Mercy (5 page)

I turned back to Mr. Norris.
Matthew.
I’d called him Mr. Norris so many times in disdain. I’d never remember to call him Matthew now.

“Mr. Norris?” I began.
Ugh, you idiot.
“Um, Matthew, the last time we talked...please forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Yes there is. I was so rude to you. I apologize, I really do.”

He smiled, that kind, easy smile, and leaned close to me so my eyes fixed on his lips.

“I apologize for calling you a thing,” he said. “Although in my defense, I did call you a thing of
beauty
.”

I looked up at him and somehow managed a smile. His own smile was infectious, but he still scared me. Why did he scare me so much? I couldn’t put my finger on it. Wild animal male, I thought to myself.
Dangerous and unpredictable.
And here we
were,
alone together back in the wings where no one could see us.
Mr. Norris, the wild animal, and me, his prey.

But he wasn’t wild. In fact his manners were impeccable. He took my glass and offered to bring me more champagne. He left, fully trusting me to wait there for him, and I did although my brain was pleading with me to fly.

When he returned to me with our full glasses of bubbly, I waited for the typical moronic toast.
To dance whores
, I envisioned him saying, holding up his glass to me. But no silly toasts or comments were forthcoming. He only sipped his champagne and looked out with me as the room began to thin.

“Where were you?” I asked finally, to fill the awkward silence.
“Earlier tonight?
When the party began?”

“You missed me?”

I
blushed
a thousand shades of red.

“Well, you remember that I
work
,” he said. “I had a phone call I had to take and unfortunately it went on and on. I did see your performance though, and I’m glad for that. It was just lovely.” And the way he said
lovely
, it wasn’t gushing or
fake
, just hopelessly kind.

I turned my head away in self-preservation. If he didn’t leave me soon, I would humiliate myself over him.

“How long have you been dancing?” he asked. He had a strange way of talking to me, sort of formal and stern, but his voice never rose above that quiet, calm tone.

“I’ve danced forever. Since before I can remember, I’ve been dancing.”

“Did your parents dance, too?”

“No. Why?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just wonder where this kind of talent comes from.
Genetics, nurturing?
Or just hard work?”

I stared out at the rows of seats in the theater. “I’ve worked pretty hard.”

“Hmm.
I’m sure you have.” He looked at me again like he was looking at a
thing
. “How long will you continue to dance, Lucy?”

“Until I can’t anymore,” I answered without pause. He looked hard at me then. Was he trying to guess how long I had left? “Have you ever danced?” I blurted out to distract him from thinking about my age.

That made him laugh
, loud and hard.
“Oh, no.
Fortunately for humanity, no, I never have. And I never will.”

His self-deprecating words made me giggle.
“Maybe if you’d had lessons.”

“Yes, maybe.”
He laughed with a nod.

I bit my lip. I had no idea what else to say. He rendered me speechless and I can’t say how. I could see how he excelled at business. He had a manner about him that had me at his feet.

“So, do you like these things, these ‘Galas’?” he asked.

I felt embarrassed, as if he’d somehow overheard the snide comments
Grégoire
and I had made all night.

“No, not really.”

“Why don’t you?”

I wanted to say something cutesy and glib, but the way he stared at me compelled me to absolute truth.

“Because they feel really fake.
Artificial.”

“And you don’t like that?
Make-believe?”

He didn’t say it suggestively, but my mind flew to the silly make-believe fantasies he’d spurred in my mind. Or maybe he did know. Ugh, why couldn’t I stop blushing? I could feel it creeping up into my cheeks again.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “I like make-believe sometimes.
When I’m in the mood.”

“Hmm.
And what puts you in the mood for make-believe?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I finally shrugged and said, “I don’t know.”

“I’m not big on make-believe,” he said, looking out over the crowd.

“But dance is make-believe, isn’t it?” I waved my arm around at the pomp and glitter that surrounded us. “And you’re here, dressed up in your tuxedo and bow tie.”

“Well, sometimes you just play along, don’t you?” And by
you
, I guessed he meant people in general, but I felt it directed at me.
You just play along, Lucy, don’t you?

The champagne was making me warm. I rubbed my cheeks.

“Are you tired?” he asked me in a strangely mesmerizing voice. It sounded like an inappropriately intimate thing to say, because what it really sounded like to me was that he thought I should go to bed.
His
bed.

“I’m just getting a little drunk. It doesn’t take much.”

“I guess not,” he said, running his eyes up and down my body.
“Someone as little as you.”

“I’m not little.”

