Page 14 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
The dog paid him no attention, focused as she was on the flash of black ahead of her.
Daniel paused halfway up the drive and wiped sweat off his forehead. He glanced around, conscious of being in full view of the house and grounds. There were several vehicles in the driveway, but no one was about.
He gave a shrill whistle, then watched with dismay as Tequila loped cheerfully after the cat, past the fountain and all the way around the side of the house.
He reached under his t-shirt to check if his pistol was still in his waistband. Then he took a deep breath and followed.
* * *
Julia grabbed the shank of her pointe shoe and hurled it at the wall. It hit with a satisfying crack, leaving a dent in the plaster. She picked up the other one and flung it after it.
Then she marched across the studio, retrieved both, and beat them against the wall some more. Breaking in new pointe shoes was brutal. A workout in itself.
It was also the only thing keeping her from having a meltdown. She poured every ounce of frustration into those dainty pink slippers, taking it out on them instead of the thing she really wanted to destroy.
The memory of Floyd’s hands on her.
Sadly, the relief was fleeting.
Satisfied she’d softened them enough, she collapsed onto the floor, applied her toe pads, taped them down, and wrapped her toes in paper towels. Then she laced up her shoes, stood, and rose en pointe, testing the support through her arches.
Today marked the first day of her summer layoff from the Joffrey Ballet Company. Not that it meant rest. She hadn’t taken a real break since she was eleven. During the season, she rehearsed for nine hours and performed for three. Off-season, she wasn’t in the studio quite as much, but she still treated it like a full-time job.
She moved to the barre, pushing through demi and grand pliés, before shifting into échappés, sautés, and passés, her toes hammering out a steady drumbeat against the Marley floor. She’d done these moves thousands of times. They came to her as naturally as breathing.
Until a sudden barrage of construction hammering and the earsplitting whine of a power tool shattered her focus.
She stopped, sighing, and turned toward the full-length glass doors that separated her studio from the pool area. It was normally a serene view. Lately, though, it resembled a construction zone. Workers had been swarming the backyard for a week, racing to finish the gazebo renovations in time for her sister’s wedding.
Her mother had been planning the event for five months. Julia had been dreading it for the same amount of time.
It was being heralded as the society wedding of the year. Five hundred guests, most of them rich and powerful. And, as her mother loved telling anyone who would listen, two minor royals.
Her sister was a soloist with the American Ballet Theater, and a rising star in the ballet world. She was destined to become a principle, and a great one, like their mom had been. At least, that’s what everyone said.
Julia, a lowly corps dancer at the less-revered Joffrey, got no such fanfare.
Which was fine. She didn’t need it. One day, if she worked hard enough, it would be her turn.
Scowling in the direction of the builders, she grabbed the sound system remote and cranked up the volume.
Back to work.
She returned to the center of the floor, composed herself, and prepared to restart—only to hesitate. One of the workers was sitting at a table near the pool. His head was turned toward her, watching.
A flicker of unease passed through her, but she pushed it away.
She launched into trickier jumps—piqué manèges, grand jetés—bounding from one end of the studio to the other. But despite her best efforts, her mind kept circling back to her observer.
There was something…familiar about him. And the dog panting at his feet.
She took a breath and forced herself into fouettés, the hardest move in ballet. Whipping around and around on one pointed foot, a human spinning top. It took perfect balance. Perfect concentration. Eyes locked on a fixed point, or she’d get dizzy.
Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five?—
Her gaze flicked to the man by the pool. And in an instant, she knew who he was.
Her focus shattered.
