Page 78 of Stripped

Chapter 35

"Did you find them?" Wraith asked, adjusting the bow tie on his tuxedo."

"No, I'll grab a pair from my bag. I have extras." She never found the aforementioned pointe shoes Niall was to have left for her. Taking out a different pair, she zipped her bag and quickly changed into her leotard.

Wraith cleared his throat. "You look different."

"Like the bad girl people think I am?" The leotard was long-sleeved and came just around her neck. The entire expanse of the back was cut out from her shoulders to her tailbone, exposing her tattoo. She had blackened her eyes, creating a sultry, smoky look and teased her hair, pulling the front back into a barrette.

"No, and you're not a bad girl, no matter how much you want the world to think it." His head tilted to the side, contemplating. "You're more like a temptress."

She laughed then stopped, as she watched him fasten the leather harness around his shoulder and chest and slide his gun into its holster before putting on his jacket. Her throat went dry. "You look handsome," she managed to get out, her voice taking on a raspy quality.

"Come here," he said, holding out his hand.

She went to him, and he pulled her into an embrace. "Stay with me tonight," he said softly.

She knew he talked of her mind, not their proximity. It tugged at her heart. If only he knew what he was asking. "I'll try."

He kissed her, soft at first, then harder, demanding her submission. "You're mine."

She pulled back, narrowing her eyes. "I'm not yours," she said teasingly. Her heart broke inside. She could only belong to one man right now.

The Recital Room was smaller than the Old Fruitmarket, with bright white walls and a white, arched ceiling. The matching arched windows stood out black in sharp contrast, darkened with the night. The polished wooden floor was slick, so Pim practiced in her warmup booties. It wasn't until they were about to go on, that she sat on the floor, putting on her pointe shoes.

"Those aren't the ones we brought you," Peter said. "I wanted black."

"I couldn't find any in my room."

"I know I put them in there," Niall said. He turned to Paul. "They weren't in your room by mistake?"

"No. It was empty when I got in there."

"I'll go check at the front desk," Niall said.

Wraith called her over. "I'm going to go find my place. I'll be close to the stage. Gabriel, Kian, and Sin are already out there." He kissed her forehead. "I don't want you to worry."

"I'm fine," she tried reassuring him as he looked back one more time before leaving.

Niall came back. "They were up front. One of the workers didn't know the room was being used and turned them in." He handed Pim the box. "Marta already sewed the elastic and ribbons on them.

She opened the box, her heart quickening. A pair of black satin pointe shoes sat on the tissue just like the pair Sokolov had for her. She put them on. Something was at one of the toes, and taking the shoe back off, she reached into the vamp, pulling out a small envelope. Remember these was written on the outside. She opened it, her heart now pounding, careful not to tear the card inside. It was a miniature picture of one of Alasdair Gray's artworks, entitled Mother andDaughter. She'd seen the original at Sotheby's in London, when a Lot of Scottish Pictures went up for auction in 2009. It was the year she started at the Royal Academy and her father took her to see it. The painting, lot number one hundred and forty, was done in acrylic, pen, and ink and depicted a mother and daughter sitting side by side on chairs. They could be the same person. It was the small nuances that separated them into their apparent categories. The daughter sat on a modern chair, eyes upturned with a smile on her face, full of expectation and youth. The mother's chair was old-fashioned, eyes downturned, and she slouched, frowning, with her hands clasped together, forlorn and despondent. Pim flipped the card over. Show Mummy Dearest what you can do… it's up to you- VS. It was Sokolov who had sent her mother the tickets. He was here. He came, and her anxiety, which had built up over the afternoon, seemed to dissipate. She placed the notecard in the box and closed the lid. She went up on point and it seemed by just wearing the shoes, her soul gravitated closer to Sokolov.

Paul grabbed her hand. "We're up, Pim," he said. She followed him down a hallway to a side door that led in to the Old Fruitmarket. Small fairy lights sparkled in the dark venue, lighting up the arena like the night sky. People filled every table, seated cabaret style in grand elegance, and those left standing filled the balconies. She looked out across the audience, her eyes drawn to one table in particular toward the back, where she spotted not only her mother and Craig but also Natasha and her son Hamish. She didn't have time to think before the MC called them up on stage. "We'll kick off tonight's festivities with a performance from Scottish National Ballet and Glasgow's very own prima ballerina, Primrose McNeil, and her partner, Paul Lewis, as they perform a stripped down and modern variation from the ballet Swan Lake."

An electric current ran up her spine, unleashing its power like a clarion call as they took the stage and the orchestra began to play. With each step and move, she became the black swan, tearing Prince Siegfried apart bit by bit, bewitching him with her wicked dance, until he yearned only for her. Niall's comments from rehearsal that afternoon echoed through her mind, guiding her toward the completeness she so desired. Don't rush. You create your own time in the world. You rule this world. She became one with the music, big and emotional. There was no longer a stage, no longer an audience, it was just her and Paul as she whipped through the air, arms spiraling like wings, agitating the room in a psychological frenzy. He picked her up over his head, her back arching, letting him move her, create her, as she slowly took control of him. Her hooks set, she used a moment of stillness, counterbalanced against each other in perfect tension, her back against his chest as he ran his hands down her body, to exploit the silence and reel him in. The music exploded in fierce passion, complex and real. He was hers; she had won. They ended in an embrace as intense as the variation started. She looked out at the audience for Sokolov as she slowly returned to reality. He had become her emotional identity. Would he be proud? The audience erupted in applause, standing as they shouted, "Bravo, bravo,"over and over.

She and Paul stepped forward, as she curtsied and he took a bow. He stepped back, holding his hand out, so the audience could recognize her alone. She stepped forward again and lowered herself into a grand reverence, acknowledging the audience's applause as the cheering intensified. John McNab, the host, came on stage and handed her a bouquet of two dozen red roses. She pulled one from the arrangement, giving it to Paul. Then they both looked toward the orchestra, recognizing the conductor and musicians before leaving the stage.

Members of the press rushed forward. She could see Gabriel in the distance, making a beeline for her.

"How does it feel to be called Glasgow's Prima Ballerina?" one reporter shouted out.

The sleazy reporter from the funeral pushed himself to the front. "Do you think your grandfather was murdered?"

"Fuck off," Paul said, putting his arm around Pim and leading her out of the room and down the hall that led to their dressing rooms. He stopped outside hers, hugging her. "Jesus Christ, Pim. You were amazing. Fucking brilliant."

"We were amazing. We're partners."

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