The Fated Dance: Bound to the Shadow Dancer (2 page)

“Don’t you walk away,” I yell. “I’m not done yet.”

She jogs up the stairs. “Yeah you are… night sis.”

I take a cheap bottle of wine out from the fridge. It’s been in there for over a month and there is only a quarter left. I unscrew the cap and sniff; it will do. I don’t own any wine glasses, so I use my green coffee mug instead. I stare at the dripping tap over the sink, taking a deep breath, wondering if this is it for me: a life full of struggle and stress.

When my father purchased the Bellview Hotel (his latest pet project) and offered the position of site manger to that pompous ass Riley, she immediately sprang to the forefront of my mind. I asked- no- I insisted that he give it to me. ‘In my condition,’ he said. So I told him I needed the challenge. My mind needed something other than the darkness that has been following me around over the last eighteen months.

He eventually agreed. He’s never been one for the emotional stuff. If it can be swept under the carpet and not thought of, then he will gladly take out his brush. He’s always been the same. As soon as I took my first breath, I was handed directly to my nanny. As soon as I said my first words, I spent most of the time with private tutors, locked away from the world. My schooling was everything to him.

At the age of six I was sent away to Gold Guild boarding school, and continued onto Oxford University, overseas. Out of sight-out of mind. He lived in the UK with my grandparents until he met my mother at the age of twenty-four. He studied at Cambridge, and was insistent that I received the same higher education. So he did his thing, pulling strings with the high and mighty, and had me move thousands of miles away.

Then came the moment where I thought I may get a glimpse of a real Father, when I was diagnosed with the big C. But all he did, was throw his money at every specialist he knew to deal with me. He couldn’t even look me in the eye.

Like most nights I sit alone. For a change tonight I’m out in my garden, listening to the soothing sounds of Barber, Prokofiev, and Beethoven, along with the flow of water from the cascading water feature on the wall. The weather is still and warm, and the stars I see across the sky, offer me a small hope that maybe this universe does have a plan. Something good. Something that doesn’t involve doctors, tests, or medication.

My path so far has been one of isolation, pain, and bad luck. But when I first laid my eyes on her tonight (even in that lurid setting) it took me back to a time all those years ago. When I watched her perform at the very hotel my father now owns. That performance has haunted and stuck with me over the years. A powerful lone shadow dance to Adagio for Strings, depicting a Mother’s sorrow after being parted from her child during the war.

Every boy in my class giggled and laughed all the way through it. But I couldn’t take my eyes off her. There was this energy I can’t explain, that told me back then she was special. I never saw her face until the end. And when that screen lifted and she saw the standing ovation just for her, I knew right then that one day I would have to meet her. As an eighteen year old boy- a student- she touched my soul.

When I discovered her gifts were being wasted, something clicked inside me. As I sat in that bar watching her, I saw nothing but an echo of what I witnessed in that show. Yes, she’s still a perfection on my eyes, with her silk like hair and flawless fair skin. But to sit there and compare the two performances was incomprehensible. All I felt for her was pity. Perhaps it’s weird and slightly insane. Maybe I have completely lost my mind. But I see it possible that I can help her. And in return, she can help me.

I finish the last drop of whisky as Henry appears before me with a glass of water, and a handful of my steroid therapy. I have to religiously take these pills every day for a reoccurring chest infection, until all signs of it have completely gone.

“Sir, it’s not a good idea to be drinking,” his brow lines deepen. “Your doctor made that very clear.”

I take the four capsules from his palm, ignoring his warning, and swallow them with the water. I rise to my feet, handing Henry both empty glasses, and make my way through the folding glass doors.

Before I moved here to Berkley, I had this huge house modernized for my specific requirements. And of course my father insisted it be clinically cleaned and installed with the latest air cleansing filter available. My father’s love consists of acquiring anything that will lengthen my life, but avoiding me at all cost.

“Sir,” Henry calls. “Your appointment with Doctor Jenkins is at eleven-fifteen in the morning,” he says with a hint of worry. “Will you be needing me to drive?”

“No Henry, I’m capable of taking myself.”

“Okay sir,” he breathes out. “And the electrician will be here when you’re gone to alter the wiring in the studio.” He puckers his lips in confusion.

“Yes Henry, so if you would be good enough to be available when they arrive?” 

“Yes sir.”

He lingers in a quizzical silence because he doesn’t want to pry. He thinks I’m slowly but surely losing all my marbles, and doesn’t understand why I have rushed this particular job through. I haven’t told him my intentions for the room. It is, and will remain personal, which he is fully aware of.

