11. Cameron

CHAPTER 11

CAMERON

Dom leaves the bathroom with a towel tied around his waist, his sodden pants still in the bottom of the shower.

That escalated quickly.

I just wanted a kiss. Something short and sweet and simple. It's stupid, but I thought it would help me put this behind us. I thought maybe it would tie up the growing attraction between us with a nice little bow, so we could say we did it and move on. Or maybe I thought it would be awkward or unsatisfying, that I wouldn't want him enough if I had a taste of reality. I thought I was thinking clearly, although my reasons make little sense to me now. Hindsight is twenty/twenty and all that. Because I was wrong.

So wrong. Monumentally wrong.

It took less than a second for me to realize just how wrong I was. He kissed me like he'd die if he didn't have me, like he could consume me in one bite. And before I knew it, I was on my back and so close to begging him to fuck me, I almost cried. Instead, I apologized, because that really wasn't what I planned. Not that I wanted it to stop.

Now I've come all over myself twice in one morning and my lips are so swollen and raw that I'm afraid to leave the studio for fear of being found out. Of course, no one would ever suspect that it was Dom who wrecked me so thoroughly.

After putting myself together and dressing in some dance tights and a tank top, I head out onto the studio floor. I stand in a beam of sunlight pouring in from the huge windows and let the warmth soak into my bones. There's still a slight lingering headache from last night, and my muscles are sore from not stretching or working out after a strenuous day yesterday.

I spread my yoga mat out in the sun and leisurely work through my yoga routine, holding each pose for longer than usual. The tension melts from my body, my limbs loosen, and head clears enough to think more clearly.

Now that I've experienced what it's like to kiss Dom, to be consumed by him, I don't know that I can walk away. I don't want to pretend it's not happening, because whatever is happening is something different. It’s something more than anything I've ever experienced before, but I don't know what to do about it.

Can I risk the bond that's grown between us to chase what might be a fleeting feeling? What would my mother and stepfather say? Would they chalk it up to my past destructive behavior and decide I'm not worth the effort anymore? Or would they blame Dom and make me the victim of an older man's advances? It wouldn't be the first time my damaged heart did something stupid for the attention of a man that would ultimately hurt me.

Will Dom hurt me? Does he even have a chance not to?

My eyes fall on the blue box he gave me last night at the ballet. He must have left the gift in here for me to find and use at my leisure. I open the box, unfolding the tissue to reveal the pristine satin pointe shoes. Underneath them are ribbons, elastic, needle and thread, a small pair of scissors, and a lighter. Dom either did his research, or the person who sold him the shoes was very thorough and made sure he knew what was needed for a first pair of new pointe shoes.

I've seen and helped countless peers prepare a new pair of shoes, so the process isn't foreign to me. It's exciting and weirdly soothing to be preparing my own pair. Once I've bent and broken them enough to be somewhat flexible, I sit back to put my foot inside the shoe. My heart beats frantically with excitement as I lace them up, bending and arching my foot to feel them out. I start by walking around in them flat-footed before standing at the barre and moving through basic positions. Once I'm feeling a bit more comfortable with the shape and feel of the shoes, I test standing on my toes. I know it isn't as easy as it looks, and that's considering that it doesn't look easy at all. I'm careful to balance my weight carefully and move slowly.

Finally, I work up to standing completely en pointe, building confidence until I'm able to do each position completely on my toes. I hold fifth position, one foot placed in front of the other, and lengthen my spine, extending my arms upwards. I stare at myself in the mirror, and I feel every bit as strong and graceful and capable as Dom says I am.

Maybe I can do this.

Slowly and carefully, I attempt a few basic steps of the dance I've been working on. The one I do for him at night. The one I started because I needed an outlet to pour all of this confused emotion and energy into. The pointe shoes give the routine something it didn't have before, even if I'm not perfectly steady on them just yet. I know in my bones they'll be perfect for my vision of the dance. Just wearing them makes me feel different—like magic sunglasses.

When I was little, my mother wore a pair of huge sunglasses that covered most of her face. She told me they were her armor, that when she was scared, she could put on her sunglasses and pretend no one else could see her. She gave me a pair to wear to school when I first started kindergarten. I hid behind them until the day one of my classmates wore a tutu to class and showed us what she'd learned at her first ballet class.

These shoes are my magic sunglasses, only with a less tragic backstory.

It took me several years to understand that she was hiding behind them, so no one could see the bruises or the sadness that pulled at her constantly. Sometimes I witnessed him put her down, make jokes or passive remarks about her housekeeping or how I was turning out. But my father never hit her in front of me until I was eleven years old. For the most part, he ignored me. I spent most of my childhood trying to get his attention when he was home from leave. He acted like I didn't exist, because, in his words, "No son of his would be a sissy." Then the day came that he found out mom was letting me take dance classes at the local community center while he was overseas. He tore me out of that class so fast I had whiplash. Then he backhanded my mom across the face right there in the parking lot where anyone could see. Only there was no one around to help us.

