to have taken on an air of unreality.

He led me to an isolated table in the back. Low music played as we sat in darkness and clouds of cigarette smoke. There was a hum of people talking, laughing. They were night time party people, wide awake and full of life.

But not me. I was beyond tired. I was so tired that I was painfully and frantically awake. I sipped my coffee and stared down into my lap. He sat across from me, leaning back in his chair, looking like a million bucks. He’d taken off his jacket and loosened his silk bow tie so that it hung perfectly over his open collar. His short blond hair was ruffled just so. It looked like all he had to do to style it perfectly was to run his fingers through it. He watched me. Stared at me, really.

“You don’t talk much,” he finally commented under his breath.

“I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry I cried for fifteen minutes in the backseat of your car.”

“It was more like thirty minutes.”

“It’s been a really hard couple of weeks,” I said.

“Has it?”

“Let me put it this way. I was supposed to have been on my honeymoon this week.”

“Your honeymoon?” I could tell he was taken aback. “Well, what happened? Do tell.”

“Do you want the long version or the short version?”

“The true version.”

“Do you think I’d lie to you?”

“No, not really. I’m just a lover of truth. It thrills me,” he explained in an ironic tone.

“Okay, then.” I took a deep breath. “My fiancé invited his ex-girlfriend to our wedding.

When she came into town, he fell back in love with her. He cancelled our wedding and took her on our honeymoon.”

He thought a moment. “Was it to have been a big wedding?”

“No, a very small one.”

“So he wasn’t sure all along.”

“No. I guess not.”

“And neither were you,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

“No.”

“Why did you get married, if you weren’t sure?”

“We didn’t get married.”

“You almost did.”

“Are you really going to lecture me? You haven’t exactly got a stellar marital record yourself.”

His eyes narrowed.

“At least, I read online that you were divorced,” I finished weakly under his darkening gaze.

“Well, that’s not fair. It seems you know more about me than I know about you. Now you have to tell me something about yourself. Something deeply personal and humiliating, if we’re going to be fair.”

“I just told you I was left at the altar. That’s not humiliating enough?”

“Did you love him?”

“Did you love her?”

He didn’t answer me at first. Then he said, “Yes, I loved her very much. She didn’t love me though. When you have money...” His voice trailed off, and then he looked right into my eyes.

“There was no truth between us. Did you love your fiancé?” I shook my head slowly.

“Why not? Why didn’t you love him?”

“Because he didn’t make me happy.” I stopped and shook my head. “No. Because he didn’t know the real me. Because there was no truth between us,” I finally admitted.

He looked over at me, leaning forward on his elbows.

“Would you like to hear some truth, Lucy? Right now?”

“Yes, that would be really refreshing.”

“I’d like to bend you over, stick my fingers up inside you, and see if you really can do more than pony tricks.”

My mouth dropped open. I closed it a moment later and stood to leave.

“Sit down,” he said in a way that halted me in my tracks.

I turned back to him. “You’re being rude to me.”

“You were rude to me too, weren’t you? More than once. Now we’re even. Sit down.” For some reason, I did as he ordered. I sat back down across from him, my gaze in my lap.

“Lucy, what do you think is happening here?”

“I really don’t know. I wish I did!”

“I think you do know, but I’ll play along. What did you think of me? How do you feel around me?”

“I... I...”

“Think first, and then tell me the truth.”

“You scare me.”

“Why do I scare you?”

I looked down at my hands, swallowed hard. “Because of how you make me feel.”

“How do I make you feel?”

I shook my head. I couldn’t admit it, never.

“Answer me,” he pressed. “We won’t get anywhere until you talk to me. Just say it.”

“I...you... You make me... I want you to... I want...”

My voice trailed off, my face on fire. I want you to be an animal. I want you to eat me alive.

“Can’t you say it?” he asked. “I’ll tell you, Lucy, since you seem unable to form the words.” He paused and looked right at me. “You want me to master you. You want me to rough you up a little, don’t you?”