“Goodnight then sir.”

“Goodnight Henry.”

Henry has been my PA since my father gave me a lead role within the Crane Empire at the age of twenty-two. He means well, and has been the only one who has been by my side all the way through this. I have asked him countless times not to refer to me as sir. He has seen and done things no employee should have to partake in. But he insists, and takes his loyalty very seriously.

I have known him since I was a small child. He would always try and lighten my mood by showing me sleight of hand magic tricks. Or he would shoot hoops with me in my barely used basketball net. He even took me fishing once or twice. The things I needed from my own Father, I got from an employee.

                                                 ***

I stand before the bathroom mirror, rinsing my mouth with antibacterial wash in case any small cuts on my pale gums become infected. I spit and see the small streaks of red. Every day this has occurred, along with the odd nosebleed. I know it’s come back; it’s impossible not to feel the dark obscurity surrounding me once more. There was a time when I would panic at the sight of blood. But when I finished my first bout of chemo six months ago, after undergoing a stem cell transplant, nothing worries me over the torture I went through back then. It was no way to live: surrounded by machinery, constantly fashioning a morgue look, and unable to use the bathroom myself. I was in continuous contact with doctors and nurses, but I felt the loneliest soul on the planet.

I suppose I'm getting used to the idea of now existing with death coursing through my veins. Seeing Jen again, has spurred me on. She may not be willing to take me up on my offer. Working in such an environment has probably hardened her trust. But if she agrees, it will give me a new lease. I know if I don’t at least try, I will be full of regret for what life I have left in me.           

“Bye Flick,” I yell, but like every morning I’m ignored.

Since that incident last Saturday night, she’s barely spoken to me all week. She just hides in her room with her headphone on, only venturing out for food. I could attempt to reason with her. But I’m scared me trying the whole discipline thing will only push her away. I don’t know what happened to us; where things went wrong. Dad’s death hit us both in a big way, and for months after we were the closest of the close. We spent time together, probably in the fear one of us would leave too. Now, we scarcely see each other, and when we do, it ends in tears and tantrums.

I take Dad’s old rusty blue tool box out from the cupboard. I’m going to attempt to fix the leak under the sink on this stifling summer’s day. I once watched Dad loosen the pipes, and I was the one who handed him the tools. So, I think I have a pretty good idea what to use and where.

I crouch down with an adjustable spanner in my hand. I can’t face another night of coming home from work, and having to mop up the damn floor. So today I’m going to do this, and make it good as new. 

I angle my head right inside to get a good look. The leak seems to be coming from the joint in the u-bend. It has to be the washer. I rummage through the tool box. I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for. Something round and rubber I guess. I find a black bandy item that might just do the job.

I tighten the adjuster with a twist, loosen the pipe, and a mini eruption splashes dirty droplets everywhere. I grimace and curse. Now I’m covered in rotten sludge; it’s even on my face. While taking an angry breath, I quickly unscrew the joint and pull it apart. The washer has completely gone, ground down to nothing. I pop the new one inside the u-bend and it fits perfectly. I wipe a smidge of smelly goo from my cheek, then fit the pipes back together.

Okay, the moment of truth. I close my eyes, say a little prayer, and turn on the hot water. I bend and watch the pipes closely.
Please, please, let this work
. I wait a few minutes and smile. Little old useless me has actually fixed something in this dump.

I take a quick shower before I have to leave for work. Like everything else in this house, the shower also doesn’t function correctly. Instead of being sprayed with a nice warm jet of water, I have to wash in nothing but a useless tepid trickle. I’m just glad we’re in the middle of a freak heatwave at the moment; it’s almost bearable.

With my damp hair tied back, I stuff my brown cloth bag with the essentials: hairbrush, cell phone, and my MP3 player, then I head out onto the landing.

I knock on Flick’s door, knowing exactly what’s coming. I hate working Saturday nights, because I know she’ll be up to no good. She doesn’t answer so I open.

Oh god, what on earth is she wearing. She’d fit in well at Venus in her denim miniskirt and tight alter-neck top. I glare at her as she brushes her long hair.

“What?” her eyes expand.

“Where are you going?” She drops her brush on her bed, and picks up her tiny red patent backpack. “Flick?”

“I’m going to see that new group playing at La Boom,” she says, far too casually.

“Err you think,” I snap.

She throws her bag down on the bed so it bounces off the mattress. This is going to break into a full scale argument any second, which will achieve absolutely nothing. I can hear it brewing in her hormonal breaths. But she needs to know I’m not fine with this at all.

