wasn’t unheard-of. It was quite common, actually, for romance to flower between ballet partners.
He groaned inwardly. No . He could bear not having her, but he couldn’t bear watching Blake paw at her in the halls. No.
They entered separately. He watched them. They didn’t interact like people in a relationship. Of course he and Prosper didn’t interact like people in a relationship either. If Blake and Prosper were together, they’d hide it. The very idea of it filled him with rage, the idea of Blake’s hands all over her perfectly sculpted body, her sensitive flesh.
Focus.
It was the first day of rehearsals with the corps, so they were in the big practice room. Even so it felt crowded. He missed practicing alone with her, although it was easy enough to keep track of her among the other dancers. He just had to look for her hair. They worked on the second act, the frenetic dance when the Firebird drove Kostchei’s minions to dance until they died. In Fokine’s version, they didn’t die but only fell asleep. Jackson decided he wanted Prosper to leave behind a stage full of corpses. By the end of the ninety-minute rehearsal, the corps, who had never worked with Jackson before, feared his awful wrath. Any poor corps dancer who found himself out of step or not paying attention was the victim of a vicious harangue. But he was hardest on Prosper.
“Faster, faster!” He drove her, even when he knew she was doing her best. “Move your feet! You’re supposed to be flying!”
“Okay!”
“No. Like this…” He marked the beats with sharp claps, but she couldn’t match his tempo. He grew more frustrated, pounded the rhythm with his fist in his palm.
“I’m trying!” She fell off pointe and spun on him. “What else do you want from me? I’m giving you my best, everything I have! If it’s not good enough for you—” She threw her arms up and stalked away to lean against the barre.
He blew out his breath and looked around at the corps. All of them watching.
“Okay. Enough for today. Thank you. We’ll pick up here tomorrow.”
The dancers left quickly, not waiting around to socialize or deconstruct the rehearsal with their friends. They scattered like roaches under a spotlight.
All of them but her.
He grabbed his dance book and his bag and headed to the door to find her standing alone there in the corner, glaring at him. It was a private place to stand, a place the other dancers couldn’t see even looking in windows. He closed the door and turned to her.
“Very professional.”
“Right back at you, fucker.”
“Are you seeing him?” he blurted out before he could stop himself.
“Who?” The confusion on her face made the knot inside him relax. She wasn’t capable of subterfuge.
“Blake,” he said anyway. “Tell me the truth.”
“No, of course I’m not seeing him.” She shook her head and turned away, shouldering her dance bag. His hand closed around her arm. “Let go of me,” she said tightly.
He released her and bowed his head to hers. “Okay. For now. But I will touch you eventually. And you won’t be the one giving orders then.” He held himself a body’s width apart from her. “They’re watching, Prosper. Always. You wanted discretion.”
“I know. And I don’t care. I don’t. I don’t have time for this anyway. For you. To see you. So I don’t care—I’m busy, and I’m concentrating on this ballet, so—” She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I mean, whatever. If you’re over it, I don’t care—”
“You think I’m over it? Because I want to work and not play flirty goo-goo eyes with you? We agreed, you and I, that we would not bring it here. You seemed very relieved when I suggested it, if I remember correctly. You’re my dancer here. Not my girlfriend, not my—” He fell silent.
“Fuck buddy?” she supplied in a voice edged with sarcasm.
“Okay,” he said. “Just take some deep breaths.”
“I don’t want to take deep breaths! I don’t want
He groaned inwardly. No . He could bear not having her, but he couldn’t bear watching Blake paw at her in the halls. No.
They entered separately. He watched them. They didn’t interact like people in a relationship. Of course he and Prosper didn’t interact like people in a relationship either. If Blake and Prosper were together, they’d hide it. The very idea of it filled him with rage, the idea of Blake’s hands all over her perfectly sculpted body, her sensitive flesh.
Focus.
It was the first day of rehearsals with the corps, so they were in the big practice room. Even so it felt crowded. He missed practicing alone with her, although it was easy enough to keep track of her among the other dancers. He just had to look for her hair. They worked on the second act, the frenetic dance when the Firebird drove Kostchei’s minions to dance until they died. In Fokine’s version, they didn’t die but only fell asleep. Jackson decided he wanted Prosper to leave behind a stage full of corpses. By the end of the ninety-minute rehearsal, the corps, who had never worked with Jackson before, feared his awful wrath. Any poor corps dancer who found himself out of step or not paying attention was the victim of a vicious harangue. But he was hardest on Prosper.
“Faster, faster!” He drove her, even when he knew she was doing her best. “Move your feet! You’re supposed to be flying!”
“Okay!”
“No. Like this…” He marked the beats with sharp claps, but she couldn’t match his tempo. He grew more frustrated, pounded the rhythm with his fist in his palm.
“I’m trying!” She fell off pointe and spun on him. “What else do you want from me? I’m giving you my best, everything I have! If it’s not good enough for you—” She threw her arms up and stalked away to lean against the barre.
He blew out his breath and looked around at the corps. All of them watching.
“Okay. Enough for today. Thank you. We’ll pick up here tomorrow.”
The dancers left quickly, not waiting around to socialize or deconstruct the rehearsal with their friends. They scattered like roaches under a spotlight.
All of them but her.
He grabbed his dance book and his bag and headed to the door to find her standing alone there in the corner, glaring at him. It was a private place to stand, a place the other dancers couldn’t see even looking in windows. He closed the door and turned to her.
“Very professional.”
“Right back at you, fucker.”
“Are you seeing him?” he blurted out before he could stop himself.
“Who?” The confusion on her face made the knot inside him relax. She wasn’t capable of subterfuge.
“Blake,” he said anyway. “Tell me the truth.”
“No, of course I’m not seeing him.” She shook her head and turned away, shouldering her dance bag. His hand closed around her arm. “Let go of me,” she said tightly.
He released her and bowed his head to hers. “Okay. For now. But I will touch you eventually. And you won’t be the one giving orders then.” He held himself a body’s width apart from her. “They’re watching, Prosper. Always. You wanted discretion.”
“I know. And I don’t care. I don’t. I don’t have time for this anyway. For you. To see you. So I don’t care—I’m busy, and I’m concentrating on this ballet, so—” She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I mean, whatever. If you’re over it, I don’t care—”
“You think I’m over it? Because I want to work and not play flirty goo-goo eyes with you? We agreed, you and I, that we would not bring it here. You seemed very relieved when I suggested it, if I remember correctly. You’re my dancer here. Not my girlfriend, not my—” He fell silent.
“Fuck buddy?” she supplied in a voice edged with sarcasm.
“Okay,” he said. “Just take some deep breaths.”
“I don’t want to take deep breaths! I don’t want
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