13. Cameron

CHAPTER 13

CAMERON

Mom and Dwayne are laughing about something to do with mom jeans making a comeback when I walk into the kitchen. Both of them are so surprised to see me, it makes me feel guilty for avoiding everyone. Especially since neither of them have anything to do with my issues with Emile or Dom. It's not their fault I can barely look anyone in the eye for fear they'll see the guilt on my face.

Mom rushes to hug me, and Dwayne automatically begins making me a cup of tea. "Thanks, Dwayne, but I think I'll go for the hard stuff today," I say, pouring myself a cup of black coffee and wincing at the bitterness.

"We've got some of that non-dairy creamer you like," Dwayne says with a laugh. "The sweet cream coconut one."

I'm mentally calculating the calories in however much creamer it'll take to make the strong coffee palatable. Dwayne basically drinks tar as far as I'm concerned, but I need the caffeine desperately, so I nod and plan to make up for it. An extra twenty minutes in the studio this morning should do the trick.

The coffee is at least drinkable now. I sip it gingerly while I get a pan out to make myself some breakfast. Mom points out the mini muffins and cut fruit they're eating. I take some berries from the bowl of fruit but pass on the muffins.

"Are you eating enough?" My mother asks cautiously. Either she can sense my exhaustion or is predicting that I'll have a poor reaction to her trying to question my dietary choices. It’s a hard limit for me and she knows it.

"Yes," I assure her, trying and failing to keep the exasperation out of my voice. "I'm working on a calorie deficit, but I'm eating enough." I gesture pointedly to the ingredients I've pulled out of the fridge.

Her eyebrows raise, and she looks at Dwayne with concern etched across her forehead. He scrutinizes me from top to bottom, and I wish I was wearing more than dance shorts and a crop top. I'm feeling sensitive about my body right now. Emile suggested I was looking a bit bulky, and after trying on my costume, I know he’s right. I've been trying to slim down without losing too much muscle mass or cutting too many calories from my already strict diet.

My egg white and spinach omelet is flavorless, but I haven't been able to taste much more than a persistent metallic tang and the salt of my own sweat. Even the bitterness of the strong coffee only masks it for as long as it takes to gulp it down. Regardless of what it tastes like, I hope it can wake me up a little and bring me out of the fog I've been in.

The production starts in three days. The choreography is grueling, and instead of getting easier with practice, it feels like it's getting more difficult by the day. My partner for this production is our new principal ballerina, Daphne. I'm not sure if Marissa was right that she'd take her place, but Emile promoted her to fill the position the moment she was gone, much to the chagrin of the other company dancers. At least I have someone to commiserate with over being ostracized by the rest of the dancers. Although, since she isn't sleeping with Emile, and is quite talented, they might eventually come around. I hope they do, because she's actually very sweet. Talented, too. And easily the tiniest woman I've ever danced with, which is saying something for ballet dancers. Despite her small frame, I'm still feeling the strain of lifting her more than I should.

After the production ends, I'll have the rest of the spring and summer to rest and recover in between teaching and rehearsing my own piece. It'll be hard not to keep pushing myself.

I haven't told anyone yet, but I've decided to apply to the World Ballet Competition. I have my application all ready, I just have to record a video of a rehearsal or performance. The solo piece I have for the new show is perfect, especially because of how complicated the choreography is. I just have to get someone to record it for me, which might be difficult since there are no cameras allowed in the theater of De Pointe Elite . We will be performing the final show in the huge theater of the Performing Arts Center downtown less than a month before the application deadline. It's risky to wait until the last performance on an unfamiliar stage, but for some reason I don't want to tell Emile about the application, at least not until I find out if I'll be accepted. It'd be embarrassing if I made a big deal out of it and was denied.That, and I’m starting to think I might need an exit plan in case my relationship with Emile goes south. It’s been tense between us, and he’s been colder than ever.

I have a secret dream of dancing with the Los Angeles Ballet. It might be a lofty goal, but I’d settle for a smaller company in LA and work my way up. My cousin Antoni has been living there for the past year and he always has the most amazing things to say about it. Then again, he’s a sought-after fashion model, so he’s living the high life. A life he says he’d share with me if I decided to chase my dreams to California.

As I'm packing up a lunch to take to the studio with me—cold grilled chicken and spinach salad with pecans, dried cherries, and balsamic vinegar—I notice a photo album sitting on the kitchen table between my mom and stepdad.

"What's this?" I ask.

"I found some old albums from when Dom and I were kids. We've been reminiscing." He gestures his permission for me to look at the photos.

The first couple of pages are baby pictures of both boys. I smile at a photo of what must be Dwayne as a toddler, wearing denim overalls and a printed knit sweater, sitting on the floor with an infant propped up in his lap. Considering the baby is almost the size of the older kid, that has to be Dom. Sure enough, the neatly scrawled inscription under the photo says, " Dwayne and Domenick, November 1982 .".

