Black Butterfly (2 page)

Juan leaned over to his boss. “I like her!”

“You haven’t seen her dance,” Xenia said.

“Doesn’t matter. She has a hungry, urban look that will spice up this production. How many times have I told you that these kids you get from the Academy lack flavor? Look at ’em!” Sydney looked over to the line of hopefuls from all walks of life. They all seemed to have the same stance of control, body type, and discipline.

“A trained dancer is what I need,” Xenia said. “You stop taking advantage of our relationship by adding these walk-ins. No more after today. I mean it.”

Juan clucked his tongue. “Honey, please. The last stray I brought in, and you chased away, is headlining up the street on Broadway. My record speaks for itself.”

Just then Juan looked back and spotted Sydney. She blushed, picked up her scarf, and hurried off. She had a better chance than she thought, as long as she could disguise her throbbing foot.

Chapter 2

Something Different

From the thirty-sixth floor, Nolen Adams glared out the window of his office. Nolen had accomplished a lot at twenty-seven. Though the seedy waters he swam through to reach the shore of success had taken its toll.

The investment-banking firm he founded ranked fifth behind Morgan Stanley, and Goldman Sachs. Six years ago when he arrived he found Wall Street polluted with eager to succeed investment bankers, hunched over keyboards with phones pressed to their ears, sleeves rolled up, gambling with an uncertain market. The hustle was no different than the one he learned in the back door casinos and poker rooms at his father’s knee. Banks handle the wealth of everyday people, while investment firms like the one Nolen would eventually build, handled the wealth of companies, high net worth individuals and even small governments. And he’s done it all with no help from good-ole dad.

A sardonic smile curled the left side of Nolen’s face, and reflected off the windowpane before him. At the tender age of six Nolen’s mother had him tested on the suggestion of a family friend. She was told he had an IQ

of 160 possibly 180. From that day forth school became an afterthought. Nolen officially joined the family business—grifting gamblers and unsuspecting retirees out of their pensions and savings. He later learned his father’s IQ ranked closer to 200. When his old man discovered Nolen too had his smarts, he took a special interest in him. Nolen’s talents for understanding numbers and all American boy looks made grifting easy.

They’ll never see you coming kid! The old man would say.

At thirteen everything changed. His father disappeared, presumed dead, and his mother re-married. A man named Heathcliff Adams entered his life. A banker and lover of the stock market. A year under his roof, and Nolen had learned of the legitimate hustle, investment banking. Silver tongue tricks that would help him use his genius to convince the most conservative investor to turn over capital and allow him to gamble with their riches. Of course he stole as much as he brought in, but he had a talent for covering that as well.

A brief run up against the law and in college and Nolen decided to turn over a new leaf. He went legit.

Beat those bastards before they took him down. Still he indulged the thirst for the grift, left behind by his dad’s absence, and craved it like his old man did. Made some dangerous friends along the way. The kind of men who wanted to wash their money clean and needed Nolen’s skills and influence to make it happen. He’d never let dirty business take him under. Nolen had proved the belligerent con man wrong.

Storm clouds moving in across the horizon drew his attention upward. The holiday season had come and gone. Today was February first, a nasty wintry month. Something new on the horizon, stirred in the wind beyond the window glass. He sensed it. Reclining in his desk chair, his lids lowered, and then closed.

“Excuse me, Mr. Adams.” His personal assistant tapped on the frosted-glass door to his office.

“What is it?”

“The car is here to take you to that dance studio.”

He grimaced. “Dance studio?”

“Yes, sir.”

Annemarie showed no surprise at his memory lapse. He could tell by the monotone answer she gave.

“You promised Ms. Minetti that you’d attend her auditions today. She’s looking for investors, remember?”

“What time is my meeting with Scott Harris?” Nolen turned in his chair. He leveled his eyes on the petite brunette that knew more about his life and schedules than any wife could.

“At two, sir.”

A quick glance at his watch, confirmed it was after ten. For the life of him, he couldn’t recall the commitment or why he’d bother honoring it. Then he thought of Xenia, and how exhausting she’d be if he ignored her.

