15. Cameron

CHAPTER 15

CAMERON

That stupid flash drive taunts me, but I don't want to see it. I already know Emile isn't good for me. Having another reason play out in front of my eyes is not going to make things any easier.

Because I'm stuck.

As of right now, Emile holds the keys to my entire future. He can make me or break me. One word from him could ruin my reputation and block me from any dance company in the country. I'm acutely aware of this when he calls me to his office after rehearsal. I thought he wanted to discuss tonight's opening show, but instead, he slides some papers over to me. It's my application to the World Ballet Competition.

"Where did you get that?"

"Does it matter where I got it? Why were you hiding this from me?"

"I… I wasn't hiding it. It was going to be a surprise," I lie through my teeth. Emile's eyes narrow, and I know he doesn't believe me. "Why would it matter, anyway? It's during the off season, it wouldn't affect the company at all."

"It would affect my company if you go there and embarrass yourself."

"It's just the solo competition. It wouldn't be in your name."

"But you will use my choreography for your audition tape, yes?" He points to where I've written the name of the dance I'll be performing.

"I don't understand." It's completely normal to use any piece you've performed for a private audition. There are no copyright laws that prevent it, and it's also common practice. This is how it's done. There's no reason I shouldn't be allowed to perform any dance I want for this audition.

"So my name will be on it. They will know you came from my company and therefore are an extension of me. The answer is no."

"I'm not going to embarrass you, Emile. If I'm not good enough, they'll turn down the application. And if I am good enough, then that could only mean good things for De Pointe Elite , right?"

"Per the contract that you signed, you agreed to a non-compete. This discussion is over."

Even after he dismisses me, I stare at him like he's grown horns and a tail.

"That contract was for my internship. You promoted me. Shouldn't I have a new contract now? Can we negotiate this?"

He looks up at his desk with an expression of utter boredom.

"You are filling an empty position until an official decision can be made. A decision that only I can make. And even then, I write the contracts."

Without spelling it out, he's saying that he owns me. I have to play by his rules, or he'll take it all away. Everything I've dreamed and worked so hard for is at the whim of this man.

Emile smiles, and while I'm sure he's attempting to come off as kind, it just looks calculating. "Are you ready for the performance tonight?"

I nod blankly. "I am, yes."

"Did you do your final costume fitting yesterday? Is it fitting better?"

"It, uh, it was a bit loose, actually. They're taking it in before tonight."

His smile widens, pleased at the news. "Even better. Well done. Let's not get too comfortable in our skin, though. I still want you to continue with the journal."

My stomach cramps. I hate the stupid food and exercise journal. I'm already strict about what I put into my body, and I never skip a day of training. Having Emile check over how much I've eaten and exercised makes me feel like a child.

"Alright. I'll bring it after the weekend."

"Do you not have it with you?" He knows it’s in my locker. Clearly, he was in there looking through my things.

"I do, but?—"

"Excellent. Why don't you run and fetch it, and I'll ask Belinda to order in lunch."

"Oh, well I was planning on going home to rest before warmups for tonight."

"Nonsense. Besides, two hours would hardly make it worth it. And I need you in the makeup chair tonight. You're looking a bit pale."

"Okay then."

" Magnifique. "

"Cameron?"

I nod to the doctor as she comes inside. She shakes my hand and introduces herself by her first name, Jennifer.

"What brings you in today?"

"Weakness, fatigue, brain fog. I'm a professional dancer, and this week has been particularly grueling. I nearly dropped my partner this morning at rehearsal."

"Well, that's not good," she says, stepping towards me with her stethoscope. "How long do you rehearse every day?"

"Depends on the day. But on performance days, three hours in the morning. Plus workouts and warmups. For non-performance days, usually a second three-hour block."

"Plus workouts and warmups?"

"Yes."

"That's quite a lot of exercise. Do you have days off?"

"After the production ends."

She laughs. "How about today? Is today a performance day?"

"No, today is a rehearsal day. We have performances tomorrow through Sunday, with Friday and Saturday being double performances."

"Goodness, that is a lot."

"Life of a professional athlete."

"I understand, but you're going to overdo it if you aren't careful. It’s important that you're eating enough, hydrating, and replacing electrolytes. I'd like to run some labs, but we'll get you hooked up to what we call a banana bag while we wait for the results. It's a specialized IV with vitamins and minerals that should help perk you up. Sound like a plan?"