The next page of photos shows a large, muscular man with dark skin wearing Army fatigues walking across a small, well-kept lawn. He's got his arms wide open and a huge smile on his young, handsome face. In the next photo, a beautiful woman with light brown skin and a short, teased haircut has her arms wrapped around him—their parents. They look so happy. And very young, probably in their early twenties. I stare at the photo of their dad on his knees, being tackled by two little boys. There's a homemade "Welcome Home" sign and balloons in the background.

"Holy shit. If there weren't a time stamp on these pictures, I'd ask when Dom joined the Army."

"I know, right?" Dwayne laughs. "He's a lot like him in more than just looks. Dad was a boxer, too." He flips to the next page, where there are a few folded up posters for boxing matches and pictures of their dad in the ring.

"You didn't want to follow in his footsteps, too?"

"Nah. I was kind of a nerd. I liked training with my dad and brother, and going to matches, but I had no interest in fighting."

"He's a lover, not a fighter," my mom says, bending to kiss his cheek.

"Something like that." Dwayne laughs, but it doesn't quite sound sincere.

"I'm off to work. Y'all have a good day." She kisses my cheek. "Love you, baby," she whispers.

"Love you, too."

I turn back to the photo album after she leaves, noting the sad smile on Dwayne’s face as I flip through the next few pages. The boys get older, have birthdays, and move to a new neighborhood. There are a ton of pictures during this stretch of time, but no inscriptions. When she makes an appearance, their mom is always smiling in the photos, but it doesn't reach her eyes. She looks tired. Mr. Connor eventually shows back up in the pictures, but it's like the happiness and energy of the earlier photos was leached out of him.

"Our family went through some tough times when Dom and I were kids. But our parents made sure we had everything we needed, taught us to work hard and keep our noses clean. We were lucky to have them."

The remaining photos are mostly milestones—high school prom and graduation. Dwayne graduating from college. Dom's fight promos and pictures of him as an amateur boxer. They stop abruptly with an obituary for Damien L. Connor.

"What happened to him?"

"The stubborn old man wouldn't take money from us, not even when Dom started fighting professionally and was getting paid more. He picked up local fights to help pay the bills. He was tough as nails and hard to beat." Dwayne chuckles humorlessly, then sniffs. "He got knocked out cold during a fight. Ended up in a medically induced coma."

"That sounds familiar," I whisper, remembering Dwayne telling me about the reason Dom stopped fighting.

"Yeah, except Dad didn't wake up. He was declared brain dead less than a week later, and we had to decide to take him off life support."

A tear rolls down Dwayne's cheek when I reach over to place my hand on his forearm. He gives me a tight smile and closes the photo album.

"Our mom wasn't really the same after dad died. She worked two jobs even when she didn’t need to. Volunteered at church a lot. Always kept busy. Her and Dom had a strained relationship until a while after he stopped fighting. She passed a few years back," he explains.

"I'm so sorry," I say, emotion clogging my throat.

"It would kill her to know he's doing this stupid grudge match."

"Why is he doing it?"

"I think he thinks he has something to prove. If I believed in life after death, I'd ask Dad to come down here and talk some sense into him."

Focusing on the dates at the top of his father's obituary, my stomach cramps. That can't be right…

"How old was your father when he died?" I croak, not wanting to hear the confirmation of what I've already worked out.

"Forty-two."

The drive to the studio is a blur. I can't stop replaying Dwayne's words and worrying about what could happen to Dom if he does this fight. I've seen that prick Bo Hoyt gloating all over the press, going on about how he put "the big dog" down ten years ago, and can't wait to do it again. It seems like that guy will do anything for media attention, including threaten his opponent's life, and the press is eating it up. No one thinks Dom can win, if only because Dom hasn't stood up for himself at all. The Gentle Giant gone soft.

Hell, he only accepted the fight in a moment of weakness. It's his goddamned pride that won't let him take it back. It's pride that could get him killed.

I have to help him.

I'm so distracted when I walk through the De Pointe Elite building that I almost walk right into a tense moment between Emile and Daphne. No one is ever in the theater this early. We have a class that doesn't start until eight thirty a.m., and that happens upstairs in the studio. Since I've been avoiding Dom, I've started arriving at the theater at six to get in an extra hour of work before the day begins. I'm a little late today after spending the morning talking with Dwayne. It's after seven already, but I'm always the first person in the building outside of security and the cleaners.

Not today, though.

Emile and Daphne are center stage, facing the empty seats of the audience. Neither of them notice my intrusion, and at first I instinctively pull back to close the door. It feels like a private moment. Except for all the reasons it shouldn't be.