I bit my lip. I had no idea what to answer to that. Again, I felt dangerously close to tears, even after all the tears I’d already shed. I brought my cup to my lips and drank the coffee to uage the tightness in my throat.

“Your fiancé, he didn’t understand, did he? What you like. What you need.”

“I don’t understand either.”

“You will,” he said.

I blinked, looking at him. He stared back at me without a hint of a smile.

“Do you know what a submissive is?”

Breathe. Swallow. Don’t cry.

“Answer me, Lucy.”

“I...maybe... I think I do.”

“Have you ever been submissive to someone? Your fiancé?”

“No, I...no.”

“No, he had no idea, did he, what he had in his hands? You’ve never been disciplined, trained? Controlled?”

His sharp perverse words brought a flood of warmth between my legs. My s tightened under my shirt as I shook my head.

“Answer me out loud, Lucy,” he said. “Look at me.”

I looked up in abject mortification. “No, I never have been.”

“Would you like to be? Look at me,” he insisted. My eyes met his and he held them hard.

Mercy
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“Would you like to be?”

“I don’t know!”

“I don’t know. That means, no, I’m too scared.” I closed my eyes and lowered my head. “I already told you I was scared.”

“How long?” he asked then.

“How long what?”

“How long have you wanted it? To be dominated, to be tied up and beaten and ed?” I just shook my head. How do you answer a question like that?

“A pretty little girl like you couldn’t find someone to take you in hand? You’ll settle for some vanilla boy who was still in love with his ex?”

“Why do you care so much?”

“I’m sure you can puzzle that out if you try.” His jaw clenched a little and he looked away from me, scratching his neck with a frustrated sigh. I looked at him, beautiful Mr. Matthew Norris, sitting there in his tuxedo and his unkempt tie. I just looked as my mind spun with a thousand questions. But there was one question I had to ask right away.

“How did you know?”

“The same way you knew. And you did know, Lucy, from the moment you saw me. I can’t explain how.” He leaned very close to me, speaking low. “You set off alarms. Look at me.” I dragged my gaze to his.

“When you started talking about pony tricks, I nearly laughed out loud.”

“I’m not into that animal stuff.”

“I have no interest in playing ponies, believe me. I have no interest in ninety percent of the stupid games dominants play with their submissives.”

Dominants. Submissives. I felt like I’d just fallen -backwards into the life I’d wanted but thought didn’t really exist. I honestly had no idea people really did the things I wanted. I honestly couldn’t believe he might want to do them to me.

“What are you interested in?” I asked.

“Owning your body and doing whatever I want to it.”

There it was again, the hot rush of wetness between my legs. I looked at him from under my lashes while my cheeks burned crimson. He wanted my body, wanted to do things to it. That man sitting there, virile and dangerous, he wanted me. I shivered and pressed my thighs together.

Somehow I couldn’t phrase a response. I could barely draw breath.

“Is that something that might interest you, Lucy?”

I stared down at my hands twisting in my lap. “I don’t know.”

“No more I don’t know‘s,” he said. “Yes or no?”

“Maybe! I can’t say! I don’t know what you want to do to me.”

“I’ll do a lot of things to you. I’m only asking you if it’s something you’d like to try.” My mind raced in circles, stimulated by horniness and caffeine. All around us, regular people talked and laughed casually, but my life had changed. I scrabbled for words, my thoughts in a tangle. I lifted my cup to take a slow drink, buying time.

“Is this how you pick up all your partners?” I asked. “You give them this tough little talking to?”

He tapped his fingers on the table impatiently, as if he already owned me and I was already making him mad. “First of all, this is far from tough. And secondly, I haven’t picked up a partner in six years. I had a girlfriend and we recently broke up. I would have thought you knew that from your reading about me.”

“She was your submissive?”

“That’s really none of your business.”

“What happened? Why did she leave you after six years?” He frowned down into his coffee, then looked back up at me with narrowed eyes.

“She didn’t enjoy it. Power exchange. I thought she did. But she did it for me, for my money, I guess.”

“All those years?”

