Page 14 of The Virgin's Dance
“I think she’s worried about the violence against woman thing in these days ofMe Too,” Serena said dryly. She selected a ready rolled joint from Kristof’s silver cigarette case and lit it, coughing immediately and grimacing. She’d never liked pot. It made her goofy, whereas the coke gave her superhuman energy. Kristof looked annoyed and snatched the joint from her.
“Don’t waste it. This is top market shit.”
Serena looked at him slyly. “Who are you getting clean pee from? I know you must be getting it from someone, one of the guys. Who owes you a favor like that, Kristof?”
His eyes glinted dangerously and Serena felt a frisson of fear shoot through her. That Kristof was mercurial was well-known but at that moment, Serena saw something else in his eyes and the word that shot into her brain was … unhinged.Shit.
“Never mind.” She reached for his cock again and this time, she did get him hard. She straddled him, gently taking his notebook from him and running her hands over his chest as she slowly impaled herself on his cock.
Kristof’s expression changed from annoyance to satisfaction as they began to fuck again and as Serena moved on top of him, he grabbed her hair and fisted it in his hands, crushing his mouth against hers then groaning, “Oona … Oona … I’m sorry, I’msorry…”
Serena waited until after he had fallen asleep to cry.
Chapter Nine
“Again.”
Boh gritted her teeth and return to her first position. The combination was difficult, but she knew she had it down. Kristof was just being an ass. Whether he knew she was supposed to be meeting with Pilot right now, she didn’t know, but the fact that she was there alone after Vlad and Jeremy had already left made her think he did. She danced the combination twice more for him, each time step-perfect.
Kristof sighed as she finished in arabesque. “Again.”
“Not again,” Liz Secretariat walked into the room, giving Boh a smile. “Even from the corridor I could see you were perfect, Boh. Kristof, we need to talk, Boh, you can go.”
“And who the hell are you to … oh, what the hell.” Kristof gave a long-suffering sigh. “Get lost,” he snapped at Boh, who managed to give him the finger behind his back. Liz hid a smile and winked at Boh as she left.
Boh ran to the changing room, half-undressing even before she got there. Boh hurriedly showered and changed into a wrap-around dress over another clean leotard. She and Pilot were shooting test shots today, working out the movements she would perform for him.
She ran through the rainy city streets on Manhattan, her excitement about seeing him again making her breathless and almost giddy.
He was waiting for her at his studio and kissed her cheek as she came into the room. “You’re soaking wet.”
Boh shrugged but allowed him to take off her coat and wrap her in a towel. “Come and get warm. I have coffee.”
She sat, swaddled in his huge towel, sipping coffee as he ran her through some ideas. “To be honest, the steps all have to come from you … I have ideas about shapes I would like you to translate into dance, if you could?”
Boh nodded, loving to see Pilot in full creative mode. “I’d love to.” She looked at the floor of the studio. Brushed wooden boards, which hopefully had a little give. He saw her looking at them and smiled.
“I admit … I had the floor redone especially for you, as best as I could. Come test it for me.”
Boh slipped into her ballet shoes to begin with and slipped off her sweatshirt. She wore nothing but her leotard and a small skirt around her waist. She saw Pilot’s eyes drop to her nipples, cold from the weather, poking through the thin material, then look away quickly, and smiled. She longed for him to touch her and fantasized about grabbing his hand and pressing it to her chest, or between her legs, but forced herself to focus.
She walked over to where he had set up the camera and stood in front of it. “Should I just freestyle?”
“Whatever feels natural, baby.”
Baby.A shiver of pleasure tingled down her spine. She began with small but delicate moves, then bolder jetés and pirouettes.
“Imagine you’re fighting lightning,” Pilot suggested, his eyes locked on her through the camera, “or that youarelightning.”
“Maybe a little music would help.” She ran to her bag and pulled out her MP3 player. Pilot plugged it into his stereo for her and she flicked through the playlists until she found the song she wanted. Immediately“Raise Hell,” by Dorothy boomed through the studio and Pilot grinned.
“Good choice.”
Inspired by the rock music, Boh let loose and jumped and whirled for him, sometimes, grinning, sometimes with a fierce look of determination on her face. Pilot clicked away, shouting encouragement over the music, occasionally stopping to drag props into the frame, things like an old paint-spattered crate for her to pose on top of, or a heavy old rope to wind around her frame.
“Holy shit, Boh,” he said as she paused to catch her breath, “you belong in front of a camera. Some of these are good enough to be in the show and we’re just getting started.”
“I think that’s because of you, Pilot, not me,” she was slightly breathless, but laughing. She came to see some the shots and gave a little gasp. “Is that really me?”
