7. Cameron

CHAPTER 7

CAMERON

We take our final bow to a standing ovation, and I scan the crowd as the curtain closes. Sometimes I swear I can feel Dom here. His presence has become something I can sense. I get a prickle of awareness before the door to the studio opens, and he slips in to watch me dance. He thinks I don’t know, but I don’t say anything because I like the way him sneaking in to watch me makes me feel.

I'm probably just full of myself. He does that to me, makes me feel confident, like I'm capable of all the things I want to do. My movements are more fluid when he's watching me, my jumps higher.

I know he watches me every night, but I still practice in front of him during the day, if only to keep up the pretense that he hasn’t already seen it several times. The way he never judges me if I fall or falter, only encourages me to keep going, makes me feel lighter than air. He even turns my mistakes into something good. Like last week when I faltered on a down step, and I jerked forward awkwardly. He'd asked what the move was called like he was impressed. When I laughed and said that I'd tripped, he told me to do it again. It turned into a part of the choreography, a move that brings me to the floor where I've been playing around with moves to show some of my flexibility.

Outside of the work we’re doing, I enjoy being around Dom. His little reactions, his tells, spur me on. I can't help but do things purposefully to get a rise out of him.

I know he wants me. I'm not imagining it. But neither of us is destructive enough to make a move. Neither of us wants to break this bond we've begun to forge—this friendship, built on mutual respect and support.

Marissa squeezes my hand, getting my attention. The curtains are fully lowered, but I'm still holding our pose. My jaw aches from smiling.

I squeeze her hand back, then pull her in for a hug. She's been kind to me, even when the rest of the company seems to be content whispering behind my back and taking joy in my misfortune whenever I make even the smallest mistake.Without her as my partner, I’m not sure I could keep a strong face.

Marissa puts her tiny hands on either side of my face. "I've really enjoyed dancing with you," she tells me, pulling me in to kiss me gently on the cheek.“It’s a shame this was such a short production.”

My hand touches the spot where she kissed me, knowing I probably have lipstick on my face now. "Why do you make it sound like this was the last time?"

She cuts her eyes over to the new dancer, Daphne. "I know how it works around here, and I think now is best to move on when I'm at the top of my game."

My brow furrows in confusion. "What do you mean? You've been a principal dancer here for years."

Being a principal dancer in any company is great for your resume, but one like De Pointe Elite, that is known for being tough, can be your ticket to almost anywhere you want to be. Because De Pointe Elite is so cutting edge and incorporates exciting styles and new methods into traditional ballet, it's often where dancers hope to stay until they retire. To hear someone as talented and accomplished as Marissa say she's leaving willingly is a bit of a shock.

"Someone else has caught his eye, and she will have my place before the next production. I'd rather not go out like Heath. I have dignity."

"What do you mean? Heath orchestrated his own demise here."

Marissa gives me a kind, if not patronizing, smile. "Protect yourself, Cameron. Pay attention. Never let anyone dull your flame."

I pull her in for a tight hug, my eyes filling with tears. "Stay in touch?"

"I promise." She pats my back and straightens her spine, looking every bit the prima ballerina that she is. "First, we have the afterparty." I grimace and we both laugh. Neither of us are fans of having strangers touch and talk over us like we're stage props.

We get twenty minutes to freshen up, and since it's the last night, we decide to redress in the more elaborate of our costumes for the show. Marissa is wearing a wispy calf-length dress in various shades of blue that complements her fair skin and blonde hair. My costume is a pair of nude tights and a corresponding blue tunic that thankfully covers most of my ass and the bulge that the dance belt gives me. There is nothing more embarrassing than having random people stare at your crotch the entire time you're talking to them, or ask questions about what you wear under the tights. After Marissa has touched up her makeup, we make our way to the top of the stairs so we can give our bows before joining the crowd.

Emile makes a show of kissing both of us on the cheeks, but his proprietary arm around my waist and the way his kisses linger make it clear our relationship is more than that of boss and employee. I don't know why it embarrasses me so much. I know I earned my spot here, that I'm hardworking and talented enough to make my own way, but I don't enjoy the way people look at me once they realize we’re together. I find myself shrinking away from his touch in public, though he never seems to notice.

I spot my mother towards the back of the room, standing next to Dwayne, and a smile breaks out over my face at seeing her laughing and chatting animatedly. She really is happy.

"My family is here," I say, as politely as possible, pulling away from Emile while he's busy talking to someone. It’s not as if I were part of the conversation.

His grip on my waist tightens. "Don't be rude, Cameron. We're in the middle of a conversation." A conversation he doesn't mind interrupting to chastise me when I'm attempting to make a quiet escape.

"Emile," I whisper, bending towards him so we can't be overheard. "Please. Everyone is staring at the way you are holding onto me." If he showed me this much affection in private, maybe it wouldn't be as noticeable, but it feels forced and uncomfortable.

"I'm just showing you off the way you deserve to, my star."

"I don't like feeling like a show pony."