There is a small, hypocritical part of me that is hurt to see Emile flirting with someone else, but the overwhelming emotion keeping me in place is actually protectiveness. Daphne is a sweet girl. I don't want to see her hurt or taken advantage of. She's very young, and this is her first professional dancing job. Emile scouted her out of a freshman ballet class he gave some speech at, and she clearly idolizes him. Much like I did.

Watching them, I can't help but notice a pattern. Emile discovered me too, bringing me on as an intern and showing a vested interest in my success. He gave me one-on-one classes where it was hard to determine if his touches were innocent. Until one day they weren't.

I'd enjoyed the flirtation, the special attention. I wasn't always comfortable with where and how things happened, but it's not like I wasn't willing. I wanted him to want me. I wanted to please him and make him proud of me. But there was always an underlying feeling that I couldn't say no, because I owed him. Marissa had given me the impression that I wasn't his first star pupil, and that I wouldn't be his last, but seeing it play out in front of me is a punch to the gut.

I head to the gym to workout instead of staying and watching Emile's suspicious hand placement while he walks Daphne through improving her extensions.

I'll make you a star.

There's no opportunity to get Daphne alone during the company class, and the break before our first three-hour rehearsal block is barely long enough to hydrate. I finally catch up to her while we're all walking out for our lunch break. There's only an hour before the next block of rehearsals begins, and most of the company heads to the cafe across the street. The two of us are some of the only people who stay back and eat lunch on our own. Normally I appreciate the silence, but I feel like I should check in on her.

I find her in the theater, in one of the box seats, with her feet propped up on the balcony. When she sees me, she quickly pulls her legs down and crosses them demurely at the ankle. I wave her off.

"Don't concern yourself with manners around me. By all means, let's get comfortable." I gesture to the seat next to her. "Is it alright if I join you?"

"Um, sure." She doesn't return her feet to the balcony until I prop up my own, leaning as far back as I can and setting my lunch container on my stomach.

"I'm almost too tired to eat," I say.

She laughs. "Not me. I feel like I'm always ravenous." To prove her point, she opens her bag and pulls out a large sandwich. It's loaded with meat and veggies, so much so that she can barely get a big enough bite. I have a feeling she's still trying to be polite, though. If I wasn't here, she might unlock her jaw like a snake and swallow the sandwich whole. She pulls out a bottle, pours in what I'm assuming is protein powder, and shakes it.

I pull a similar protein drink from my bag, contemplating what to say while I mix the beverage. The silence between us is companionable and not awkward at all. It's not until she's finished her sandwich that I speak.

"I like you, Daphne. I think you're an amazing dancer and partner."

"But?"

"No buts, I promise. I just wanted to say… to warn you, I guess. That there are people here who would take advantage of you if you aren't careful."

Daphne sits up and zips her lunch bag, spine ram-rod straight, as she faces me. "I was told you'd say something like that."

"What? By who?"

"Whom," she corrects, not unkindly, but the sharpness of her tone makes me consider her differently. "Emile said you'd be jealous."

"He did, did he?" I huff out a humorless laugh.

I shake my head and lean my head back. Looking at the domed ceiling, I'm struck by such a vivid memory, I randomly start blathering away.

"All I've ever wanted to be was a dancer," I tell her. "My dad didn't approve. Luckily, he was gone a lot. He was in the marines. But he caught me taking classes at the local community center during one of his trips home and let’s just say he did not react well." Understatement. "My mom conspired with my aunt to make sure I could keep taking classes. The second time he caught me, he threatened to break my legs."

"But you're here," she says simply.

I stand up, brushing invisible crumbs from my chest and legs. "Damn right, I am. It was a long, hard road to get here. I'd live through it all again to dance on that stage even one more time." I hold her gaze. "Sometimes you do whatever it takes, but sometimes, you realize you already have what it takes. You don't need to give pieces of yourself away to accomplish what you were always meant to do."

With that, I turn on my heel and march straight to Emile's office to give him a piece of my mind. On my way down the hall Belinda says he's not in, waving me off as she lifts her phone to her ear.

"Yes, Mr. Alistar. I'm on my way now. I'll be there as quickly as I can, but it's lunchtime traffic." I watch her blow out a breath while she pushes the button to the elevator multiple times. "I understand. I'll be there as fast as I can."

"Everything alright?" I ask her.

" Monsieur forgot that things cost money, again. He's at a florist and forgot his wallet, so I need to bring it to him. I imagine he'll be back well before rehearsals end today, if you needed to talk to him?"

"Oh, no, it was nothing important. Just wanted to say hi."

