The Fated Dance: Bound to the Shadow Dancer (4 page)

“And how can you trust anyone when you work in a place like that,” he sighs. “Okay, let’s discuss the reason you’re here.” He inhales a large amount of air as a pink color rushes over his cheeks. “I would like you to dance for me,” he says fast with his gaze set solid on me.

My eyes grow to full range. “At the hotel?”

“No… here.”

My lungs quiver, unable to draw a full breath. “And you cannot come to see me at Venus for that?”

His nostrils flare as he lowers his head. Does he want me all to himself? Is this just a way of luring me in? With good food, and for once in my life decent male company, which is now clearly all just some façade he’s playing out.

“Jen, I’m not the average man,” he gulps. “I don’t want to watch you for that.”

“Then why?”

Jeez. I’ve never been so mixed up in a man’s company. My ex, Rory, was an utter mind mess (due to his weed habit). Grayson Crane however, is proving to be a conundrum of huge proportion. Do I want to solve him? I’m unsure.

He pushes out his chair, stands, and moves over me. I peer up, when really I should be running out of that door. There is something that’s making me want to stay. He’s compelling me somehow, and I can’t fight it.

“Please, come with me,” he holds his hand out.

I lock my eyelids tight. My subconscious is telling me to use my experience working with low-life, to spot the dangers. But my heart tells me there is more to this man than meets the eye. He doesn’t want to hurt me. He needs this, and badly. And I, well shamefully, I need the money.

I stand up, without taking his hand. Human touch in my line of work is forbidden, for me anyways.

He approaches a beech wooden door beside his DVD collection. I freeze on the spot and involuntarily gasp out, fearing he is about to show me his bedroom. He opens the door and turns to look over his shoulder.

“Jen, I’m only asking you to look.”

I bite down my teeth and close my eyes. Then nervously, one slow step at a time, I walk through the doorway.

First, I see myself in a wall of mirrors that has a dance bar all the way across. The large room has a deep red color on the walls, with stenciled black butterflies in swirls of gold. And the flooring is professional, wooden, and sprung. This is unbelievable, and extremely strange. I amble in further, toward an odd looking chair against the wall. It reminds me of a royal throne: black and elaborately carved, with a damask cushion covering. The arms of the chair twirl and end with an ornamental scroll.

I wonder if he’s a dancer. Why on earth would he have a room like this in such a nice house? He must be.

I frown. “You dance?” I watch his immobile reflection as he stands in silence by the door.

His jaw pulsates and his eyes focus on me in the mirror only. He’s not answering my question, just gazing shrewdly. I huff and walk toward the horizontal dance bar. It’s been so long since I warmed up using one. Now, I’m used to a sticky vertical metal pole that men get their kicks from. I run my hand over the varnished pine and smile.
Oh wow
. How can an inanimate object such as this, cause this wild fire in my belly?

“The room is yours… you can use it as you wish,” he says. “All I ask is, you dance for me on Fridays and Saturdays.”

Oh god
. This is beyond bizarre. This room is my dream room. And if it were in a real dance studio or gym, then it wouldn’t bother me at all. But this is Grayson Crane’s house for crying out loud.

“You dance then?” I glare.

“Unfortunately not.”

“Then why this room?”

He tilts his neck and looks at me from under his brow. “The truth is, I love dance… and I like watching privately.”

One-on-one dance; that is exactly what the rooms in Venus are for. The rooms I have a strong aversion to. This must be what he wants. I do this for a living, and he just breezes into Venus, and plucks out some random girl to please him under his own roof. Well, that’s not me. Now that tiny bit of regard I did have for him has gone completely, and my self-respect once more has hit an all-time low.

I drop my head with a sigh. I’m such a dork for coming here. He must think I’m easy and dumb. Jeez, maybe I shouldn’t blame him; look at the circumstances we met. He probably thought I would go for this with no questions asked.

“Look, I must have given you the wrong impression,” I say, reluctantly moving closer to him so I can get away. “I really need to get back home, to my sister… she’s expecting me.”

My view shies away as I go to pass by him, but he gently takes my wrist to stop me. His touch on me isn’t aggressive like I’m used to. It’s fraught and soft. He really needs this, and I’m beginning to feel bad for him. I breathe in and peer up. His eyes are hopeless, and I’m teetering on the edge of agreeing because I can’t take his grave expression.

“I’m sorry,” he releases his grip and moves back in shame.

I take a few seconds, watching as he leans his athletic body against the wall with his head down.

“There are other girls that will gladly do this for you, Grayson,” I say, faintly.

If he needs this so bad, I’ll ask Tina or Sara. I’m sure they’ll be here in a flash knowing who it’s for. I guess I owe him that much. I did come here stupidly with the wrong idea about this. He’s got his hopes up that I’d agree to be his private dancer.

“Would you like me to find someone for you?” I ask.

He hoists his obliging eyes. “Thank you, but no,” he exhales. “Would you at least consider the offer, and let me drive you home.”