“You’re smaller than me.” It was true, I was quite a bit smaller than him—the strong, tall, animal man beside me in his expensive shoes and bespoke designer tux.

“I may be small, but I’m strong.”

“Yes. Strong, I believe.
Perhaps even stronger than me.”

I looked at his broad shoulders, his solid thighs. Even his hands were strong.
Stronger than him?
Not likely. He moved a little closer to me. He was so virile, so sexy. It had to be the alcohol that made me feel like throwing myself at him. Why had I drunk so much?

“Well, you’re little and strong, and you’re a hell of a dancer,” he said, as if that settled things. I watched him sip champagne, perfect and rich, and I knew he thought for sure he would have me.

“Yes, I do dance,” I said, shaking my head to clear it. “But I do a lot more than that. I’m a lot more than just a dancer and I can do a lot more than pretty pony tricks.”

He looked at me, his eyes narrowed. I quickly looked away. Why had I said that? “I think I’m drunk, Mr. Norris.”

“Matthew.”

“Matthew, I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”

“Why don’t you let me drive you home?”

“No,” I said too quickly, then blushed red and hot again. “No, um...we’re supposed to stay until the end.”

“That’s a shame.
If you’re tired.”
He spoke to me sympathetically although I’m sure he knew I lied. Maybe that’s why he looked at me sympathetically.
Poor girl.
Poor little cowardly liar.

“Well, I won’t exhaust you with more conversation.” His tone was changed, distant and cool. He looked at me with muted reprobation.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted miserably. “I really, really am.”

“For what?”

“For being so rude, when you’re just being nice to me. I don’t know why I do it. I really don’t.”

“Oh, it’s probably just a matter of being
tired,
and maybe a little nervous and scared.”

“Nervous and scared about what?”

“Nervous and scared about me, I suppose, and what I might want from you. Yes?”

“I’m not nervous and scared,” I protested without much conviction, because he was scaring me to death. His gaze pinned me and again I squelched the urge to flee. “I have nothing to give you, honestly. So, I don’t know. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?”

“No, I don’t, Mr. Norris.”

“Matthew,” he said again. He looked at me, cool and thoughtful. “Okay, Lucy. Okay.”

He rubbed his lips, the first nervous gesture I’d ever seen him do. “Okay, Lucy,” he repeated again, and then he turned and walked away. I fought the urge to follow him, to run after him apologizing. Again, I’d repelled him. Why? Why was I such a mess around him?

Why did he make me so afraid?

As soon as I thought he wouldn’t see me, I ran all the way back to my dressing room and slammed the door. I sat at the table where
Grégoire
had lounged earlier and put my head down in my arms. I couldn’t face
Grégoire
or Mr. Norris or any of them. I couldn’t face anyone out there in that crowd. I hid in that dressing room long past
midnight,
until I was sure every single one of them was gone. I waited and hid and trembled, coward that I was.

Chapter Three: Coffee

When I finally left the theater, the cleaning staff had to let me out. It was late, dark and quiet. I think it was probably almost one. The bars hadn’t closed yet so I decided to chance the short walk home. The way that I felt that night, I dared anybody to come my way. I felt the way I felt when I woke up from my nightmares, like I desperately had to cry and scream when I couldn’t do either.

I stalked down the empty sidewalk thinking about him, trying to understand why I felt the way I felt. And what on earth must the man think of me?
That I was a train wreck, unbalanced and weird.
That I was an immature bitch, not the talented dancer he thought I was at all. All the things I hated about myself, I was sure he saw them quite well.

I wrapped my coat more tightly around me. It had been a hard few weeks for me. I wondered about Joe, if he had married the love of his life yet.
Kim, his ex.
Did Kim know what love was? Joe said she did. Did she really love Joe? Kim and Joe both seemed like grown-ups, so much wiser and smarter than me. I could dance and I guess I was pretty, but what else was I?

A liar.
A coward.
A mess.

I heard some voices then, male voices, low and nasty.
Dangerous laughter.
I lifted my head to see a few men standing by a stoop between me and my house. I put my head back down. I wouldn’t let them scare me,
I wouldn’t
, but my body rebelled. My body felt fear. My heart pounded fast because of the way they looked at me, like they were going to
do
something.
Like they were on the edge of action, making a decision.
When I passed by them they fell into step behind me. My blood whooshed almost painfully in my ears.

“Hey,” said one of them.

I kept walking.

“Hey, I’m talking to you, bitch.”

My breath backed up in my chest. Should I start running? They would catch me in an instant and probably have a good laugh over it. So I didn’t run. I just kept walking.