I'm familiar with banana bags. Plenty of athletes get them occasionally. Emile once had a nurse come to the office to administer one because he was hungover.

I thank Jennifer and lay back on the bed. I might as well get a nap in while I'm here.

An hour later, I'm headed back to the studio. I have written orders to rest for the rest of the day and evening, but that would go over about as well as a fart in a hot yoga studio. I can just imagine what Emile's reaction would be to me needing to take the day off, especially when I've been doing as poorly as I have. He'll be mad enough that I'm getting back to the studio late.

And of course I'm right. He catches me running through the doors, already ten minutes behind schedule. If I hurry, I'll only miss the warm up stretches and not any of the partner rehearsals. But Emile isn't having it and follows me into the stairwell.

"Where have you been?"

"Emile, I'm already late. We can talk later."

"Do I need to remind you that I'm your boss? Where. Were. You," he repeats slowly, like I'm an idiot.

"I was at Urgent Care, okay? I've been feeling a bit rough, so I went for a banana bag. No big deal. I would have made it back earlier, but I got caught in traffic."

He narrows his eyes. "And you went alone?"

"Yes. Why does that matter? What's with the third degree?"

Emile ignores my questions and looks me over, from top to toe, assessing me. "You look fine to me."

"I am fine. It was just to perk me up a little. I'm ready to get back to work." I don't dare mention the doctor's orders to, and I quote, "order some greasy takeout and eat it in bed." He'd probably faint.

"You are good for the performance tomorrow? I won’t have you dropping my prima ballerina on her head." Is it me, or does that sound more like a threat than concern over my health?

"I'll be fine. Perfect," I assure him.

"Good. See me after rehearsal, yes?"

The extra fluids and vitamins help me make it through the rest of class. Even though I'm feeling a bit better, I decide to skip the spin bike for tonight and head home as soon as I take a quick shower and check in with Emile. I need to make a plan for Dom. As irritated as I am with him, I want to help him with this fight. Hopefully he’ll win it, but I’d settle on him surviving it. Remembering the stakes helps me to put my anger behind me.

In the locker room, I overhear some of the other guys talking about Marissa in hushed tones.

"What happened with Marissa?"

The two guys gossiping, Mark and Theo, look at each other before turning back to me. "You didn't see her?"

"When?"

"She came by during the break," Mark says. "Stomped in here like she was on a mission, and then ran out crying."

"Why was she crying?"

Neither of them answers me right away.

"What the fuck happened?" I demand.

Mark starts. "You know she had a job lined up in Houston?"

"Yeah, she told me she auditioned during the break." She'd spent her entire break working on securing a new position before she gave notice here. Houston Ballet was her first choice, because it's close to her family. That was the excuse she used for leaving, at least. She didn't want there to be any burned bridges that might come back to bite her later.

Theo shrugs. "Guess they canceled her contract."

"They what ?!"

"Apparently Emile put her on his list . And when he found out she already had a position lined up, he made a call. She'd already packed her apartment up and everything," Theo adds.

"Why would he do that to her?"

Mark folds his arms over his chest and gives me a look. "Not everyone is willing to bend over for what they want."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Cameron, everyone knows you're his fuck boy. Stop pretending like you aren't sucking and fucking your way to the top."

"I earned my place here. I'm a good dancer, I get good reviews. I work hard!"

"I'm sure you do, honey. But when he gets tired of you, that won't matter. You'll be back to working the pole and sucking dick for tips or whatever it is you did before he picked you up."

"It's not like that."

For a moment, I think I see pity in his eyes, but he quickly disguises it with disgust. Their words follow me into the showers, where I rush through washing myself. I don't bother drying my hair or fussing with it, quickly pulling on a clean pair of shorts and a tank top and making a beeline for the stairwell. When I march past Belinda's desk, she calls out that he's busy, but I don't listen. I walk right into another tense moment between Emile and Daphne.

They're standing too close together, Emile boxing her in at the edge of his desk.

"I need to talk to you," I say firmly.

Daphne’s eyes are red rimmed, and maybe I imagine it, but I think she looks relieved to be interrupted. Emile lets her slip out, calling after her that he'll see her bright and early in the morning.

He barely acknowledges me as he shuts the door, then walks around his desk and takes a seat.

"What are you doing with that poor girl?"

"What are you insinuating?"