Xenia Minetti owned a ballet studio uptown. In the past four years she had produced only one classical ballet to rave reviews; however, her social standing and connections made her shows the most sought after in the city. A month earlier, Xenia had been his date at a charity event hosted by the mayor. The next day, their names appeared in the society column of the newspaper, citing them as the new “it couple.” The article had the nerve to announce his retirement from bachelorhood. Why his dick and how he chose to use it would be more newsworthy than his twenty-million-dollar investment deal confounded him.

“Inform the driver I’ll be down shortly,” he mumbled.

Annemarie nodded, excusing herself. Resigned to his day’s appointments, he stood, pulled on his black, floor-length trench coat with his cigar still pressed between his lips, and strolled out the door. Maybe he was wrong. The storm brewing wasn’t carrying something fresh in the wind, just the stale odor of the same shit that blew his way every other day.

C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, ignore it, her inner voice whispered. Imposing an iron control over her emotions, Sydney entered the practice studio. The pain in her ankle became unbearable. But she’d be damned if it stopped her now. Instead of caving, Sydney had changed into her black leotard and tights. Her feet and ankles were properly taped around worn over dance shoes. With her heart thundering in her chest, she carefully masked her weakness. Along the way her naiveté had caused her to make some critical mistakes. But it would be different this time.

Practicing her breathing, she stretched at the ballet barre, loosening her muscles and letting go of her anxiety. With a slow, meticulous rotation, she worked her foot and felt the pressure in her ankle ease. Maybe the pain could serve as a distraction from her nerves, giving her something else to focus on. She could only hope.

“Dis is it!” A voice cracked like a whip through the girlish chatter, silencing her thoughts. Everyone turned and Sydney lowered her leg, curious to see who was speaking.

“I am Madame Gustav, and for you ladies de free ride begins and ends heah!” A petite woman stepped out from under the arch of the doorway. Sydney’s only instructions in dance hand come under her mother’s care. She’d never faced a professional instructor before, especially one as rigid and serious as this woman.

“Dey say you’re dancers. I say prove it! Line up!” she ordered.

The girls all fell into a military straight line. Birthed from the Academy, they were disciplined and compliant. Sydney followed their lead, her stomach now twisted into a pretzel knot.

“Nice feet,” a dancer said, snickering at the state of Sydney’s shoes.

Sydney smirked at the lame attempt to intimidate her. It only showed how weak her opponent was.

Besides, her focus was now on winning over this choreographer.

Gustav walked through the room with her hands on her hips. Standing barely five feet tall, she appeared to be very physically fit for a woman her age. She had sculpted arms, a lean body, and finely muscled dancer’s legs that showed beneath the knee length sheer skirt she wore. The choreographer’s hair was a spider’s nest of silver and black streaks pinned to the top of her head. She wore dark red rouge and lipstick. Sydney guessed her to be in her late sixties, fighting desperately to maintain her youth.

She watched the instructor through the reflection in the mirror, careful not to look directly at her. Her heart beat in her throat as she waited, anticipated, and prayed she passed whatever inspection they were now all set to endure.

“Step back!” Gustav commanded of the first girl.

“Step forward!” Gustav said with a nod of approval to the next.

“Step back, step back, step back, step forward!”

The critical tone Gustav used as she approached gnawed at Sydney’s confidence. The coveted front row is always hard to secure. It should be chosen based on skill, not a two-second appraisal from this brutish woman.

Sydney’s jaw tensed and her nostrils flared and she braced herself. Locking her fingers behind her back, she silently prayed that her fears were premature. When Madame Gustav stopped before her, she found the courage to look the woman in the eye.

“Step back!” Madame Gustav ordered.

Her chest fell. How dare Gustav dismiss her without a trial? She wouldn’t stand for it. Not today, not after all the rejections and disappointments, not when if this could be her final shot at her dream. “Excuse me,” Sydney said.

The girls all looked at her. Gustav slowly turned. Her cool gray eyes were flat and unreadable. “Yez?”

“I’d like to ask that I be given a spot in the front. Or, um, maybe try out for it.” Silence filled the room. Sydney could feel a charge in the air at the audacity of her request. Shock and sneers from dancers she didn’t care to know she could handle. What worried her was the flame of anger now glowing in Madame Gustav’s eyes. She had insulted the woman, and it’s too late to retract the error.

