Page 12 of Shadow Dance

September

Even with my sunglasses on, the blazing midday sun glows bloody and bright through my closed eyelids. It’s hot down here, maybe hotter than any place I've ever been, but I like it. It’s cleansing.

And it’s peaceful. Nothing but the ebb and flow of water over sand where the Caribbean Sea kisses the shore, the quiet shush of palm trees, the occasional, distant whine of passing jets miles above. I wish I could stay forever, just like this.

But I can’t.

Even as I think it, a soft chime sounds, my phone informing me that my time is up. If I’m not back where I’m expected in ten minutes or so, I’ll be sought out and that’s just not necessary. Really. There’s only one way in and one way out of this gated estate, so it’s not like I can go anywhere. Or like someone could come in.

Taking a deep breath, I rise, slipping my feet into sandals and my arm through the straps of my bag. My ankle’s a lot better, but I’m still careful with it. Uneven surfaces, like sand, can be tricky.

Back at the villa, things are as I left them. Callum’s still lounging around the patio by the pool, surrounded by hoodlums and sycophants—a little king of his own making. They get shit-faced every day, partying and meeting with local drug lords. Forging connections, making deals.

Hired girls, dressed minimally, sway in and out of the scene, making sure these fools want for nothing: cigars, booze, drugs, physical release. It took one day of relaxing by the pool for me to realize that it wasn't very relaxing at all. I wandered down the beach to the farthest cove I could find, too far away to hear the blaring music and the drunken chortling. It’s become my solace.

Not that it matters. After tomorrow, we'll be back in the States and this place will be another sun-drenched memory.

A leggy redhead with freckled, light brown skin and the nicest breasts I've ever seen struts by with a drink and a plate of food. I watch her walk straight up to my boyfriend, stopping only when she's practically on top of him. She places the tray carefully on the table, leaning down so that he can whisper in her ear. Her full, red lips curve as she listens.

Callum’s eyes meet mine. It’s anticlimactic—no jealousy on my end or guilt on his. He can do what he wants because in the end, it's me that warms his bed, decorates his arm, and spends his money.

At least, that’s what he tells himself—that his behavior is justified because he provides an amazing lifestyle. It wasn’t always this way. When we were kids, we were passionate and crazy for each other, the yin to one another’s yang. So many years, so many changes, and we stuck together through it all. We’ve been together for so long that even when things started to sour, when we started to argue more and cuddle less, we held on.

I held on when the drugs, money, and illusion of power seemed to turn him into another person, through broken promises and things he said he’d never do. I held on when his bullshit started turning me into a different person, too. I held on when I should have let go, and now I’m losing myself, sacrificing my own well-being for a love that’s becoming more and more toxic.

So now here we are, living in our very own sadly-ever-after. I’ve tried to leave so many times, but Callum always begs me to stay. He didn’t beg the last time, though, when he saw an email confirmation of the plane ticket I’d bought to go home. No, he just rested his hand on my throat, really soft, and promised I’d regret it if I went. He was drunk and coked up at the time, but I believed him. There was something about the look in his eyes. Something feral and mean.

I leave the patio and step inside, grateful for the aggressive air conditioning. It’s a beautiful villa, opulent and spacious, tastefully decorated with local art. A pair of pretty girls in bikini tops and sarongs breeze by with a tray of cocktails, barely acknowledging me. I prefer it that way.

Beneath this opulent paradise is an undercurrent of desperation, and I’ve seen it in every place we’ve been this summer: LA, Mexico, Miami, the Bahamas, the Dominican Republic, and now Grand Cayman. Race and culture might differ vastly, but money and vices are universal bottom lines. Callum and his guys alwayshire girls like this to tend to their needs.

Grabbing a banana from a bowl, I trudge upstairs and into the bedroom, exhausted. These days I do nothing but lie around and keep my dick of a boyfriend company (and sometimes not even that), but I’m never not tired.

I take a long, cool shower and pull on another sundress before noticing the bump of coke on the dresser. Callum must’ve left it while I was in the bathroom … it’s one of his favorite ways of keeping me beneath his thumb lately. I know this, and I know it’s awful for me, but I could use the escape. Holding my hair back, I lean down and snort my sanity without fanfare.

Callum’s always liked to party. He was sixteen when I met him at a boarding school mixer, but he already had a fake ID and a stash of liquor in his dorm at Sterling. He and his cousins back in New York did it all—weed, Molly, coke, Adderall—and he’d bring stuff back to campus and sell it to other kids. I didn’t mind, but other than drinking and the occasional smoke on the weekends, I steered clear. Dance was my life, and that meant taking care of my body.

Callum was an athlete too, but his crazy ways never really caught up to him. Until now, anyway. I keep trying to pinpoint the moment he started losing his grip, but it must’ve been gradual. Kind of like the decay of our relationship.

Feeling flushed, I throw open the shutters. The sun is starting to set, and it’s spectacular, painting the sky and the sea beneath it every color. There’s a loud splash down below, drawing my attention to the current situation at the pool. Two girls are making out in the water while Mac and a busty brunette dry hump on a chaise lounge. At least, I hope it’s just dry humping. There’s a towel covering the important bits, but itlooks a little NC-17. The redhead is perched primly on Callum’s lap, aglow in the soft lighting that blinked on with dusk.He’ll say it meant nothing, that it was just flirting. That I didn’t want to be down there with him, so what did it matter?

I can’t wait to get out of here. At least back home I feel like I can leave when I want, even if it’s just an illusion.

A knock at the door jerks me from my thoughts. Closing the window, I run a hand over my hair. I haven’t had a haircut in ages, and the long, loose curls skim my butt now, split ends and all. “Come in.”

The door opens just a little, and Jaime looks in. Of course it’s Jaime. I barely look at him before crossing to the bed, haphazardly shoving things into my purse. It’s an act to keep busy, to shed myself of the nervous energy humming through my body courtesy of the coke and this man’s gaze.

“What?” I snap when I can no longer deal with the silence.

He comes in all the way, shutting the door behind him. “Look at you.” He almost sneers, dark eyes fixed on my face.

“Look at you,” I shoot back churlishly, hating how anxious I suddenly feel. That’s the problem with coke. It feels so good until it turns on you.

Shaking his head, Jaime comes around to my side of the bed and gently brushes his thumb beneath my nose. “Why do you do this shit?” he whispers, frowning at the white residue on his fingers.

“Stop it.” I shove away from him, irritated. Jaime’s concern is false, a pretend byproduct of his job.

Callum hired him a few months ago to be my keeper, although that isn’t what either of them would call it.Bodyguard.Driver.Whatever.

---