“Yes, Lucy. Now you see why truth thrills me. I’ve lived without it for far too long.” Truth. He talked about it an awful lot.

“If you’re so rich, why don’t you just buy a hooker?”

“Because I don’t want a hooker. I want you.”

“How do you know? You don’t even really know me.”

“I know enough. I know that your body turns me on. I know you’d get off on submitting to me.”

“That’s all you need in a girlfriend?”

“A girlfriend?” He laughed. “Sorry, I don’t want another girlfriend. I just want a submissive to put through her paces. I’m giving you truth here, Lucy. I’m not saying that to hurt you.” So it showed then, the hurt and humiliation I felt at his words. My face burned with it. I felt like I’d just been kicked.

“I want to use your body because I find it beautiful and perfect. I just want to play with you, but I think you’ll enjoy it all the same. And if you want,” he added as an afterthought, “I’ll pay you for your time.”

I made a nauseated face.

“Yes, I thought that’s how you’d feel. Anyway, the pleasure will be payment enough.” My God. My God. My God. My God.

“Okay,” I said. “Here’s some truth for you. I’ve never ed someone I’m not in a relationship with.”

“Oh, we’d be in a relationship. Just a non-tra***ional one. Do you really want another boyfriend? So soon?”

I thought for a minute. God, no. I didn’t.

“And it wouldn’t just be ing, Lucy. Exchanging power is erotically charged, yes, and it can be deeply ***ual, but it’s about much more than just getting off. It will meet needs you didn’t even realize you had. It will meet needs for you and me both. And it would be safe, of course.

Everything we did together would be absolutely safe and consensual.”

“Consensual?”

“Yes, it would have to be. You know what I mean by consensual? You would be there because you want to be. And we would use safe words.”

“Safe words?” No explanation was forthcoming. “What are safe words?” I was a little afraid to find out.

“Safe words are words that keep people like you safe.”

“Safe from what?”

“Safe from people like me.”

He leaned back then, stretching casually, as if we discussed nothing more unusual than the weather. I sat across from him and wrestled with my feelings. Anger, indignation, shame, curiosity, lust. Then his eyes returned to mine and he spoke to me with intensity in his voice.

“You know, I want to own you and I want to use you. I want your obedience and beauty.

But what I really want is for you to find joy in it too.”

“Joy?”

“Yes, joy. And perhaps, at times, a little pain,” he said with a faint smile. “I’m not going to lie to you. There’s a good bit of the sadist in me. There will be times that I’ll purposely hurt you, times that I’ll try to make you cry. There will be ups and downs, and, well, a considerable amount of pain. But somehow I think you’ll enjoy it.”

My God, that I could even be sitting here considering it. But his warnings about pain didn’t frighten me at all. In fact, he was right. The idea was exciting me. What kind of pervert was I?

He must have seen that I was weakening, that even in my fear, my uncertainty, I wanted to say yes.

“We could start slowly,” he said. “I would teach you and guide you. I know right now you’re afraid of the unknown. You barely know me, I realize that. I barely know you. But there are some very elemental desires you and I share. And if we get to know each other better and discover that we don’t suit each other, we’ll be truthful to one another, won’t we? Can you promise me that?”

I thought about six years of deception, the toll it would take on someone’s trust. “Yes, I would be truthful to you,” I said with conviction. “I would always tell you the truth.” His expression deepened as he looked at me. “You have no idea how those words make me feel. Because I believe you, little girl.”

Little girl. He had no idea how those words made me feel, the tingle that raced across my skin. I desperately wanted to be his little girl, his lover, his toy, whatever he wanted me to be.

But he’d warned me I couldn’t be his girlfriend. Would everything else be enough?

“What do you think?” he asked.

“You drive a hard bargain.”

He laughed, an exhalation of nervous energy. “I’m trying. I really am. I suppose this isn’t what you expected.”

“You planned all along to ask me this when you invited me here?”

“I started putting words together the very second I laid eyes on you.” That made me shiver a little. All that time, he’d been thinking of doing these things to me.

“When was that? When you first laid eyes on me?”

