Page 10 of Fragile

“I mean it, Gabe. I need you to look out for her. She’s so soft and gentle, grew up in a small village. She isn’t used to city life and has only been in London for six months. The girl doesn’t know the meaning of the word streetwise.”

I snorted at that one. “Neither do you.”

“But I’m getting better. You must admit it?”

“I suppose so. Leaving you to your own devices has probably done you good.”

“Do you promise, you’ll look out for her?”

When his eyes met mine, I replied in a firm voice, “And why the fuck would I do that?”

“Because you value beautiful things,” he said. I almost threw my head back and laughed like an insane person.

“I certainly like to fuck beautiful things.” My reply astonishingly brought a smile to my brother's lips.

“Not going to happen. Leonie is way too sweet for you. She’s the real deal Gabe, kind, funny and sweet. Wife material, for some lucky guy anyway. She isn’t the type you could shag and walk away from. Fuck me, I’m already in love with her. She’s addictive. Most of the guys in my class have the bug; everyone knows who she is and they all clamber to get her attention. She’s like a man magnet. Plus, her dance partner Dimitri is well fit.”

Hmm, I took an instant dislike to Dimitri.

I rolled my eyes and deposited my empty bottle into the recycling bin. So, Asher thought I’d protect his beard?

It was at that moment that I knew what had to be done. If it took being a cock to her to keep her at arm's length, then so be it. And yes. I could have protected Leonie from the scum of the city if I was so inclined. But the main question was, who would protect her from me?

Leonie

The rest of the week whizzed by and there was so much to do in such a short amount of time. As I started packing, my eyes drifted to the closed door of my apartment. I knew Simon was in his office and the thought of him being so close, caused a pang of dread to beat through me. I hadn’t even told him I was leaving yet. How would he react? Who cared right? I was out of there, at last. No more looking over my shoulder as I came home, praying Simon didn’t show and perv all over me.

I carried on stuffing my second suitcase with clothing; not that I had much. A few pairs of jeans and T-shirts and one dress. Most of my stuff was dance gear; a variety of athletic clothing, expensive pointe shoes and various pairs of ballet slippers. All of which had seen better days.

I was training to become a ballet dancer (or ballerina as my foster mother would say in her old-fashioned way). I was currently a student at a small ballet company located in Soho, having joined them after several vigorous auditions six months ago. I hadn’t made it into the company yet and was still in training, but it was a step forward from my last school. The one back home when I’d still lived with my foster parents.

My dream was to one day perform on stage with the Royal Ballet at the Opera House in Covent Garden. I had my sights set on being part of their corps de ballet and maybe I’d eventually perform as a demi-soloist or even a soloist. I wasn’t conceited enough to think I would ever make it to the title of principal dancer, but ‘you have to have goals’ my foster dad would say.

As I pushed another pair of dance skins into my case, I leaned over the bed and picked up the picture of my parents; my real parents.

I encouraged the numbness to wash over me. Lorraine and Michael Smith had died in the car accident we were in when I was ten; a pile-up on the motorway caused by poor visibility. It had been bonfire night and the smoke from a nearby fire had swept across the road making it difficult to see.

That familiar lump appeared in my throat as I stared down at their image. My mother had died in front of me; I could remember the colour of her skin and the way her eyes had remained open, almost watching me. I had survived with minimal injuries but it had taken years to recover from the emotional damage. If I was honest, I wasn’t quite there yet. Time was the healer I had been told, but I would never forget that fateful night. How could I? The fifth of November, that one day that I desperately dreaded which reappeared each year. A constant reminder.

My insides cramped painfully as I carefully pushed the picture into my case, ensuring it was well-covered by clothing so it didn’t get damaged. I then placed the picture of my foster parents gently on top of it.

Janet and Mark Fox had given me love and stability when I needed it most; unlike some of the other kids in foster care, I hadn’t been rotated around the system like an unwanted smell. They had been my rock, my anchor.

I released a sigh and pushed those thoughts to the back of my mind, as I reminded myself I was on the clock. I didn’t have time to grieve just then.

After stripping the duvet off my bed and placing it in a bin sack, I stared down at my stuff. Two cases, a rucksack and two bin bags. That was it, my entire life since coming to London.

A fist on my door made me jump, the thought of it being Simon causing me to bite my lip.

“Yes?” I said with a startled croak.

Relief pooled into me at the reply. “It’s Asher. Get a shift on, I’ve got Gabe’s driver downstairs and he’s parked on double yellows.”

The boy I saw as my best friend since I’d moved to London had come to help me with my stuff. I had thought we’d split the burden between us and take the Tube, but the use of a car was so much better.

Moving over to the door, I drew back the bolt and unlocked it, dragging it open; the loud shrill noise it made wouldn’t be missed.

Ash was standing there looking boyishly handsome. “Your ride awaits my lady,” he said with a theatrical sweep of his arm.

---