Page 30 of Dance of Ruin

Mario doesn’t even answer, just turns and starts booking it down the dark sidewalk.

Might be the smartest move the little dipshit ever made in his life.

I stand there outside the bar and pull the thumb drive out of my pocket. I glare at it, dark malice swirling inside me, making connections, considering strings to pull.

Building out my plan.

I’m going todestroyLeonard Kim with this.

Even if it means going through Naomi.

8

NAOMI

The alarm hasn’t gone off yet,but I’m awake.

Have been for a while.

The sky outside my window is still a muted shade of gray, midway between dawn and night. My sheets are damp with sweat. My hands are clenched, like I’ve been holding onto the mattress to keep from falling through it.

I blink at the ceiling, the dull pre-dawn noise of New York the only sound. It could be any other morning where I wake up early to stretch before heading to the theater.

It’s not.

Because today, I wake up to jagged fragments of memory. Nightmares that wrap around my chest and squeeze until I forget how to breathe.

I rub my face, digging my knuckles into my eye sockets, hoping pressure will erase the memories.

The bed.

The cold.

The nurse’s voice.

“You were digitally penetrated, Mia.”

Mia. I gave them a fake name. I sat in that clinic with trembling hands and a queasy stomach, lying about who I was because for sometrulyfucked up reason, I was worried about my dad’s political aspirations, especially with his upcoming nomination to a Cabinet position.

I’d just been raped, or assaulted, or whatever you want to call it, andI gave the nurse a fake name. Because even after waking up in that studio, naked and used and sick with myself, part of me was still thinking about Leonard's career. His future.

God, am I fucked up.

I hate that part of me.

I push the covers off and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The coldness of the floor grounds me for a moment.

I walk to the bathroom, shed the oversized t-shirt I slept in, and get into the shower.

Again.

I did this three hours ago. I got up around 2 a.m., trembling, and stood under the water until my skin was shriveled. But now I do it again anyway. The feeling didn’t go away before—maybe this time, it will.

I don’t cry. There’s no energy for that. Only the sound of the water and the slick slide of soap against my skin as I scrub my body raw.

When I get out, I don’t bother with makeup. I throw on black leggings and a black leotard with a hoodie over it. My ballet bag is already packed. I haven’t touched my phone in three days.

The only texts I’ve answered were on that first night, and they were short, flat lies:“Just a bug. I’m okay.”

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