He rubbed his forehead and sighed. “It was a while ago.” I just stared into my coffee, overwhelmed by the moment, by the decision. It seemed to me that the next words I chose to say would alter my life in a significant way, whether they were yes or no.

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“I know that I’ve shocked you,” he said. “Why don’t you take some time to think it over?

Really think about what I’ve said, think about what you want to do. Next Saturday night I’ll be sitting right here. If you want to give it a try, take a cab here and meet me. If you don’t, then stay away and I promise I’ll leave you alone.”

I nodded. Yes. I needed time to think. Time to come to terms with the decision I knew I’d eventually make, but wasn’t quite ready to make yet, not out loud.

“But Lucy,” he warned, “if you show up here, I’ll take it to mean that you’re ready to begin.

You’ll need to bring your overnight bag. Do you understand?” I nodded.

“Answer me out loud.”

“Yes, I understand,” I said, blushing hot. “But I can’t get here before 10:45, after the show.”

“Okay then,” he said, nodding. “I’ll meet you here at 10:45. At eleven o’clock, if you haven’t shown up, we’ll understand each other.”

He reached out to me and cradled my face in one of his hands. His fingers felt cool and firm against my flushed skin. He looked right into my eyes. I felt a strange feeling of closeness to him, I suppose because he understood me so well. “Either way, I’ve really enjoyed this hour with you. Tears and all. I think you’re ridiculously beautiful and sweet. Well, maybe not sweet,” he said with a wry smile. “But honest. I appreciate your truthfulness. You have no idea how much.” He released me and I held his gaze, awed and confused. “I’ve never been so truthful to anyone in my life.”

“Neither have I, in quite some time.” He turned away, looking out at the crowd around us. “I hate to ask it, but in these matters discretion is very important. I’d appreciate very much if you wouldn’t share our...truth telling with anyone who doesn’t need to know.”

“I won’t. I wouldn’t,” I promised. “Although my mother told me never to keep secrets for strangers.”

He looked at me very directly. “We aren’t strangers anymore.” He drove me home then, and watched from his car until he saw my light come on. I looked from the window but I didn’t wave. I watched him pull back into traffic and wondered what he was thinking at that moment, because my own thoughts were wild. It was 3:45 when I finally laid down, but sleep wouldn’t come. I fantasized instead of his hands on me doing vulgar things.

My fantasies were vague and salacious, because I had no idea what he would actually do to me.

And yes, I was quite certain that he was going to do something to me. Before we’d even left the coffee house, when he’d helped me from my chair and guided me to the door with his hand pressed to the small of my back, I had known. I had made up my mind. The words were right on the tip of my tongue, the words to plead with him to take me, that I wanted to be his, that I wanted him to use me, that I wanted him to take me right home. That I wanted him to hurt me with his big, strong hands, that I knew I would enjoy it, that I wanted to try. I didn’t tell him though because he’d told me to think it over, and already I was anxious to obey. So I would think it over until Saturday, as he’d asked me to do, and then I’d go to him at the coffee house, and then...

Then what? What would go on between us? How would it feel? Would he hurt me? How much? Would I enjoy it? Would I feel, as he had suggested, joy? Finally, too tired to keep my eyes open, I started to drift into dreams. The strange fantasies subsided, replaced by one single word. Matthew. Matthew. Matthew. Matthew. I was already gone for him, totally gone. I was naively, desperately crushed on Matthew Norris even though he’d told me very bluntly he didn’t want a girlfriend. And I believed he meant it when he said that to me, but I thought that would change. I was sure if I was good enough, I could change his mind.

* * *

Oh, my ing back. It was just ridiculous. I looked up at Pietro toiling away at his canvas and I could tell he was in that zone, that place that he went to sometimes. There was no way I could stop him now, although my muscles ached for relief. What kind of art model would I be, to interrupt him in his moments of genius? A less sore art model, I thought dismally.

I’d sat for him all day Sunday, then on Monday for a few more hours. Now it was Friday night and he’d called me, his voice filled with urgency. “I’m so close to finished,” he’d begged.