I tried every sport our little town rec center offered, but I was terrible at all of them. I'd end up injured, or with my face shoved in the dirt. After it seemed I'd never stop coming home bloody, my mother managed to talk him into letting me try non-team sports. Swimming ended up being a good compromise, because my aunt could take me to and from practice and meets since my older cousin Antoni was on the swim team. And it just so happened the community pool was in the same building as the theater, where my aunt would mysteriously push me in the opposite direction while she followed Antoni to the pool. Before we left each evening, I'd jump into the pool so I could make sure to arrive home smelling like chlorine whenever we knew my father would be home.

"If only you could see me now, dad," I say to the mirror, examining my pose before pushing into a slow attempt at pirouette.

" Merde , what would he say, indeed?"

Emile's voice catches me off guard, and I stumble ungracefully. I stare at him for a moment, surprised to find him in my space. Then I look pointedly away and resume my correct positioning.

"I don't actually care," I say flippantly, lifting my chin defiantly. "He was an asshole." I spare him a glance in the mirror that says I don't think much better of him.

"Oh, come mon cheri , don't be cross with me."

I spin to look at him, fisting my hands at my waist to avoid throwing them in his pompous face.

"What happened last night?"

"Ah," he says, flicking a hand dismissively. "You were very drunk and embarrassing the entire company. I am surprised you are upright even this late in the morning. Your mamá told me you were most likely here. Why did you not tell me you had your own studio?"

"So you were there," I say, ignoring his question and getting back to the point. I have a vague memory of him in the hallway where I fell.

"Of course I was there. It was I who made sure you got home safely."

"By dumping me outside? Alone? Where were you? Why weren’t you with me until I was picked up?”

"I couldn't very well leave my own party to tend to your poor choices, could I? I trusted the doorman to handle getting you safely to your uncle." The disapproving way he looks down at me makes me feel small.

Even though I know I didn't technically do anything wrong, I could have prevented it from happening in the first place. It's not like I don't know firsthand that you shouldn't drink something that's just handed to you. If I hadn't lost my temper and chugged half of the drink I didn't want in the first place, it wouldn't have mattered if the drink was roofied.

A thought occurs to me that overshadows his disapproval. "Did anyone else get sick?"

"Did anyone else get falling down drunk, you mean? No. You were the only one."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. What kind of question is this?"

I get some semblance of relief. At least that means whoever the roofie was initially intended for was hopefully safe. It could have been one of the female members of the company instead of me, and much worse could have happened. Hell, in hindsight, much worse could have happened to me than waking up with a slight headache and Dom's boner in my face. A guilty flush creeps up my neck, but I push it down and focus on the issue at hand.

"I didn't even finish half of one drink. I think someone slipped me a roofie."

"You think someone drugged you?" he asks incredulously.

"It was probably intended for someone else," I amend, weirdly offended that he doesn't think I'd be worth the effort. I shake off the thought and look pointedly at Emile. "Someone could have been assaulted. You're very sure no one else was acting out of sorts or left the party with a stranger?" I can't imagine a member of the company drugging one of their peers. They might be assholes, but they aren't that kind of assholes.

"I am sure," Emile placates, but I get the feeling he still doesn't believe me.

"Dom is taking me to the hospital to be tested for drugs in my system. Then we'll alert the authorities and the bar manager so they are aware of the situation."

He looks taken aback. "I am not sure that's necessary, Cameron. No one was hurt."

"Someone could have been very badly hurt. And I wouldn't say that I'm unscathed, Emile. I woke up in a strange place, in strange clothes, only to be told that I was found passed out, covered in vomit, in an alley. Dumped outside like trash. My clothes are saturated in booze I know I didn't spill on myself, because I wasn’t drinking ." I take a deep breath. "And to top it all off, not only were you not there for me when I needed you, but you don't believe me. And I know I'm going to walk into the studio tomorrow and face the judgment of two dozen people who already don't respect me."

"Cameron," he says placatingly, reaching to put a hand on my shoulder. But I shrink away from him. "You are angry. I understand. I will try to make it up to you."

"How?" I demand, getting angrier by the moment. "How can you make up for this, Emile?"

He's quiet for a moment, pensive. To his credit, his expression is pained. Normally, he shows no emotion at all. So he must be feeling something.

"How about I make a donation to your little community ballet?"

That gets my attention. Emile has always disapproved of my involvement with the community theater. He looks sincere.

I look down at my feet, embarrassed at my outburst. I know I'm taking this out on him because of my own guilt. Even as angry with him as I am, there's no excuse for what I've done. Screwing someone else isn't the right way to get back at somebody. That's not why I did it. The reasoning doesn’t matter, though. The fact is that I did, and then I sat here and plotted to do it again.

I look down at Dom's gift. The satin pointe shoes are symbolic of everything that's wrong with us. Beautiful on the outside, full of potential until you put them on, and then you realize you're not good enough to pull them off and they're rubbing a blister on the bottom of your foot.

I shouldn't have played around with them when I know I have a rehearsal tomorrow. It'll affect my performance and could throw the other dancers off their game as well. Emile will fuss. It pains me to admit I shouldn't be wearing them. I wasn't cut out for it, anyway.

"You don't have to do that," I say meekly. "But maybe you could come to the Summer Showcase with me?"

"If you promise you won't wear those ridiculous things," he says with a laugh. I chuckle at the joke and promise I won't.

They were just a stupid fantasy, anyway.