“I’m going and you can’t stop me,” she yells. “Jen, you’re not my damn Mom, so stop trying to be.”

My teeth lock down. She can’t treat me like this. I have got to go to work in a minute, and all I’m going to do all night is worry about what kind of trouble she’s getting into.

“If you not back when I get home, or if you get smashed and I have to pick you up,” I say firmly. “Or if you decide you to bring your friends back here so they can wreck the place.” I inhale deep. “I meant every word I said, Flick,” I yell. “You can go live with Uncle Richie… because I’ve had enough of this crap you keep pulling!” She steps back with her hands up as I cough because I’ve hurt my throat shouting.

“Okay,” she shrills. “Keep you knickers on.”

“And make sure you lock up.” I slam the door and rush downstairs before I go back to yell at her some more.

                                             ***

Like always when I arrive at the black double doors of Venus, I’m torn. I want to just walk right by them. I feel the same way every time I get to this point, and have done since my first night working here over twelve months ago.

I make my way down the red carpet as my work colleagues’ dance and serve customers. The music is always the same: slow and loud with a dubstep beat. From nowhere, a guy falls at my feet. He’s intoxicated and getting overexcited by Tara’s floor-work. The place is crawling with them tonight. Every red chair is full. The dance podiums are surrounded. And the lit catwalk has greedy eyes peeled at the bare flesh on show. The male low-life of Berkley are like bee’s to honey tonight. It reeks of sweat, alcohol, and dirty desires.

I step over the guy with my head down. With everything that’s happening at home, and Flick’s need to become some out of control rebel, I’m struggling to get into the right frame of mind to do my job.

When I reach the bar I’m aggressively grabbed by the same guy who groped me last week. I shake my arm, but he won’t let go of me. My eyes scour the area for Zane, but he’s busy keeping control of the animals near the runway. The only one who is trying to help me is Sara, wobbling in her heels while hitting the guy over the head with a serving tray. I’ve had enough. I’m so angry that I want to cause this idiot some real pain. I dig my fingernails deep into his arm and break skin.

He releases me and growls. “You little whore,” he sneers through his wonky stained teeth.

Just as I’m about to scream at the guy and tell him to go to hell, Grayson Crane appears over his shoulder. I blink and sigh out. I think someone up there is trying to make things so difficult for me, I have to quit. Sara totters behind the bar area to search for Phil.

My awkward eyes watch as Grayson taps on the guy’s shoulder. He clamps his jaw and stands tall over him. I mumble to myself in annoyance. I don’t need his help, and I don’t understand why he’s even here. He doesn’t fit well in a joint like this: smelling all fine, dressed in beige tailored trousers and a crisp white shirt.

The guy turns with a glare as Grayson smiles politely. All hell could break loose here. I can foresee a bar brawl, and know someone like Grayson will come out of it the worst.

“Excuse me sir,” Grayson says in an eloquent tone. “Is there a problem here?”

The sweaty douchebag continues to glare at Grayson. He wants a reaction, but Grayson isn’t taking the bait.

“What’s it to you?” The guy sways side to side, getting closer to Grayson’s chest.

I blow out with an eye roll. Last thing I need is to have to play referee; to prevent some rich novice on this scene from getting an ass whooping.

“Excuse me,” I utter, but the music drowns out my faint voice. “Excuse me,” I bark with authority.

Both Grayson and the guy turn to me. The idiot who caused all this steps closer. But the proximity of his fury is not bothering me, not in comparison with Grayson’s relentless gaze.

Sara pulls Phil’s arm through the bar hatch. He takes note of Grayson and I can see the dollar signs reel in his eyes.

“Gerry,” Phil barks at the troublemaker. “Drink up and go.”

Gerry mutters as a vein swells in the side of his neck. He picks up his bottle, goes to swig, then launches it right at Phil’s head, missing him by an inch. The glass shatters against several liquor bottles, and spirits and glass fall to the floor. Zane thunders over to the ruckus, and Gerry’s wrath swiftly turns to fear. He grabs hold of the back of Gerry’s neck and pushes him to the doors.

Grayson lingers in reserve with his eyes on me. If he’s waiting for me to thank him, he’s going to be waiting a long time. I lower my head and pass by him without saying a word.

I ruffle my fingers through my hair while looking for my black strappy wedges in the dressing room. But can’t find them anywhere. Tara stumbles through the door beads, sweating. I look at her feet and scowl. She has had the audacity to borrow them without asking. She knows I hate anyone using my stuff.

