“Maybe my spit would be better used to wet my cock before I fuck your ass,” he muses. “Have to keep my girl on her toes.”
He kisses me again, then backs away. He’s smirking at me as he goes.
Fucker.
53
VIOLET
I stride into the Crown Point Ballet building. I’ve been coming here for years, but this time feels more significant. There’s a new energy in the halls. People I don’t know—men and women auditioning, hoping to be signed on for the performance season.
The familiar faces, though. They smile when they see me. Hug me, say they’ve missed me. I’m not sure I believe them. I got a lot of condolences when I was in the hospital. No one knew why I had driven back to Rose Hill—my hometown—that day. I asked them because my memory was… blank.
I remember being in Crown Point the day before. We were preparing for the home performances, and then the touring would begin after that. There were interviews and clips of rehearsals to be filmed, costume fittings, classes.
Being back here reminds me that I never did find out why I went back.
At the time, I assumed it was for my mother. I never asked her, and she never said. I guess she thought I’d know.
“Violet,” Sylvie, Mia’s assistant, calls out. “This way.”
I follow her into one of the large studios. It’s set up for a barre class. A handful of dancers are already here. They’ve claimed spots and are slowly warming up.
“You’ll be auditioning with everyone else,” she says when I reach her side. “Mia wanted me to apologize—”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I get it.” Expected it, even. She can’t give me preferential treatment just because she likes me.
She leaves me there, and I drop my bag next to one of the bars. I sink to the floor and unzip my bag. The first thing in it surprises me. I half pull it out, rubbing my fingers through the soft blue material. Devereux, it says in white letters. He put his jersey in my bag.
I allow a small smile, then lean down and press my nose to the fabric.
It smells like him, too.
Focus, Violet.
I stow it away and get ready, putting my earbud in to replay the audition music. It reminds me a bit of Grey, listening to music to get in the zone. We’re similar in that regard. I stretch, slip on my pointe shoes, and secure the ribbons. My body is ready, and my mind is there, too. Ready to work.
I block everything out until the ballet master arrives. The room is full, my muscles are warm, and I feel… decent, actually. I stow my earbuds and put my bag against the wall, then get back into position. It’s been a while since I’ve been in a group class, but I ignore that twinge of nerves and focus on the ballet master.
She strides around, correcting various positions, technique, and calls out changing positions. She also brings our attention to those who are doing well—and some who could be doing better.
“If I tap your shoulder, you are dismissed,” she calls.
She arrives next to me and watches for a moment, then offers a small smile. “I’m glad to see you back, Ms. Reece. It looks like you’ve even managed to improve.”
“Thank you,” I manage.
She moves on without a backward glance.
When her class ends an hour later, she’s halved the room. We put the barres away and return to the center. Mia enters, followed by the choreographer, Shawn, and her assistant. The ballet master stamps her cane into the floor, catching our attention.
“Mia Germain,” she introduces. “Artistic director for the Crown Point Ballet.”
Mia dips her head. “Thank you. Welcome,” she greets us. “We’re so pleased to be offering spots in our company to talented dancers. As most of you are probably aware, our upcoming season will be focusing on Sleeping Beauty. The wonderful Shawn Meridian is our guest choreographer, splitting his time between here and the American Ballet Theatre in New York City. He’s joining us today to offer his input as we not only hope to offer contracts but to also cast our Aurora.”
We applaud until Shawn steps forward and raises his hands.
He’s easily recognizable as one of the most talented choreographers of this decade. I still remember being awestruck by him in high school—although that feels like forever ago now. He definitely doesn’t remember me.
Although, Mia was right. I sure did talk about it a lot when I got to Crown Point Ballet. I was giddy at the prospect of giving him a CD of me dancing. Even though it led nowhere.
He appraises the room, then motions to the doorway. Annabelle, another principal dancer at CPB, comes into the room. She smiles at him, then us.
“Annabelle is going to run through the audition piece,” Shawn says. His voice is deeper and raspier than I remember. “Ready?”
The pianist strikes up the singular melody of the piece I learned. In a way, it’s more haunting with just one instrument. Not as joyful.
Giselle was joyful before she turned to tragedy, too.
Annabelle dances it well. Her turns are perfect, her extensions… she’s a beautiful dancer. But maybe she lacks the passion because she’s never been in love. Or because she thinks she’s not being judged right now.
A mistake. We’re all being judged.
She finishes in a flourish, posing with her arms uplifted, her knee bent, her head thrown back. A wide smile on her face.
“Thank you,” the ballet master says to her.
We don’t immediately proceed into that, though. There’s still more to come. Leaping, turning. We line up and cross the room, showing our lines and movement, our turnout. We pair up and show how we do with partner work.
I get lucky and end up with a dancer who already belongs to the company. He and I have danced together for a few years, and he winks when he steps up beside me.
Finally, we break. We’ll do the audition solo one at a time—those who want it anyway. Mia, Shawn, and the ballet master have already further whittled our numbers down.
Annabelle dances again. Then another principal dancer, and another. I swallow.
“Lydia Parker,” the girl beside me introduces, offering her hand.
I shake it. “Violet Reece.”
“I was a principal dancer in Arizona. The heat was killer.” She leans in. “Are you familiar with Mia?”
“A bit.” I glance at her. She’s a few inches shorter than me, with dark hair wrapped in a neat bun. Minimal makeup. Pretty, though. Ideal casting. “Why?”
“I’ve just heard rumors, is all. That she’s a good person to dance for.”
I nod. “I’ve heard that, too.”
“Violet,” Mia calls.
I smile at Lydia and step forward. The music starts. Even though it’s a little different, it feels the same. I let myself radiate the joy of a birthday party—that’s what the dance is about anyway. Aurora arrives at her sixteenth birthday party. The solo ends before she meets the four suitors, and before she pricks her finger on the spindle. But this part is freedom. Happiness.
My smile only widens during the more difficult bits of choreography, and I end in the same pose as Annabelle.
There’s a smattering of applause, and I make eye contact with Shawn Meridian. His brow is furrowed, confusion etched across his face.
I don’t know what to make of it, so I back away and rejoin the girls against the wall. Lydia goes next. And another, another, another. I sit and stretch and try to keep nimble in case something else is needed, but by the end, it’s almost two o’clock.