Page 3 of Off Balance

I grew up in Atlanta and I’ve lived most of my adult life in Las Vegas, so it’s not like I’ve been sheltered from the gay community. I’m very aware that sexuality is a spectrum, and I’ve met people from all walks of life. But not once have I ever considered a man this way. Not even by men as pretty as this young dancer.

Maybe I’m coming down with something. It’s the only explanation for my ridiculous, confusing head space. And the sweat. Yeah, that’s it. I’m sick. I shouldn’t stay and risk getting anyone else sick if it could be contagious.

But before I can steer Dwayne back to the exit and make excuses, we're already entering the lobby. Servers are walking around with trays of champagne and bites of food so small even an entire tray wouldn't be enough to satisfy one of these ballerinas with waists smaller than my arm.

I try to hang back, wanting to scout the room before I end up getting too close to the dancer. I don't know what's gotten into me or what I'm feeling, but I have a feeling I shouldn't engage. For multiple reasons. It’s best I stay far, far away.

Prickles break out along the back of my neck, and I look up at the stairs that descend into the lavish space. Applause breaks out as four people come out to stand along the top banister. My dancer—ahem—the male dancer, next to his partner, and two men on either side of them.

He's still wearing the tights, but he's wearing a snug black t-shirt with it now. I'm close enough to make out more of his features. It's definitely not the same guy from the douchey headshot in the playbill. This guy has glowing skin that is somehow tan and pale at the same time, dark blonde hair that's short on the sides and longer on top, pushed back off his forehead with either water, sweat, or gel, I don't know. I can't tell what color his eyes are from here, but they're glowing with happiness. He looks overwhelmed with happiness, despite the nervous way he scans the crowd. His joy radiates through the room in pulses that reach all the way back to where I'm standing. It's warm and thick like honey, and tastes just as sweet.

His partner takes his arm, and they walk down the steps together, stopping at a landing halfway down and beaming at the crowd below them. They take a bow together, and then the man spins the woman gracefully so she can do a more intricate curtsy.

Dwayne taps my shoulder. "Take some pictures. You'll be better able to get some good shots above everyone's heads."

I don't ask any questions, just pull my phone from my pocket. Once the camera app is opened, I zoom in to get a closer look at the dancers. At him. At his high cheekbones and the delicate bridge of his nose. At his full mouth and gleaming white teeth that aren't perfectly straight, but give his smile character. His cheeks are flushed, likely from the exertion of the show but also clearly from the pure joy radiating out of him. I take far too many photos before remembering there's someone next to him, and then make sure to incorporate some shots of her with him. She kisses his cheek, and I put the camera down.

The other two men descend the stairs as the stars of the show start to make their way down to the crowd. One of the men, wearing all black to match the shiny black hair pulled back in a low ponytail, catches the male dancer's hand before he can make it off the stairs, and pulls him back up to the landing. He reaches for two glasses of champagne, handing one to the dancer, then raising his own. The crowd hushes to hear his toast.

"Thank you, everyone, for coming to theDe Pointe Eliteproduction ofGloire Du Matin. I am, of course, Emile Alistar."

He gives a slight bow to the light applause that breaks out overhearing his name. He must be important. I don't like the way he's gripping the dancer's shoulder, as if holding him in place. Like he owns him.

"This production has been a labor of love from the moment of its inception, when a tiny seedling was planted as I watched the sunrise from the balcony of my chateau overlooking the French Riviera."

Jesus, he sounds pompous, his nasally accent getting thicker as he goes on. I tune him out, watching his fingers flex around the dancer’s wrist. I start paying attention again when he takes the dancer's hand and holds it up delicately, like he’s showing off a pretty trophy. The pretty part is right, at least.

"Tonight, you all saw more than just anotherincroyableAlistar production rise, but you have also witnessed the birth ofDe Pointe Elite's new star, Cameron. He wasmagnifique, no?"

Applause breaks out, even louder than the applause for the producer himself. He deserves the recognition. He was truly amazing. The dancer—Cameron—blushes and gives a slight bow of his head in thanks.So humble.I wonder if anyone else noticesthe expectant rise of Emile Alistar’s brows before Cameron straightens, a tight-lipped smile on his face. He does a small twirl under his arm before giving a bow with more flourish.

Wait.Cameron?

I tear my eyes from the way Emile Alistar is guiding Cameron to look this way and that for pictures and look at my brother, then back at Cameron. He raises a glass for a toast that I don't entirely hear. I'm too busy reeling at the look of pride twinkling in his eyes over his stepson's success.

His stepson.

My nephew? Step-nephew?

Fuck.

I down several glasses of champagne before Cameron and Emile finally make it over to us. I've not taken my eyes off them for more than a few seconds, noticing the way Emile keeps Cameron on his arm, guiding him to speak to the right people. A few times Cameron gestures to a certain person or group, but Alistar keeps him on task, meeting and greeting people who act like they are old friends of his. I slowly watch Cameron’s eyes dull as he’s paraded through the crowd like a prize show-pony. Every time I notice one of Alistar’s heavily ringed fingers caress over Cameron's hand, shoulder, arm, or waist, I wish I was throwing back shots of something stronger than bubbles.

Eventually, they’re close enough for Cameron to notice us. He gives me a quick glance while Alistar chats with yet another overdressed old white couple dripping in wealth. His eyes lock on mine for barely a beat before darting away. He must feel my glare, because he chances another look beneath his eyelashes.His cheeks darken the slightest amount, and more blood leaves my brain to migrate south.

Cameron then does a double take at the man standing next to me.

"Dwayne!" Cameron gasps as if in shock to see him here.

He excuses himself from the people they were chatting with, ignoring when Alistar attempts to pull him back. For some reason, it puts a self-satisfied smile on my face.

Cameron walks closer, and then, after an awkward beat, he steps forward and gives Dwayne a light hug. The entire time, his eyes dart around like he's not sure if he's doing it right. Wide, pale eyes bounce to me and then back to his stepdad.

"I didn't realize you were coming," Cameron says, keeping his wide, manufactured smile plastered to his face as he steps back from Dwayne. He continues to cut his eyes towards me, but keeps his attention on my brother.

Dwayne smiles kindly, and if I didn't know him as well as I do, I might miss his slight wince at the awkwardness between them. "Well, your mother hates she's missing opening night, but I wasn't going to miss it if I could help it.”

“And… you bought tickets? To opening night? Box seats?” I’m not sure what he’s insinuating. Dwayne has done well for himself and could easily live a lot more lavishly than he does. Is he surprised by the money my brother obviously spent on the tickets, or that he’s here at all?

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