I should be gone already. I know I shouldn’t encourage him, but he’s been so polite toward me.

“Okay,” I murmur with a gulp.

I speed into the garage and skid to a standstill, narrowly missing the drywall. I get out and slam the door, hard. I’m an asshole. I made a damn mess of that. I bet she thinks I’ve got psychological issues on the highest level. I’m a fool for thinking she’d agree. It was the room that did it, bashed that final nail down in the coffin. That wretched optimism has screwed up my head. I guess Henry is right, I really have now lost the plot.

I curl my fingers into my hands tightly. I would hit myself, but for now my black Range Rover will feel the brunt of my fury. I punch and punch, and those exact emotions I felt when I received the dreaded news, flood within me. Why is it so damn hard to achieve happiness when you’re being followed around by the fuckin reaper?

Blood gushes from the tiny cuts that my anger has inflicted on my knuckles. But I carry on, and now I’ve managed to put the driver’s side window through. I wince and grunt, slamming my head down on the roof before sliding down to the floor in a heap.

Men don’t cry do they? I’ve not once cried all the way through this goddamn illness. But now, I’m so furious with myself my eyes sting with rage. Why the hell did I ask her to dance? I could have offered her employment doing anything. All because of that night all those years ago. I’m so self-absorbed. I want that feeling I had at eighteen again, and I’ve lost my mind trying to get it.

I’ve now come to the conclusion she is so much more than a dancer in some strip club. She has tragedy in her eyes, and because I’ve been blinded by what I need to feel, I didn’t consider her. To her, I’m simply a dirty perverted asshole. A rich asshole.

I laugh to myself. Shit, this has to be rock bottom for me. I am the embodiment of despair. Henry would have a fit if he saw me now.
‘No time for feeling sorry for yourself. Pick up your bottom lip and brush yourself off,’
he’d say to me.

I slide my head up the door to study the damage I’ve wreaked upon my new car, then I glance down at my shredded hands. I nod and heave myself up to my feet before my watery blood pools further on the shattered glass. I scoop up some hand-towel from Henry’s workbench, and wrap it around my wounds. I can fix the car, but my hands won’t be so easy to hide. Should I care what others think? No. The whole point of needing her and refusing treatment again, is because I don’t want pity, more pain, fuss, or false hope. I just want to live and die the way I choose. I guess for someone as screwed up as myself, that’s impossible.  

Well, that car has to be one of the lushest things I’ve ever sat in. Sure beats Dad’s old clapped-out Volvo. The journey however, well, how do you describe silence. He was very courteous when we did pull over. Didn’t attempt to touch me, or talk me around. Simply smiled and said goodbye. So I did the polite thing, and offered him a brief wave as I watched the car disappear from sight. It was the last time I’d see Grayson Crane. I’m not disappointed for me, more for him. However, now I need to put that whole weird encounter behind me, and get back to the real world.

I turn my key in the lock and I push, but for some reason it’s been dead-bolted from the inside.
I swear, if she’s up to no good in there, I’ll kill her
.

I pound my fist on the door yelling. She knows the rules. No one is allowed through this door without my say so.

“Flick, open the damn door,” I yell through the letterbox.

A light comes through the net hung over the glass panel. Flick unlocks the door and pops her head out as though she’s just got out of bed. She can’t pull the wool over my eyes. Does she actually think I was born yesterday? Not once has she ever put the dead-bolt on the door. She doesn’t even care about security. It’s my job to check the house every night. Boring routine tasks like that don’t interest her.

I push by her and go in search of any little perverts hiding out. Out of breath, I thunder into the kitchen, and immediately spot that the backdoor is unlocked. Whoever she’s had in here has long gone now.

I scowl at her and sniff, picking up a strong worrying odor. I’ve smelt it before, and I know what it is straightaway. And she’s been doing it in our house. She’s invited god knows who in here, and has been smoking pot. I grit my teeth and glare.

“Who’s been here Flick,” I yell. “That little shit, Jimmy?”

She rolls her dopey eyes at me and turns to walk away. I race after her and grab her arm. She clumsily spins to me, all mellow with dilated pupils.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me!” I squeeze her wrist. “You’re going to explain just what the hell you think you’re doing. Firstly, inviting that scum-ball in here, and secondly smoking that crap,” I shout. “Are you out of your damn mind?”

She pushes my arm away. “Jen… screw you.” She staggers to the bannister rail.

Again I race over and take her arm. “You ungrateful bitch,” I yell. “I work my ass off for you.”

She sniggers, “That’s true.”

“What are you trying to do to me?” I fight to keep the tears inside and remain firm. “What would Dad say?”

She offers me a sarcastic grin, “Dad’s not here is he?” She yanks her arm back and climbs the stairs.

I really don’t know how much more of this I can take
.

I make my way into the kitchen and notice the cupboard door where I keep my money is ajar. I shut my eyes and open, praying it’s still in there. Rising up on my toes, I reach high to retrieve my tin. The lid is loose, and right now my heart is pounding with unease. I quickly pull off the lid and look inside, to find it completely empty, apart from a one dollar bill.