“Lucy, please, you must come!”

So here I lay at nearly midnight, aching and twitchy. I let my mind wander, a trick I’d learned from dance. When something was torturous and took excruciating effort, you just let your mind wander away from the pain. You can probably guess the place to which my mind wandered. It wandered to Matthew, who I planned to see the next night.

I was impatient, yes, but a little scared too. Would he be happy with me once he had me in his arms? Would he realize he’d made a big mistake and end things? I had no doubt he would end things abruptly if he wasn’t pleased with me. I would do everything I could to prevent that from happening, but there was only so much I could give, only myself as I was. If he decided I wasn’t good enough...

I daydreamed there on the cold hard floor of a painter’s studio and pictured Matthew sitting somewhere more comfortable thinking about me. Maybe his mind strayed to me during some important developer business meeting, or as he sat in the backseat of his car on the phone while his beefy driver drove him around. That driver, I wondered what was up with him. Maybe he procured drugs for Matthew. Or women. Hookers. I couldn’t imagine someone like him staying continent for long. If he’d broken up with his girlfriend, what had he been doing in the meantime? I would make him wear condoms, wouldn’t let him near me without them, that was certain. There was no way I’d give in on that. Everything else, well...how far would I go for him?

How far would he try to make me go, and what would he do? How much time had he spent since he’d met me, thinking about how he was going to use me, as he’d said? Did he already know what would go on? Had he long ago planned exactly what would occur? Or would he make it up as he went along, based on my reactions?

My reactions. What might those be? I had no idea, because I still had no idea what he would do to me. I’d read books about BDSM. I had a general idea of what people did in the world of dominance and submission, but he’d scoffed and claimed that most of those things didn’t interest him. That all he cared about was using me, making me his own. His own thing. I smiled, remembering when he’d called me a thing of beauty. I’d told him peevishly that I wasn’t a thing.

He was probably thinking even then that he would have the last laugh. He had probably thought to himself, well, Lucy, we’ll see.

Chapter Four: Guidelines

I drifted through the Saturday shows lost in a world of my own. Grégoire knew I was meeting our rich patron for coffee, but I told him nothing else. I had actually planned to tell Grégoire everything, reveal everything we’d talked about that strange night, but in the end, I kept it from him. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Grégoire to keep a secret. If I had asked him to, he would have kept any secret of mine to the grave. Nor was I ashamed to tell him. I shared everything with him, every humiliation and every triumph. In fact, I shared so much with him, I couldn’t quite believe I was keeping something this big to myself. I guess I was afraid he might tell me not to go, that I shouldn’t let him use me, that it wasn’t safe. That something was wrong with me for wanting a relationship like this. All of the things I wouldn’t let myself think. All those things that were probably, unfortunately, true.

So I said goodbye to Grégoire by the stage door and climbed in a cab at 10:40 sharp. I had showered and carefully shaved, and scented and perfumed every inch of my body. I’d painstakingly made myself up to look alluring and ***y. I had applied my very best dark red -me lipstick, and put on jeans and a sweater that hugged my curves. Under my clothes, I had on things I hoped he’d find exciting and beautiful. A black silk thong, a matching black balconette bra. I could have dressed up in more risqué trappings but I had a sense it might upset him, to take that initiative myself.

All too soon, the cab pulled up at the coffee house. I paid the driver with bills rustling in trembling hands. I stood in the cold night air for a couple of minutes outside on the sidewalk, then I just couldn’t bear the anxiety and I went in.

I was ailed right inside the door with the familiar smell of smoke and coffee, the sickly sweet scent of clove cigarettes. I swallowed hard and started the long walk to the back. What if he wasn’t there? What if he was there, watching from some hidden place, laughing with friends as I made a fool of myself returning to report to him? I looked around furtively, embarrassed and agitated. I took in all the happy people talking and laughing with their friends and for one split second of a moment, I almost turned and ran.

But then I neared the table and he was there, and it comforted me greatly that he looked nervous too. He sat rigid and still, looking down...