Read Online The Tease (The Darling Killer Trilogy) by Nikki M. Pill - Free Book Online
Authors: Nikki M. Pill
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this evening, or tomorrow?
Sincerely,
Kevin
I scowled. How could he possibly think I’d go on a date when my friend was just murdered?
Maybe he doesn’t know
. At least, that’s what I’d suggest to a client. I checked the time stamp. 12:18 am.
So either he’s a total sicko who emailed me from his phone in the theater lobby while the police gathered up witnesses, or he left immediately after we met
.
I deleted it. He was cute, but I didn’t want to think about it.
I opened the next email.
Dear Velvet,
I LOVED YOUR DANCING SO MUCH. Do you teach private lessons? I want to start right away, it looks so fun. Are you free at all this weekend? I’d like to get the “ball” rolling asap. LMK? My cell is 773-555-1798, and money’s no problem, whatever you charge is fine, I cant wait!
OXOXO
Lynne
At least she wasn’t asking me to teach her to write.
I closed the email and rubbed my eyes. I was a little put off by the jumping puppy thing, but I thought about my enormous pile of student loan bills, and I reconsidered. I’d planned to stay in all weekend and relax.
Probably not the best plan when I see a dead body every time I close my eyes
. I wrote back and suggested a time the next day.
I didn’t want to dance. I wanted go back to the kitchen and make fried potatoes with cheese and sausage and a Bloody Mary. The thing is, if I only practice when I want to, I’ll never actually practice. I learned a trick from my dad. If you start practicing and surrender to it, you’ll come around to enjoying it once you really get going.
I finished my coffee, filled my water bottle, and changed into yoga pants and a tank top. Then I headed into the studio, the main reason I picked this apartment. It wasn’t a huge room, probably ten by twelve feet, but it was plenty for me. I’d painted the walls and baseboards a rich shade of red, and then gone over the red trim with gold leaf paint. Curtains of gold brocade – okay, fake brocade, because I’m on a therapist’s budget – completed the room. Accordion closet doors, also painted gold over red, took up most of the west side of the room. Long mirrors I’d picked up on sale covered the north wall. In one corner, a TV and iPod dock sat on a TV stand that housed my dance DVDs.
I turned the music up as loud as I could without making the downstairs neighbors complain, and attacked my yoga practice.
Some people like light, airy synthesizer music and nature sounds during yoga. Not me. I play rock, metal, or anything with good guitars and a driving beat. I like a heat-building practice with lots of warrior poses and long holds, sweat dripping into my eyes. A light, gentle stretching session allows too much space in my brain: space for the to-do list, the work stress, the single-and-not-quite-loving-it stress. A vigorous practice focused me on my breath and burning muscles. It crowded out the other noise.
Once my muscles burned pleasantly, I rolled up the mat, put on my battered practice heels, and started drilling some dance combinations. It’s one thing to dance and balance in heels when you’re just barely warmed up; it’s a whole different animal with fatigued muscles. I had to fight to maintain my balance, to spin into a drop, to keep my steps precise and my chest held high.
If I can nail choreography three times in a row when I’m exhausted, then I don’t have to worry about a thing when I hit the stage fresh.
The music overtook me. I let muscle memory and whim carry me through the drumbeats and guitar riffs. That accent I always meant to hit? Got it. I presented my side, downstage leg bent a little to accentuate the curve, waist twisted a little to make it tiny. I forgot about my generous butt and lower belly, forgot the case notes I had to complete, forgot the stack of delivery menus I stuffed into a cupboard in the kitchen.
I was fine until the music shuffled to “How to Strip for Your Husband.” I remembered where my left shoulder would touch Lisa’s
Sincerely,
Kevin
I scowled. How could he possibly think I’d go on a date when my friend was just murdered?
Maybe he doesn’t know
. At least, that’s what I’d suggest to a client. I checked the time stamp. 12:18 am.
So either he’s a total sicko who emailed me from his phone in the theater lobby while the police gathered up witnesses, or he left immediately after we met
.
I deleted it. He was cute, but I didn’t want to think about it.
I opened the next email.
Dear Velvet,
I LOVED YOUR DANCING SO MUCH. Do you teach private lessons? I want to start right away, it looks so fun. Are you free at all this weekend? I’d like to get the “ball” rolling asap. LMK? My cell is 773-555-1798, and money’s no problem, whatever you charge is fine, I cant wait!
OXOXO
Lynne
At least she wasn’t asking me to teach her to write.
I closed the email and rubbed my eyes. I was a little put off by the jumping puppy thing, but I thought about my enormous pile of student loan bills, and I reconsidered. I’d planned to stay in all weekend and relax.
Probably not the best plan when I see a dead body every time I close my eyes
. I wrote back and suggested a time the next day.
I didn’t want to dance. I wanted go back to the kitchen and make fried potatoes with cheese and sausage and a Bloody Mary. The thing is, if I only practice when I want to, I’ll never actually practice. I learned a trick from my dad. If you start practicing and surrender to it, you’ll come around to enjoying it once you really get going.
I finished my coffee, filled my water bottle, and changed into yoga pants and a tank top. Then I headed into the studio, the main reason I picked this apartment. It wasn’t a huge room, probably ten by twelve feet, but it was plenty for me. I’d painted the walls and baseboards a rich shade of red, and then gone over the red trim with gold leaf paint. Curtains of gold brocade – okay, fake brocade, because I’m on a therapist’s budget – completed the room. Accordion closet doors, also painted gold over red, took up most of the west side of the room. Long mirrors I’d picked up on sale covered the north wall. In one corner, a TV and iPod dock sat on a TV stand that housed my dance DVDs.
I turned the music up as loud as I could without making the downstairs neighbors complain, and attacked my yoga practice.
Some people like light, airy synthesizer music and nature sounds during yoga. Not me. I play rock, metal, or anything with good guitars and a driving beat. I like a heat-building practice with lots of warrior poses and long holds, sweat dripping into my eyes. A light, gentle stretching session allows too much space in my brain: space for the to-do list, the work stress, the single-and-not-quite-loving-it stress. A vigorous practice focused me on my breath and burning muscles. It crowded out the other noise.
Once my muscles burned pleasantly, I rolled up the mat, put on my battered practice heels, and started drilling some dance combinations. It’s one thing to dance and balance in heels when you’re just barely warmed up; it’s a whole different animal with fatigued muscles. I had to fight to maintain my balance, to spin into a drop, to keep my steps precise and my chest held high.
If I can nail choreography three times in a row when I’m exhausted, then I don’t have to worry about a thing when I hit the stage fresh.
The music overtook me. I let muscle memory and whim carry me through the drumbeats and guitar riffs. That accent I always meant to hit? Got it. I presented my side, downstage leg bent a little to accentuate the curve, waist twisted a little to make it tiny. I forgot about my generous butt and lower belly, forgot the case notes I had to complete, forgot the stack of delivery menus I stuffed into a cupboard in the kitchen.
I was fine until the music shuffled to “How to Strip for Your Husband.” I remembered where my left shoulder would touch Lisa’s
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