She gives me a pitying smile that's maybe a little less judgmental than usual. The elevator doors slide open just as her phone rings again, and she gives an exaggerated groan. I gesture towards the restroom and wave her off, mouthing, "good luck."

The moment the doors close, I turn around and head down the hallway. There's not much on this floor, aside from Emile's massive office, a conference room, and a large sitting area. The entire floor is empty now that Belinda has left. I punch in the same passcode I use to get in and out of the gates to Emile's house, and the door unlocks. I slip inside and shut the door behind me, then stand and stare. What exactly am I here for?

I'd wanted to confront Emile about Daphne. I can't exactly do that if he's not here. Should I leave him a note, asking to talk later?I’m afraid I’ll lose my nerve if I don’t do something now.

His desk is predictably clean. There isn't a thing on it except the computer monitor and a single framed photo of himself dancing with the Paris Opera Ballet. His tenure there is the accomplishment he is the proudest of.

I have the urge to push the frame off the desk, but I set about finding a notepad or some paper instead. The first drawer I open is meticulously organized pens, two spare hairbands, and some hand cream. The second is nothing but files. My name catches my eye, and curiosity gets the best of me. I pull it to see what's inside. Most of it is personnel files, the application I filled out to audition, the contract agreement I signed when I agreed to an internship. I've been waiting for Emile to draw up a new contract now that I've been promoted to principal dancer, but there isn't any evidence here to suggest he's even working on it.

We have a lot to talk about.

Annoyed, I shove the file back in the spot I found it and start to close the drawer, when I see Heath's name. Glancing back towards the door once, I hesitate before pulling the file out and opening it. Some of it is the same personnel stuff, with multiple copies of contracts that he'd accepted during his three years as a dancer here. There's also a copy of the complaint he filed against Emile, followed by multiple bank statements. Emile told me that Heath dropped the charges because they were unfounded, and he couldn't prove anything. But if that's true, why did he pay him off? Because I'm holding several receipts for several large wire transfers to Heath's personal bank account.

My watch beeps, startling so much I nearly jump out of the chair. I almost toss the file in the air, and some of the papers scatter. Shit . I need to get back to rehearsal. I scramble around to put the file back together, hoping it's all in the right order, and slam the drawer closed.

As I run back to the studio for rehearsal, I wonder exactly what happened with Heath to warrant such a large payout.

Watching recaps of Dom's old fights is nothing compared to watching one play out in front of me. I'm so stressed, I've shredded my nails down to the quicks, and my bottom lip probably resembles ground meat.

"Hey! You doing okay?" Dwayne calls over to me from his spot behind the ropes. He glances at me warily, while mostly keeping his eyes on the fight. As much as I want to look away, I can't take my eyes away from the two sweaty men throwing punches at each other in the center of the ring.

I've lost count of how many rounds into the match we are already, but both fighters seem to be getting tired. Every time Dom takes a hit, I wince and force myself not to cover my face. It's bad enough that I've been holding back tears the entire fight. I'm really trying not to be a big baby about this.

Ever since Dwayne told me about how their father died, I've struggled with the idea of Dom getting in the ring. Even the mental images I conjured don't match up to the stress that is watching the fighters trade blows. Training is different, because no one is aiming shots at his face. I've put everything I have into helping him in the gym, but it's not going to be enough if he gets knocked out. No matter how much Dwayne believes the ballet training has helped Dom's footwork and balance, nothing will be able to help him if he gets hit hard enough.

I gasp loudly, my hands coming up to my mouth, when the other fighter, Hugo something, brings his fist around and clocks Dom right in the temple. I'm on my feet, several tears tracking down my cheeks. Dom blocks the hit well enough, but my reaction seems to have gotten his attention. we make eye contact just before Huge Hugo comes in for a shot at him. Dom's reflexes help him duck the worst of the shot, but it still glances off the side of his face. By the time the referee blows the whistle, Dom's eye is already swelling, and there's a cut over his eyebrow.

Not sure if I'm even allowed, I take Dwayne's spot behind the ropes while Dom takes a seat in the corner. Dwayne dabs and dresses the admittedly tiny wound while I balance on the edge of the ring, squatting down to get eye level with Dom.

"I'm sorry," I whisper hoarsely. "I didn't mean to distract you."

Dwayne shoots me a look, then turns back to Dom. "What’s going on?"

"Nothing," Dom says, but doesn't look away from me.

"Hugo isn't like Ray, Dom. He doesn't give a fuck who you are. There's no hero-worship that's going to keep him from putting you down on the mat. And you better believe Bo is going to aim to do exactly that. Put that newfound gracefulness to work, make him dance for it, and then knock him the fuck out so we can go home before Cameron has a heart attack."

I let out a watery laugh and nod. "Please?" I beg Dom quietly, so only he and Dwayne can hear me. "I'm ready to go home."