Emile makes a sarcastic, pouty face and brushes a lock of hair back off my forehead. "But you are my show pony, yes?" It's hard to tell if he's making an attempt at humor or being blatantly condescending. Either way, I want some space.

“I don’t like you interacting with the public without me by your side. These people can be brutal, and you aren’t as used to spending time with people of this caliber.”

Gritting my teeth, I place my hand on his before moving it from around my waist. I kiss his knuckles once before releasing him. "I'm just going to go talk with my family. I won't go far."

I make my escape before he has the chance to protest, and suck in a deep lungful of air as I walk towards my mom and Dwayne standing near the bar. When I get closer, I notice Dom behind them, turning to pass my mother a glass of champagne. After I’ve hugged my mom and Dwayne, Dom holds a glass out to me. Deciding one won’t hurt, I take it gratefully and gulp it down a little too fast. Hopefully, it will be enough to calm my nerves.

"I didn't know you were here.” Tickets to De Pointe Elite productions are far more expensive than the small community company I was dancing with before. If I didn't work here, I wouldn't be able to afford a ticket to the show, much less an opening night or final performance night, which are the most expensive tickets.

“Dom wanted to surprise you,” Dwayne says, nudging his brother playfully.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," my mom says, getting teary-eyed the way she has for every performance since I was five years old.

Dom trades out my empty glass for a tumbler of club soda and lime, and I can no longer avoid looking straight at him. He looks… well, there's no other way to put it. He looks edible . He's wearing a three-piece suit that might be the same or similar to the one he wore to opening night. Only this one fits him like a glove, molding to his muscular frame in all the right places.His stubble has grown into a short, neatly trimmed beard that makes me want to call him Daddy in public.

"Thank you," I say, stuttering through my hotness induced dry mouth. "You look… nice." I want to facepalm over how stupid I sound.

"And you look beautiful," Dom says.

"Doesn't he?" My mother gushes. "Oh, seeing you in the lead role for such a big production! I'm so proud of you, and you did so well."

"You’re a star, kid," Dwayne says, patting my shoulder.He really should have been a dad.

I blush at the praise. "It was?—"

"Perfect," Dom says before I can point out my mistakes. "It was perfect."

"Well, I don't know about perfect," Emile says in a cheery voice, stepping up behind me and placing his hand on my waist again. The smile I offer him must look more like a grimace, if his raised eyebrow is anything to go by. "Darling, you know some of the footwork during the second act was?—"

"Perfect," Dom interrupts, his tone firm and unrelenting.

Emile scoffs and pretends to brush him off. "Yes, well, we can't all live by the same standards, now can we, Mr. Connor?"

The use of his last name suggests he knows exactly who Dom is and has likely read all about his tabloid drama. He looks smug about it, and it turns my stomach. Looking around for something to change the subject, I point to the small bunch of wildflowers Dom is holding.

"Those are beautiful," I say, pointing to them. I give Dom pleading eyes not to engage with Emile. He dips his head in a quick nod and then holds the flowers out to me.

"They're for you. To celebrate a successful production. You were absolute perfection." To his credit, the words are clearly only for me and not directed at Emile. He really believes everything I do is perfect up there. "And, I, uh, I got you this, too."

Dom hands me a shiny white box with a bow on it that's coincidently the same color as my outfit. After unwrapping the bow, I open the box to find a pair of pointe shoes. In my size.

"You… You got me pointe shoes?" I look up at Dom with a mixture of amusement and wonder. This man.

Emile laughs loudly enough to get the attention of people around us. "How ridiculous! It is a joke gift, right? A gag?”

"No," I answer before Dom does. "I’ve always wanted to try them." It's not something male dancers typically do.There are very few applications where men wear pointe shoes, and they're usually comedic. "I think they could be beautiful for a dance I’ve been working on."

"I see," Emile says, conscious of being watched. "Well, as long as it's just at home in your free time. I'd hate to see you embarrass yourself." He laughs haughtily and takes the box from me. He passes it back to Dom the way one might hand off a dirty shirt to be laundered. "Come, darling. We must be sure to make time for everyone. It was good to see you all again," he says airily.

I can feel the tension in the set of Dom’s shoulders just as well as I can see it. I mouth, "I'm sorry," as I let Emile steer me away.

We're halfway through the crowd when someone grabs my hand. I’m pulled out of Emile's hold, forced to turn around and see who is trying to get my attention. It's Dom. I say a silent prayer that he isn't here to punch Emile in the face, but Dom doesn’t look at Emile. He’s only looking at me. I let him pull me close to lean down and speak close to my ear.

"Don't let him take this from you. You deserve better."

His breath tickles my neck, and when he pulls back, he gazes down at me for a long, drawn-out moment. We're so close, I'd barely have to push up on my toes to kiss him if I wanted to. My gaze drops to his mouth. His bottom lip is plumper than the top, and pinker. There’s a small scar I've never noticed before that makes his cupid's bow more pronounced. My hand instinctively lifts to trace over it the way I've wanted to do to the scar across the bridge of his nose.

