A Winter's Date (5 page)

I make my way to my seat as the lights are going down on the audience, hiding us from the dancers’ view. My cheek stings, but I try not to pay attention as I finally reach Coen and take my seat. Our seats are only four rows from the orchestra pit, so I can watch Heather perform her impeccably choreographed solo meticulously.

I’m watching the dark, veiled wings on the side of the stage where I know she’ll be. I’m anxious as all hell to see her again, especially after my recent encounter with the bitch. Then the curtains are drawn open across the dim stage, and she stands in position as the spotlight hits her. When the music starts to play, her gorgeous, angelic body starts to move and rotate in faultless turns in front of everyone. The white spotlight holds tight on her glittered body, which holds her audience captive.

Her choreography is slow and precise, and she’s executing it flawlessly.

She has everyone enthralled.

I’m so proud of this woman that I can’t begin to explain it. She’s such a gifted performer; there’s no wonder why she’s incredibly sought after. Minutes go by when her solo scene comes to an end and she disappears behind the curtain, and a throng of ballerinas floods the stage. I’m trying my hardest to stay seated; I want to go back there and find her and tell her how magnificent she was. I look over to my right and see Coen searching the stage for Dillen. He seems confused as he leans over.

“Dude, they all fucking look alike. I can’t find her,” he murmurs.

The dipshit has never been so into a girl before that I’m almost proud of him. Dillen moves up front, and I nudge him. “She’s the one in the middle—focus, man.”

He leans forward, smiling like a drunken idiot when he spots her. “Damn . . .”

I chuckle silently, and I’m about to fuck with his head when Heather moves back onto the stage, and I’m sideswiped by her beauty. She stands in the center of the stage and starts to rotate, her gorgeous body in sync with the music. I’d lose my breakfast if I had to spin like that. I have no idea how she does it.

We all get addicted to something that relieves the pain, and she’s my opiate. She’s perpetually graceful: it’s engrained into who she is, and she does something to me every time I see her. I know I’m grinning from ear to ear as I watch her show London what she can do. There are so many ballerinas on stage that it’s almost hard to decipher who’s who; I understand Coen’s confusion. But I know where my baby is, front and center. Everyone is in formation, where they’re supposed to be, but something catches my eye. I’m not sure how I noticed it, but someone seems to step out of place. I sit up straight as Heather moves closer toward the crowd. Something in my gut is telling me this is wrong. The other ballerinas are dancing all around her in perfect chaos, and then it happens again: that same ballerina steps out of place, moving eerily close to Heather.

I watch intently as Heather slows her turns, and she’s about to come to a stop when life switches into a blurry slow-motion picture. The ballerina that kept moving out of place hip-checks Heather, and although anger floods me, I expect Heather to catch herself, but the amount of energy, momentum, and force in the impact must have been too much because she’s propelled forward at such a speed that she’s unable to find her balance.

Even though it looked like the other ballerina regained her balance, she falls backwards before crashing onto the solid black stage. I cannot move my eyes away from Heather as her body swings in the balance between life and death. Gravity takes control of her agile body and pulls her efficaciously over the edge of the stage. Her fate is no longer in her hands nor is it in mine as the incident happens too rapidly for me to wholly comprehend what has happened. In the intense silence I hear a distressed scream fill the theater, and it tears through me like a shard of glass. The scream that made my blood run cold comes to an abrupt stop when her body falls out of view and then there is a boisterous sound and her body crashes into instruments, which brings the music to an unexpected halt.

Holy shit.

My body goes rigid and sets itself into motion at the same time. That scream ignites something within me, making adrenaline surge through my veins at vicious speeds. My eyes look back to the stage as my body automatically gets me onto my feet. Coen curses in the silence of the theatre, saying the words that I am unable to form. My fists clench with blanched knuckles when I see that Alexis is the fallen ballerina, a vindictive leer plastered on her face. I feel Coen move next to me, but I’m faster than he is. I leap between the seats in front of me as people stand up and gasp at the dramatic scene unraveling in front of them. The room is noiseless except for the sounds of hysteria and disbelief coming from the audience members’ mouths.

I can’t get to her fast enough.

“Move!” I yell out to an asshole that won’t let me by. I shove him aside, not giving a damn who he is, or if I’ve hurt him in the process. I struggle desperately to maneuver through the people and jump over the next two rows, before I haul myself over the wall separating the orchestra pit from the gaping crowd.

As soon as I see her, my body stills; the air around me is unstirred and my own breathing seems to die as my heart slams against my ribs. My stomach lurches as I let the scene in front of me sink into my line of vision as a faint metallic scent fills the air. My beautiful girl is lying unconscious on the cold concrete floor. I find my feet again and rush to her side, where I drop down to my knees next to her broken frame as the musicians try desperately to pick up their instruments. My voice reverberates in my own ears as I yell out for someone to help . . . to do anything. I take in her features, trying to assess her limp body. Her face is soft, yet her complexion is off by the amount of makeup covering her face, making it impossible for me to truly see her. My eyes move over her again, noticing her arms, which are strewn aside carelessly, seemingly irreparable.

The grip of silent panic consumes me and my vision blurs as I looking around helplessly for someone—anyone—to help her. I can hear my heart pounding wildly in my ears as the tangible knot in the pit of my stomach grows.

