Page 77 of Stripped

They ran it three more times, and each time she felt off. Something was not clicking, no matter how hard she tried. Every time someone entered the venue, her attention was drawn toward the door, wondering if it was a delivery for her, which it never was, only increasing her anxiety. The presenter for the afterparty, John MacNab, an up and coming actor, needed to use the stage to practice his monologue. Their time was up.

"We go on at half nine. We have use of the Recital Room to warm up and mark the piece, so be there by eight. Your dressing rooms are off the main promenade in the City Halls," Peter informed them.

"You said you changed the costumes." Pim wiped her face with a towel.

"Aye. I want you in a black leotard, no tights. Don't cover up your tattoo, and I want your hair out. You can pull the front back if you need to, full makeup. There should be pointe shoes in your dressing room." Peter looked to Niall for confirmation. The older man nodded. "Paul, I want you in jeans, no shirt." Peter looked at his watch. "You're free to get something to eat, just be ready to go by eight."

Pim picked up her dance bag. It was already seven. It didn't leave them a lot of time.

"You need to eat something," Wraith said, approaching. He reached for her bag, but she put it up on her shoulder before he could take it, handing him the garment bag instead.

"He's right," Paul said.

"I hate eating before I dance. Maybe just a green juice. I'm sure we'll be served dinner after."

"I'll go see what I can find." Paul gave her shoulder a squeeze. "It'll be fine, Pim. The choreography is good."

Wraith followed her down the main hall of the promenade, the deep red carpets thick and plush, to her room. It was small, redolent of the original architecture and sat empty except for the vanity and an armchair. No flowers or bouquets awaited her. She placed her bag under the vanity and sat down. Wraith hung the garment bag on a hook. "What's wrong?" he asked. "You look upset."

She bit her lip. "I'm fine."

"Don't lie to me, Primrose." He crouched down in front of her, tilting her chin up. "There's something wrong. It's written all over your face."

"I guess I thought Sokolov would reach out to me."

"Why?" His brow wrinkled. "It almost sounds as if you're disappointed." He stood up, his hand covering his mouth while he thought. "You want him to contact you."

"No," she said quickly. "I just want this to be over."

"Primrose, you're not connected to him. If you think you need him to be a good dancer, you're wrong."

"You don't understand," she said.

"Oh, I do understand, and this ends now."

She shook her head. He understood nothing. "I'm fine. I promise. I need to get ready." She moved to the vanity, pulling out her makeup from her bag underneath. Wraith came over and put his hands on her shoulders. She looked at him through the reflection of the mirror, her field of perception distorted with thoughts and ideas of perfection.

"I will protect you, Primrose."

She nodded, but it was shallow and depthless, lacking the clear visibility her heart now knew. How could he protect her from the very thing she craved? How could he suppress the formation of waves in the glassy water that threatened to rip her soul apart yet offered her the most contemplative view? She had glimpsed her inner most self and, through it, had become closer to her own body, emotions, thoughts and spirit. Sokolov had opened her eyes, giving her absolute understanding, and now she wanted more.

---