I slam down the tin, arch over the worktop, and gasp for air as my tears begin to fall liberally. That money was the only thing that was going to pull us out of this shitty mess.

With my heart rate skyrocketing and my breathing repressed, I swoop up the tin in a hot fluster and march to the stairs.

I fling open her bedroom door. She’s sitting on her purple quilt with her earphones in and eyes closed. I storm across to her and rip the wire from her head. With a jolt she bounces upright. I show her the tin and angrily pull out the one dollar bill.

“Is this going to keep a roof over our heads?” I bark. “Is this going to feed us and keep us warm?” I toss the note in her face, fighting for breath.

“Jen… I haven’t touched that money.” Suddenly she’s competent in pleading her innocence. “Jen.” She swings her legs from the bed as I pace the width of her room.

“And I should believe you… why?”

“Jen… I swear I didn’t touch it,” she appeals.

“Well, we both know who did then don’t we?” I scream at her.

“Jen,” she chokes. “I…I.”

“Oh Flick, do you know what,” I snap. “Save it… I’m done with the lies. And I’m done with your need to make out I’m the bad one for keeping this shit together,” I shout. “I’m done trying.” I charge out onto the landing and slam her door.

                                                ***

I’ve been awake all night, tossing and turning on my squeaky bed before the window. I purposely left the curtains open, knowing I wouldn’t sleep. I needed something to take my mind off this hell I’m in, and the night sky was my main focus. I’ve watched the hazy clouds floating fast across the stars, and the crescent moon move from one end of my window to the other. And now, the pink and orange hue of the morning sunrise flooding throughout my room.

I make my way into our tiny damp bathroom, and grab the wrench which acts has a makeshift lever in the shower. A twist too far and the pipes in the entire house judder loudly. And not far enough, and the water is freezing. I’m kind of an expert at it now, and I hit the sweet spot the first time.

After spending a lengthy amount of time under the trickling water, I emerge from the bathroom, wrapping a towel around my head. Flick comes out of her room and her eyes drop immediately.

“Morning,” she whispers.

I go directly into my bedroom. I cannot speak to her. She’s pushed things too far this time, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive her for this.

I get dressed into my blue ripped jeans and cream vest. Today is my day off. Though, I might call Phil; I need as much work as possible now.

I make my way downstairs to find the lounge has been cleaned and tidied. The beer bottles that were on the coffee table have all gone, and the scatter cushions on the green sofa have been arranged. I smirk, noticing that even the dust coated television has received polished. The place smells fresh and floral. I close my eyes and sigh. I think my darling Sister is trying to sweeten me up. But it’s not going to work.

As I push open the door to the kitchen, I hear sizzling and inhale the smell of pancakes and bacon. Flick stands before the rusty stove in her pajamas, shaking a pan over the hob. God, I’m surprised she hasn’t blown the place up. She never cooks. I can’t recall ever seeing her near that hob.

She lingers with her back to me as I pull a carton of fresh orange out from the fridge, then pour myself a glass.

“I’ve made breakfast,” she says cautiously, placing a burnt pancake on a plate.

I blow out as she holds the plate in my face. I’m not going to take it. We are way beyond peace offerings now.

I slope right by her, staying silent. If I open my mouth all hell will break loose, and I’m really in no mood to be having a slanging match with her. So, I sit down at the table. But as soon as my butt hits the red plastic chair, the plate is plonked in front of me again. I slide it away and take another sip of my juice. She shoves her effort at breakfast my way once more, and I hear the irritation in her breath because I refuse to take it.

“Jen, breakfast.”

That’s it. I can’t keep my mouth shut any longer. She clearly wants to make things worse for herself.

“I tell you what, as soon as pancakes make everything better,” I sneer. “Why don’t you take some to the bank and pay the mortgage off with them, eh?”

Like a shot, she takes the plate from the table and tosses it into the sink. Of course I was expecting her to blow. And I knew all too well that keeping my mouth closed at this present time was the way to go. But hell, she has no idea of the severity of what she’s done.

“I told you it wasn’t me, Jen,” she barks.

“But you are responsible.” I hum in anger. “I mean, why else would you be trying to suck up right now.”

“Do you know what?” She scoops up her dressing gown from the back of the chair next to me. “I shouldn’t have bothered.” She storms through the door.

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

The sun shines through the window beside me, warming my arm. I finish my juice and rest my head against my hand, staring vacantly at the mess she’s left me to deal with. I suppose this kitchen resembles our relationship right now. She causes the chaos, and I run around trying to make things right.

My eyes fall onto my handbag. I reach over and pull it toward me. There’s something in there that may possibly make things a hell of a lot easier, if I could just swallow my damn pride. I dig into the small zip section and take out the card. I place it on the table and begin to feel sick, staring down at his name: Grayson Crane.