Her color is unlike her own as she lies in a rapidly expanding pool of blood. I cannot tell where the blood is originating from, nor can I apply pressure to a wound that I cannot find. She has a few gashes along her arms, but not enough to make up for the vast amount spilling onto the concrete. I glance down her body and to her mangled legs where the deep red gore advances further.

“Baby?” My voice is hoarse, and I don’t recognize it. “Heather, can you hear me?”

She doesn’t respond in the slightest as I move closer to her. Her eyes that were dancing with joy moments ago are now closed, and her body lies in front of me as if it’s vacant of a soul.

A few men in dark designer suits rush over, one of them already on the phone with whom I can only assume are the medics. “Sir, I need you to step back from her please. We can’t move her before we fully understand how the fall has affected her.”

“Fuck off, man. I’m not leaving her.”

I hear Dillen yell out from the stage, “Mr. Norwich, he’s the only family she has here.”

He looks down at me and nods before looking back at Heather.

“Heather? You’re going to be okay,” I say, moving my hand to her throat, feeling a faint, but steady pulse under my fingers.

Please be okay.

There’s an obscene amount of blood; it’s pooling around her head and underneath her pallid body. I’m terrified to move her, but I’m about to scoop her into my arms and carry her to the hospital because the damn medics are taking too long. Rage, adrenaline, and panic join forces to flow through me as I shout at nobody in particular, “Where in the fuck are they?”

“They will be here shortly. I’m going to need you to stay calm for her sake,” Mr. Norwich says, before turning and speaking to someone behind us, “Clear the stage, and call for a cleanup crew for this mess. The show must go on once we’ve gotten her out of here safely. We dance when we’re broken, so somebody please inform the understudy to be waiting in the wings.”

Are you fucking kidding me?

I look upward toward the stage where Dillen stands, her hands cupping her mouth and black tears raining down from her wide eyes.

A few feet over, a distorted view of Alexis comes into my vision, and she doesn’t look remorseful in the slightest. She has a smug, triumphant grin on her face, and right then, I know that this stunt was intentional. She hurt my girl because of me, because I refused to give her what she wanted.

I want nothing more than to pull my body up onto the stage and confront her. I don’t even want Dillen that close to this selfish bitch.

“Dillen, go find Coen.”

She hesitates and stares down at her best friend, my girl. “Go!” I command her and this time she listens just as the medics run in with their equipment and stretcher.

I watch, horrified, as the medics assess her and gently move her from the solid concrete onto the board; thankfully they’re quick, because within a minute they have Heather strapped down securely before they attempt to move her onto the stretcher. The pool of blood that was underneath her is massive. The amount of blood loss she’s suffered seems to frighten the medics: I am able see it on their faces when they look at each other. They know something but aren’t telling me shit. They maneuver the stretcher carefully through the crowded orchestra pit when I get up and follow them as they move through the dark hallways backstage. One of the medics calls out over his shoulder, “I need a list of medications she is on, as well as any allergies she might have.”

The question catches me off guard. “I don’t know and I’m the only one she has here,” I spit out quickly, keeping up with them as we move through the hallways and out into the mild April air.

He doesn’t say anything to me, but they quickly get her into the ambulance. When they are good to go, they instruct me to get in and seated. Once inside, the medic who is seated in the back with me reaches over and slams the door shut as the ambulance sirens start blaring and we take off into the streets of London. My eyes are on her, silently pleading for this to be an atrocious but mere projection of an unimaginable nightmare.

NOAH

The ER is chaotic.

The air feels stuffy with an undertone of sanitizer wafting through the dustless corridors, as the nurses try to appear unhurried and serene—they are anything but. There are doctors and nurses everywhere, poking and prodding her, and inserting an IV into her delicate skin. The nurses are supposed to be calming, right? Well, they fucking aren’t. Everyone’s causing a commotion and yelling out words I’ve only heard on television while my girl is lying motionless on this table, causing me to feel dead inside.

I can’t function; I cannot even manage to replay the scene that unfolded in front of my eyes moments ago. Beside me, there’s a woman firing off questions: “What is her full name? What is her date of birth? Is she allergic to anything? Is she taking any medications?”

Fuck! Would she just shut up?

My fucking life is lying lifeless in front of me. The love of my life, my ballerina, is inert and unresponsive, and she’s worried about that shit? I can no longer feel the spark that hummed gloriously between us.

She’s bleeding.

Unconscious.

Ruined.

My chest is aching; I can’t believe this is happening. I want to bellow and tell everyone to get the hell off of her but at the same time, I want to yell and tell them they aren’t doing enough to help her. I finally hear the woman beside me again, as she ardently shoves herself into my unwilling thoughts.

“Sir? Sir? Does she have insurance? What is her United States Social Security number? What’s your relationship to her?”

I’m shaking my head to clear it, rubbing my hands over my face to try to be as much help as I possibly can, but her clipped tone is not aiding me.

“I’m sorry, what?” I reply as calmly as I can.

Abruptly I’m being forced from the room as they pull the curtain closed and close the door, shutting me out of the operating room they wheeled my broken ballerina into. “Hey! What’s happening?” I demand.