“I zee. Zenter stage, no?”

“No, ma’am . . . I mean . . . yes . . . yes, ma’am.”

“Silenze!” Gustav snapped.

Sydney frowned, but held her tongue. Gustav walked around her, looking her over. “How tall?”

“Five feet, six.”

“And jour weight?”

“One hundred thirty-eight pounds.”

She caught the snickering at the mention of her weight, but ignored it. Her bust and hips carried the load, a sure turnoff for many choreographers. If she was a pop singer they’d salivate, but that wasn’t her calling.

Sydney wanted to dance.

Madame Gustav’s eyes dropped, and then lifted to her face. “What size are thoze feet?” And there it was. The dreaded question she had hoped to avoid. Sydney held the old woman’s stare.

“Nine, ma’am.”

More giggles.

“Schweigen!” Madame Gustav commanded silence once again. Sydney felt as if her breath was cut off, impaled by the steady gaze of the woman. Tiny beads of sweat dotted her forehead, betraying her attempt at outward calm.

“I ’ave little time, and even lez patienze. Don’t eva question my instructionz again.” Gustav walked off, barking out the rest of her orders. She then returned her eyes to Sydney. “Zenter Stage, that’s what I shall call you from now on. Heah!” she said, pointing to the front center of the room.

Sydney stepped up. Madame Gustav beat out a routine before their eyes with a grace and agility that many women half her age didn’t possess. It was a routine of lifts on a pointed toe. Quite simple for a disciplined dancer to manage, Sydney hoped.

“Now!” Gustav commanded with an upward sweep of both of her hands. The girls rose on their toes.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight!”

Sydney, as the lead, balanced through a divertissement, a group of short leg lifts and bends usually found in a classical ballet. With Madame Gustav circling the girls, she demanded sucked in diaphragms and precision through each leap. Sydney soon understood why Gustav had chosen this test for the auditioning dancers.

Immediately it separated the weak from the strong.

“Zenter Stage, go!” Gustav ordered. “Up! Up! Turn––now to de right!” Sydney kept going, balancing her way into a pirouette, followed by a jeté—a leap from one leg to the other. Madame Gustav nodded, giving three others a step behind Sydney while making the rest keep up the back. The pain in her foot grew fiery hot and Sydney lost control in a spin twice, which didn’t go unnoticed.

Having drawn Madame Gustav’s wrath, she was now in her scope. Every move had to be precise.

But she floundered again and struggled through her discomfort, forced to push herself harder. The other girls, who had trained for this moment since they were possibly children, took over, spinning with synchronizing agility all around her. They didn’t appear more disciplined; they simply were. She could see them in the mirror, which also reflected her own failings. The harder she tried, the more confused she became.

“Zenter Stage! To de back!” Gustav said, shaking her head in disappointment.

“Madame, I can—”

“De back! Now!”

Crestfallen, she stepped back, then the door to the studio pushed open.

“All right, chicas get tight. Ten minutes and you birds take flight!” Juan sang from the open doorway.

The practice run ended. Sydney dropped her hands to her knees and tried to catch her breath while struggling to hide her pain. Her foot pain remains no match for the wound in her heart. She’d messed up. Damn it, she might have even blown the audition. What else could go wrong now? She bit down on her lip and swallowed the humiliation. She couldn’t even look up at the dancers prancing out.

“Hey, you ok?” Another dancer asked as she came over with a bottle of water.

“I’m fine.” Sydney sniffed and smiled up at the generosity. “Thank you,” she said, accepting the much needed drink.

“I’m Bet, short for Bethel.”

“Hi, Bet. I’m Sydney.”

The young brunette grinned. She reminded Sydney of a gymnast with her petite frame and hair tied up in a ribbon.

“I can’t believe you put yourself out there like that. I mean it’s cool, but, man, it was risky. You don’t want to piss her off. Do you know who she is?”

Sydney swallowed the water in two gulps, eyeing Madame Gustav as she checked off a list with her assistant. The choreographer cut her eyes up at Sydney with a hint of disapproval.

“Doesn’t matter now. I blew it,” Sydney said, putting the cap back on the deflated bottle.