Read Online Belle Fury: Manhatten Ten, Book 3 by Lola Dodge - Free Book Online
Authors: Lola Dodge
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should’ve hung up. “I was under the impression that you didn’t want to talk to me until I reformed my evil ways.”
“Oh, beach balls. Just because you’re some kind of superhero now doesn’t mean you don’t call home. You could’ve been dead. Or prostituted out to one of those muscle boys for all we knew. Where are you?”
“Still in New York.” By muscle boys, I assumed she meant the Ten. It wasn’t such a bad descriptor. “I’m fine. No one’s offered me any money.”
“Well, don’t give it up for free. Beulah—”
My hands bunched into fists. “Belle. You know I had it legally changed.”
“Bah. This is a good thing. You can get out of that heckhole and move home. Get married and start a family like a respectable woman. By the time I was your age, I had you and your brother in grade school. Time’s wasting.”
“Mama.” As I shook, so did my bedside lamp. I wasn’t going to shatter another one. “I’m not moving home, I’m not getting married and I’m never having children. I’m going to have casual sex until I dry up and then I’ll get cats.”
“I don’t know why I try to save you.” Her voice filled with the same horror as the day I’d announced I was taking a dance scholarship to the biggest “heckhole” on Earth. “You’ll fail and you’ll come begging your parents for forgiveness.”
My breaths sped and the chandelier shook. Enough.
“I’m the best dancer in the country. Don’t you ever spit on my hard work and call me a failure.”
I hurled the phone into the bathroom. The case cracked open and the battery skittered under the claw-foot tub.
Good riddance.
I should’ve known and I shouldn’t have answered. Mama had hated every blessed decision I’d made since I dared to leave home. Anything outside of Georgia was a mystery, and a place so big and far away as New York City had to be a den of evil. That I didn’t go to church and refused to sacrifice my career to become a breeder made me actual hellspawn.
I flopped back on the bed and tried to control my breathing. I could talk a good game, but that’s all it was.
I was no dancer now.
Maybe I was super, but I was no hero. That had to be earned, and I didn’t see myself out catching criminals in pointe slippers.
What was I supposed to do with the rest of my life?
I scrunched my eyes. She won’t ever be right . I’d been turned down for more roles than I could remember. I’d lived in a one-bedroom with five other girls trying to make it in the city. I’d fallen so hard I saw my dreams break in front of me.
Every time I got back up.
I would own these powers and make them into something I could be proud of. And I wouldn’t cry.
I wiped my eyes. Nope. Not crying.
After I took off my makeup and brushed my teeth, I pretended to sleep. As I lay in bed, routines and memories looped through my mind. My first performance, when Mama wouldn’t do my makeup like the other girls, because her daughter wasn’t looking like some hussy. A thousand battles to keep dancing, and the elation and terror of my first weeks training in New York. Worst of all, my last time on stage, and all that sheet music fluttering like snow.
Amazing how not sleeping brought up every memory I’d tried to forget. At 4:18 I gave up.
I slipped into some practice clothes, grabbed my iPod and a giant bottle of water from Ryan’s fridge and headed downstairs. No sense in wasting time.
A low target riddled with bullet holes and charred marks served as a substitute barre . As I stretched and moved through my positions, I concentrated on the energy inside me, pulling it all the way out through my fingers and toes.
It deepened my stretch. I could bend lower and lift higher than before. The moves were ingrained into my muscle memory. They were supposed to look effortless to the audience, but they’d never felt that way until now.
That thought pushed me through the morning. Maybe I could push it farther. Tap something new.
After I
“Oh, beach balls. Just because you’re some kind of superhero now doesn’t mean you don’t call home. You could’ve been dead. Or prostituted out to one of those muscle boys for all we knew. Where are you?”
“Still in New York.” By muscle boys, I assumed she meant the Ten. It wasn’t such a bad descriptor. “I’m fine. No one’s offered me any money.”
“Well, don’t give it up for free. Beulah—”
My hands bunched into fists. “Belle. You know I had it legally changed.”
“Bah. This is a good thing. You can get out of that heckhole and move home. Get married and start a family like a respectable woman. By the time I was your age, I had you and your brother in grade school. Time’s wasting.”
“Mama.” As I shook, so did my bedside lamp. I wasn’t going to shatter another one. “I’m not moving home, I’m not getting married and I’m never having children. I’m going to have casual sex until I dry up and then I’ll get cats.”
“I don’t know why I try to save you.” Her voice filled with the same horror as the day I’d announced I was taking a dance scholarship to the biggest “heckhole” on Earth. “You’ll fail and you’ll come begging your parents for forgiveness.”
My breaths sped and the chandelier shook. Enough.
“I’m the best dancer in the country. Don’t you ever spit on my hard work and call me a failure.”
I hurled the phone into the bathroom. The case cracked open and the battery skittered under the claw-foot tub.
Good riddance.
I should’ve known and I shouldn’t have answered. Mama had hated every blessed decision I’d made since I dared to leave home. Anything outside of Georgia was a mystery, and a place so big and far away as New York City had to be a den of evil. That I didn’t go to church and refused to sacrifice my career to become a breeder made me actual hellspawn.
I flopped back on the bed and tried to control my breathing. I could talk a good game, but that’s all it was.
I was no dancer now.
Maybe I was super, but I was no hero. That had to be earned, and I didn’t see myself out catching criminals in pointe slippers.
What was I supposed to do with the rest of my life?
I scrunched my eyes. She won’t ever be right . I’d been turned down for more roles than I could remember. I’d lived in a one-bedroom with five other girls trying to make it in the city. I’d fallen so hard I saw my dreams break in front of me.
Every time I got back up.
I would own these powers and make them into something I could be proud of. And I wouldn’t cry.
I wiped my eyes. Nope. Not crying.
After I took off my makeup and brushed my teeth, I pretended to sleep. As I lay in bed, routines and memories looped through my mind. My first performance, when Mama wouldn’t do my makeup like the other girls, because her daughter wasn’t looking like some hussy. A thousand battles to keep dancing, and the elation and terror of my first weeks training in New York. Worst of all, my last time on stage, and all that sheet music fluttering like snow.
Amazing how not sleeping brought up every memory I’d tried to forget. At 4:18 I gave up.
I slipped into some practice clothes, grabbed my iPod and a giant bottle of water from Ryan’s fridge and headed downstairs. No sense in wasting time.
A low target riddled with bullet holes and charred marks served as a substitute barre . As I stretched and moved through my positions, I concentrated on the energy inside me, pulling it all the way out through my fingers and toes.
It deepened my stretch. I could bend lower and lift higher than before. The moves were ingrained into my muscle memory. They were supposed to look effortless to the audience, but they’d never felt that way until now.
That thought pushed me through the morning. Maybe I could push it farther. Tap something new.
After I
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