"Cameron?"

Emile's voice is just behind me, his hand on my shoulder. Snatching my hand back and stepping away from Dom, I thank him, making sure Emile can hear me. The last thing I need is for him to think there's something going on between us.

When I turn to Emile, my mask is back in place. I show him a bright smile and let him lead me away. I barely talk for the rest of the night, through the afterparty and the second party that's being held on the roof of an upscale club. Despite the chill in the air, most of the women are wearing tiny dresses and sky-high heels. I changed into an almost sheer black dress shirt and black slacks, slicked back my hair, and left the eyeliner from my stage makeup on.

Unfortunately, looking good isn't enough to make me want to be here. The chill is doing nothing to tone down the humiliation of our arrival. On the way here, Emile, who had one too many drinks at the first afterparty, decided to suck a dark hickey into the side of my neck before we arrived. That was before he pushed my face into his lap. He took forever to come, and then made a show of zipping up his fly when the valet opened the door for us. I wanted to shrink away and never come out, but I was afraid refusing to leave the car would only draw more attention.

I feel overheated and overstimulated by so many people. I'm ready to go home, but for once, the other dancers in the company aren't treating me like an outcast. This is my chance to befriend my coworkers, and hope that it carries us into the next production.Drinks are handed out to the group of us standing at the end of the bar, pink fruity concoctions that smell like kerosene and coconuts. I don't want to be a party pooper by refusing it, so I keep it in my hand to look sociable, eating the fruit garnish because I’m starving. I take a small sip now and then, slowly nursing the drink while the rest of the party goers do shots and chug drinks, getting wasted the way I used to all the time.

"Is it true you used to be an exotic dancer?" A dancer named Katie asks. Her valley girl tone is lowered conspiratorially, but it’s still loud enough for the entire group around us to hear.

I flush, unsure of what to say at first. I'm not ashamed of that or any other job I've ever had, but most of these people were born with silver spoons in their mouths and can't imagine what it's like to have to do whatever it takes to make ends meet. And they certainly wouldn’t understand enjoying what they would consider a low-class job.

Laughing like her question doesn't bother me, I correct her in my fakest sassy-boy voice. "Actually, I was a go-go dancer. Not that there's any shame in working a pole, if you know what I'm sayin'!"

Ugh, I hate myself right now . Everyone's laughing though, so maybe clearing the air with a little humor is the way to go.

"But that's where you met Emile?"

“Excuse me?”

“You met Emile when you were stripping, or go-go dancing, or whatever it’s called.”

Seriously, what is up with the third degree here?

"Technically, I met him at the club I used to dance at, yes. I performed a contemporary piece at a talent night at the club I worked at, and he approached me. He gave me his card and said I should audition."

A few of the people in the group side eye each other, and I see more than one smirk.

"Why do I feel like I'm the butt of an inside joke here?" I say, trying to laugh off the bad feeling I’m getting. The snickers and side glances get to me even though I try not to let them.

“I earned my spot in this company,” I say, feeling defensive.

“Oh, we know you did,” Katie says to snickers from the people around us.

My skin is flaming and I’m at a loss for words. It doesn’t take much to work out what they’re implying, which I already knew everyone thought. Hearing it straight to my face is both horrific and a weight off my shoulders.

Another girl from the chorus chimes in. "We just heard the story differently, is all." She looks pointedly at the bruise on my neck, pursing her lips, and I attempt to cover it with the collar of my shit.

"Well, considering there were only two people here in attendance, I cannot for the life of me imagine where you're getting your intel from." I take another sip of my overly sweet cocktail before deciding I've had enough. "You know what, I'm gonna go." I put my half full drink on a table and walk away from the group. My stomach roils with nausea, and I'm off kilter.

Their giggles and whispers follow me, the sound amplified and echoing around in my head.

Where is Emile? I think I might be having a panic attack or something.

I stumble towards a door that leads into a dark hallway with black lights. The walls and floor are moving like a carnival funhouse.

I moan as nausea cramps in my stomach, pulling my phone from my pocket to text Emile and let him know something's wrong, but I trip and run face first into the wall. A laugh echoes off the walls. Did I trip, or was I pushed? I spin around to see who's there, but my head doesn't stop spinning. I can’t text like this; I need to call.

I press the call button from our recent text thread, but my phone flies out of my hand when I'm shoved into a dark corner from behind. "What the?—"

"Heath sends his regards, slut."

Something cold and wet is poured over my face and clothes. My vision gets too fuzzy to recognize any faces. Everyone's blurred and I'm struggling to keep my eyes open.

"What's going on over here?" comes a stern voice.

"Emile?" Thank God he’s here. “I don’t feel so good.” My words are slurred, and the nausea is making its way up my throat.

"For the love of?—"

I don't hear another word. Vomit bubbles up my throat and spews down the front of my shirt. And then I black out.