"She's barely eighteen."

"Yes. An adult. And capable of making her own decisions, much like you are."

"What about Marissa? Did she get to make her own decisions? Is that who you thought I was with this afternoon?"

"Yes. Marissa made the decision to cross me, and she learned that there are consequences for her actions."

"How could you do that to her? She was loyal to you for years."

"Yes, and for most of her tenure, she knew her place. She did as she was told, kept her mouth shut, and was a talented dancer, but she thought she could undermine my authority and influence my dancers.”

“By wanting to leave?”

“By trying to turn my dancers against me!”

“What are you even talking about?”

“She left poor Daphne in tears with the suggestion that she’d ruin her life if she agreed to work with me. Told her I’d take advantage of her, drain all the good out of her, and then throw her away. Those were the words she used. Thank goodness we'd already signed the contracts, or she could have been scared off.” He looks at me, one eyebrow raised knowingly. “I have eyes everywhere, Cameron. I won’t tolerate being betrayed by the very people I made."

I ignore the threat and focus on what he’s saying. Made? I mean, sure, he pushes us to be better. This company has a reputation for being the best of the best for a reason. And working for a company like this is an incredible opportunity, even if the pay is tragically low, or nonexistent in my case. Still, to say he made any of us is a bit of a stretch.

As much as I want to tell him off for being a pretentious prick with his head up his ass, this conversation is getting me nowhere. If anything, it’s reminding me that I need to tread carefully.

What I need to do is get out of here and call Marissa, to check in on her and make sure she's okay. What she's going through confirms some of the worst of my fears. Only I never considered that his influence could reach across the country. I figured I'd never dance in Atlanta again, but what about my chances of making it to Los Angeles? Considering he's effectively trying to block me from accomplishing anything outside of this company, how would I even have a chance? The World Ballet Competition was my only chance of making it out of here.

"We're all very lucky to have the opportunity to work with you," I say placatingly. "Marissa was probably feeling jealous that a newer, younger talent was being brought in. I'm sure she had no idea how far your influence reaches." Saying these things is making my stomach hurt, but stroking his ego is the only way I'm going to get out of here without him being suspicious. He loves to talk about people being jealous of what he can give them.

Sure enough, the word alone is enough to light a spark in his eye. He pushes back from his desk and pats his lap.

"I'm not feeling well, remember? I was just about to head home," I lie.

"Just come sit with me a moment, Cameron. I feel like we haven't seen enough of each other lately."

Production weeks are hard. By the time the night is over, after the production, the afterparties, and whatever appearances Emile has set up for us, I'm exhausted. And I've been avoiding him, doing whatever it takes to lessen our alone time so I can breathe and try to get some rest.

Warily, I walk over to his side of the desk and sit on his lap. Emile leans back in his seat, pulling me against him. "Your hair is a mess. But you smell good," he says, running his nose up the side of my neck. Normally, a move like that would have me grinding on him, but the wrong kind of shiver makes its way down my spine instead, and I want to recoil.

"I am glad to hear that you are still on my side, mon cheri ,” he whispers. "I would not react well if you turned against me, too."

His words shoot a cold pulse of fear through my chest. I steel myself, look into his eyes, and give him the most sincere answer I can. "I know how lucky I am to have met you. You've made me a better dancer."

"You were good when I met you," he says, which surprises me. Of course, there's more to it, though. "But only I know how to make you better. You understand that I am helping you, yes?"

His words are peppered across my throat and collarbone with kisses that feel cold and meaningless. Only weeks ago I would have begged for this kind of attention, but now it feels… disingenuous. Coercive. Dirty.

Emile's hand trails down my arm, until his fingers link through mine. Then he guides my hand to his crotch, rubbing my hand over his erection. When he removes his hand, I understand that I'm supposed to keep going. But I don't want to.

"I really should rest," I say, straining my voice to sound disappointed.

"I'll be fast, I promise."

Without waiting for me to say anything more, Emile nudges me off his lap. With one hand opening his fly, he uses the other to guide me to my knees.

And I realize that they're all right. I'm nothing but a toy to him. I probably wouldn't be here if I wasn't an easy lay, content to follow him around and do whatever he says. To never complain that everything in our relationship is one-sided. Because, deep down, I knew. I knew that the price of having this opportunity was my autonomy.

I’ve just refused to admit this is all I'm good for.