“Sorry,” she flinches. “I left my platforms at home.”

I mutter in anger. I’m not going to wear them now she’s had her smelly feet in them. Whether Phil likes it or not, I’m going barefoot tonight.

I sweep a little blusher over my cheekbones as Phil continually calls me out. I growl and toss down the brush. I have butterflies bursting in my gut and feel queasy. I’ve never felt so ill before my slot, and I think I know the reason why- Grayson Crane. The money he’s offered me, and the way he keeps popping in here, he’s beginning to get inside my head.

I wiggle down the runway. I know Phil isn’t going to like this, me dancing without shoes on. I look like I’m about to take a swim. Thing is, I love dancing barefoot. Having a firm contact with the floor beneath my feet, means I don’t have to be concerned about falling on my butt.

The next song starts and immediately Grayson stands tall at the bar to get a better view. I tell myself not to look at him, to concentrate exclusively on the two men gazing at me with goggle eyes. I bend to the beat, rest my elbows on the floor, then I use my core to deadlift my legs. I perform an inverted body wave then drop down into the splits. As soon as I fling back my hair, I come face to face with Phil’s furious wrinkles.

The guys I were entertaining murmur to each other, stand, and go across to the area where the naked flesh is ample.

“That’s why you wear heels Jen,” he grunts, as I bring my legs up to my chest. “Guys don’t come here to watch gymnastics, that’s on the box for free.”

Just as I’m about to open my mouth and tell him to stick his job where the sun don’t shine, Grayson tugs on Phil’s black shirt with a business like smile. He leads an agreeable Phil out of my hearing range to discuss something. I fling my legs off the catwalk, frowning as Grayson leaves Phil to retrieve his drink from the bar. I hop down onto the sticky carpet, and make my way toward the dressing room.

“Jen… Jen,” Phil yells.

I don’t turn. I don’t want to hear how men get off on stripper shoes, or how he’s giving my slots to one of the more easy girls.

“Jen.” 

I spin in annoyance. “What!”

“You’re wanted in the green room.”

I must be hearing things. He knows I don’t do private dances, and he knows I don’t go all out nude. I scowl, wondering if he’s being serious.

“Grayson Crane has asked for you, and you’re not going to let me down… he’s paid up front.”

“Phil, I don’t care if the sultan of Brunei is in there,” I yell. “You know I don’t do the rooms.” I turn to walk away, only to have him latching onto my arm again. “Get off me!”

“Listen,” he appeals, desperately. “He was adamant you keep your bits covered… he wants ten minutes of your time. It’s payday Jen.”

“Phil, you’re not my damn pimp,” I bark. “You’ll have to go and pay him back won’t you. You should have never agreed without my say so in the first place.”

“You’re nuts Jen. You want me to go and hand him back the three grand because you won’t do your thing for ten measly minutes!” He blows out shaking his head. “Split sixty forty, that’s twelve hundred for you.”

Oh god, he’s taking money, and money talks in my dire situation. With the fifteen hundred I have at home, and if I agree to do this tonight, hell, that’s half the arrears I owe on the house paid-off.

I exhale, closing my eyes. Can I really do this? Out here where all the other girls dance, I’m not alone, I’m just performing. But to do it privately, one on one, is a whole different ballgame. And not only that, there’s the fact that Grayson Crane puzzles me. He makes me feel unstable and hot.

“He’s waiting. Go freshen up, and just get the job done Jen.” Phil pats my arms and leaves me seriously considering damning my soul further.

I sit before my mirror and glance down at my black wedges. I’m sure I can manage ten minutes. I’ll concentrate on the dance and not look into his dangerous eyes.

I quickly slip my shoes on and shake my legs, taking a deep breath of encouragement.

                                                  ***

I’m now stood before the green room door. Phil has pulled out all the stops for this guy. I can hear my greatest dance songs booming in there.
Okay, here goes nothing
. I twist the knob and open, to see Grayson sat in the corner of the emerald green velvet couch. He has his legs crossed, with a glass of whisky resting on his knee. I swallow and close the door.

“Jen is it?” he asks.

This is a simple job with absolutely no chitchat. The aim is to frustrate him with my body, and get paid. Nothing more.

“Yes, but,” I beam. “No talking.” I tease and swagger, then halt with my legs apart for a hip roll.

He immediately stands with an annoyed expression. His red lips press and his eyes reel. My heart feels like it is about to burst out from my chest. I don’t have a clue why he didn’t like that. He bends over and unplugs the speakers. I remain still, holding my fingers before my black hot-pants as he returns to his seat.