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This man’s touch always lingers a little too long. He skates the line between appropriate andinappropriatewithout ever actually crossing it. But it leaves an ugly feeling in my gut all the same.
“How are you feeling tonight? How’s the foot?” His voice is smooth and calm, and it hides the anger that lies just beneath the surface. When my pas-de-deux partner dropped me this morning during practice, that anger was right there, bubbling over, and it was directed solely at me.
“It’s fine,” I answer quickly. I’ve learned short and sweet are the best ways to handle any conversations with Jenkins because he doesn’t actually care about your answer, so long as it’s the one he wants to hear.
“I expect you to rest that foot this week, Miss Sinclair. You’ve been distracted these past few weeks. You can’t afford distractions.” His eyes travel over me, and I force myself not to flinch. “I expect once you’re rested, you’ll be able to give me the 100 percent I demand of all my dancers. You’ve been lacking lately.” He lifts a brow, and I school my features to hide my shock.
“Yes, sir. One hundred percent, sir.”
“Hundreds of dancers would give anything to be in the position you’re in, Grace.”
My nerves threaten to revolt at the use of my first name. He never calls me Grace. It’s always Miss Sinclair. “Yes, sir. I’m aware.”
A finger trails along my neck, and I shiver. Judging by Jenkins’s smile, he thinks that’s a good reaction.
It’s not.
I’ve heard rumors of him dating his ballerinas, if dating is what it can really be called, but he’s never indicated he expected that from me.
“I’d hate to have to consider one of the other girls for the part I’ve got earmarked for you.”
“Gracie...” Lennon calls out as she walks into the dressing room. “Hey.” She looks between Jenkins and me. “Charles is looking for you.”
I blow out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and stand from my chair. “Thanks, Lennon. I’ll be right there.”
Jenkins takes a step back as I move around him. “Looks like we’ve got a show to do.”
“Remember what I said, Miss Sinclair.”
I nod and walk away.
How could I forget?
The life of a ballerina always looked so glamorous to me.
The beautiful costumes.
The stunning sets.
The perfection the dancers produced with their bodies. The way the graceful arc of their arm could bring tears to my eyes, orthe perfect lift could make me hold my breath, watching the pair in perfect sync.
As a little girl, I loved everything about it.
As I grew up, I loved that I was good at it. That it gave me a path to follow.
Now as an adult, I stand here on this stage with a beautiful bouquet of long-stemmed red roses in my arms and an entire theater on their feet for a standing ovation, and I don’t feel anything. I’m numb.
I’ve lost my true north.
Mom used to say it was that spot you find to focus on in every studio, on every stage.
Your constant. Your balance. Your anchor as you’re whipping out countless flawless pirouettes. You spin your head quickly and focus on your spot with each new revolution, so you don’t lose your balance and fall.
But . . . I’ve lost my balance.
I’m still going through the motions, but... everythingjust is.And the overwhelming relief that this performance is over gives new life to my lungs and carries much-needed oxygen through my blood.
I need to get out of here.
