Page 15 of Dance of Ruin

Milena teases me all the time, saying I’m too uptight. Too focused on everything but myself and “my needs”.

I feel my face heat just thinking about it.

In cruder terms—Milena’sexactterms—”You need to get laid”.

Easy enough for Milena, one of my best friends in the world, who dances in the Zakharova with me, to say. She’s freakinggorgeous. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and the girl won the damn genetic lottery with everything from her skin to her nose to her legs to…okay,allof her.

She’s also effortlessly cool, knows how to be sexy, and doesn’t take shit from anyone. Ever.

I mean, yeah, she’s Bratva royalty, so I guess that comes with the territory. But still. If you look like Milena, and act like Milena, and carry yourself like Milena, it seems to me that it’s a bit easier to just “go get laid”.

It’s harder when you’re me. Short, limp-haired, anxiety-ridden, chronic imposter syndrome, and definitely not mafia royalty.

Never “gone out and gotten laid before”, either, if we're keeping score.

I shake myself, forcing my thoughts back to the present. I need to stop thinking about him. About that night.

It’s just another memory.

Ideally, it wouldn’t even be that, just something I surgically erase from my thoughts, like Jim Carrey inEternal Sunshine Of the Spotless Mind. But since that’s never going to happen, it’s going to stay buried in the very back of my mind. Where. It. Belongs.

I didn’t see anything.

Didn’t hear anything.

Didn’twitnessanything…certainly not a crime.

I want to tell myself that this is a choice I’m making entirely myself. Maybe I am, in part. But a lot of it has to do withhim.

Whether I want to admit it or not, he scared theshitout of me the other night.

“How do I know you’re not going to kill me? I mean…later.”

“You don’t.”

I'd love to tell myself that he was obviously just trying to scare me. But that starts to take on waterreal quickwhen I remember that he literally killed someone mere minutes before.

I take a shaky breath and try to clear my mind as I head down West 10thStreet into the heart of the West Village and to the studio address on the card in my pocket.

For the gazillionth time, I ask myself if I’m crazy—although at least this time the question doesn’t pop up because I got all fangirly over a fuckingmurdererputting his hand on my neck—yeah, good job, self, you freaking weirdo.

No, it’s because I can’t believe I agreed to this photoshoot at all.

I’d been standing in the produce section at the grocery store a week ago staring at the bananas when he approached me—early forties, a dusting of silver in his hair, thick-framed glasses. He looked like every other artsy New Yorker I’ve ever seen, dressed in an all-black ensemble that screamedcoffeehouse intellectual.

He told me his name was Gus, glanced at the ballet tights visible under my hoodie and skirt, and asked if I was a dancer. My guard went up instantly, but I’d nodded anyway.

He told me he was working on a photography book—Young Artists of New York—and that he was supposed to shoot a ballerina the next day, but she had backed out last minute.

I was flattered when he told me he thought I was perfect for the shoot. But what truly hooked my attention was that he was willing to pay me five hundred bucks for an hour of my time.

“Nothing lewd or provocative, naturally,” he’d been sure to clarify. “It’s not even necessarily about the female form. I want to capture the athleticism in your art. And my assistant will be there the whole time.”

He showed me his Insta, which looked legit. That, plus the money? Hi,sold.

Landlords in this city don’t care if you’re a starving artist. Neither does my body, and those visits to Dr. Miravalles are draining whatever savings I had.

And, as previously mentioned, I donotask my father for handouts.

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