Page 8 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys

In that moment, I realized little things had changed since my accident. Without realizing it, I’d been slipping away from the Nelly I’d always known. The only Nelly.

What did I eat this morning? Did I eat anything?

I can’t remember.

I’d slept until after seven.

I’d not gone on a run.

I hadn’t danced.

I swiped rogue, ginger strands out of my face. This morning, I’d taken the time to pull my hair into the customary, military-precise bun I donned for performances. I wanted everyone at Imperial to see me in that light—a dancer on stage, prim and perfected. I’d come here expecting good news. I’d been so ready to take my place again on stage. As the meeting had dragged on, and reality began to blanket over me, I’d nervously fiddled with the bun. Now the hairstyle was clinging on for dear life thanks to the dozens of pins I’d jammed against my scalp. Frizzy, wild strands made me look like a basket case.

My head hurt. My everything hurt.

I wanted it over.

If destiny was merciful, it would make the building fade out of existence, taking me with it into nothingness.

Since that didn't happen—because fate was a fickle, precocious thing—I had to do something else. Without consciously deciding to do so, I began to dismantle my hair. I yanked pin-after-pin out, dropping them carelessly to the ground. When the last one was liberated, I brutally removed the two hairbands over the bun, then the bun shaper, then lastly theachingly tight last band keeping my hair gathered into the base ponytail. I left it all on the floor. I didn’t care anymore.

A mirror hanging opposite of me reflected the unfiltered truth.

Wild hair coated with too much hair spray, so it stuck out at strange, unruly angles. Mascara beneath my eyes, though the makeup was meant to be waterproof. Cheeks ruddy and puffed, yet the rest of my face was far too pale.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” I whispered to myself.

A soft, persistent rhythm filtered through the walls. I heard a familiar laugh. My body moved towards studio C against my will, and I found myself peering through the slender glass window at Geoff. His back was against the barre, his eyes trained on a tall, graceful woman a few feet away. She was turned towards the barre, hands gripping the stained wood, slowly arching her back. Port de bras. She dipped so low before rising again. God, she made it look effortless. I used to look that way.No, I could still look that way, dammit.

It was Lisette of course. Perfect posture. Elegant neck. Endless legs. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight bun, not a strand out of place. No pins left littering the floor behind her. Geoff looked at her hungrily now. He wanted her. They probably wouldn’t make it through rehearsal before he pulled her off into the supply closet nearby. That had been me before the accident. His muse. The object of his affection. His afternoon delight. Would he cast her off one day too? Would she find out the hard way that her value would end where Geoff’s self-importance began?

I remembered the first time I’d laid eyes on him. I was at the back of Imperial’s ensemble. He was proudly at the front. He’d taken my breath away. Before I’d met him, I’d been obsessed with Waylon Sleeps, a male Omega known for his dynamic movement, and Fabio Calmelis, a male Alpha known for hisexceptional partner lifts. Ken Keets, a male Beta from Boston, fusing classic ballet with interpretive dance was taking the East Coast by storm. I’d dreamed of dancing with those men. Yet, Geoff had wiped them all from my mind and heart.

Carved muscles claimed every inch of his body. Wavy, golden hair. Gorgeous blue eyes. And he smelled clean and fresh. Like a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade with a sprig of mint added for decoration. When he sweated while dancing, he smelled even better. An earthy, musky undertone added to the citrusy peppermint. It was unfair that Omegas’ bodies went so out of whack at high athletic levels, yet Alphas seemed to become more instead of less.

I’d fallen for him hard, instantly, without a reasonable thought in my head. All I’d been able to think was, ‘this guy must have walked right out of my favorite movie’.Center Stage Slickwas iconic, if a little off base when it came to real dance culture. Cooper Nelson though? I’d have sold my soul to date him back when I was young. I almost did at fifteen when my grandparents took me to see the real Alpha behind the movie character dance in San Francisco at a special performance. I think Stiefelin had just become the Principal Guest Instructor with American Ballet Theatre in New York back then. Talk about being starstruck. I could barely get two words out when I’d shaken his hand at the meet-and-greet.

Now?The part in the film I couldn’t shake was when the main actress looked at the talented, narcissistic guy—Stiefelin’s character—and said, “You’re an awesome dancer. As a boyfriend, you seriously suck.”That wasn’t the actual quote, but the gist was enough to sum up Geoff. In a fictional world, though, I’d probably keep ignoring red flags. Even now, I still root for Cooper when I rewatch. I’ve never enjoyed the power moment in the last performance, or the ending when the mainactress ends up single. Single-ish. I guess it was sort of implied she might date the other male dancer.

Whatever. This wasn’t a movie. This was real life.Myreal life.

Lisette was still doing the same move, arching her back yet again as if she felt there was room for improvement. Or maybe she was just putting on a show for Geoff. I stiffened as my once-lover closed the distance to the woman who’d taken my place, in more ways than one. His hands found her waist, his thumbs pressing into the small of her back as he guided her to angle lower. I knew that touch intimately. The way his fingers would dig in just a little too hard, always leaving faint bruises. Marking his territory.

When she was standing upright again, he leaned in close, mouth hovering next to her ear.

Even though I couldn’t hear him over the distance and through the door’s solid barrier, his words resonated in my brain. Geoff’s script never shifted.

“You’re stunning, Nelly. Incomparable. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you right now.”Only, he wasn’t saying Nelly anymore.

Why had I stood here watching for so long? Why was I torturing myself?

I backed away from the window, backed away from the all-too-familiar scene unfolding in the studio.

This time, I ran. I didn’t care who saw me, or who judged me. I darted through the halls of the Imperial until I was pushing out the heavy double doors and stumbling into the too-bright afternoon.

Sunshine hit my skin, warming it in a pleasant way. That felt wrong, considering my world had collapsed into darkness only moments ago. The cold I’d felt in the stairwell made more sense to me. Shadows were chilly. Highlights were hot. And atthis juncture, I was rooted at the very heart of an eclipse. I was caught in the umbra wondering if I could tiptoe towards the outskirts and claim a little bit of light again.

I folded the wrinkled envelope and stuffed it into the left pocket of my slacks and then pulled my cell from the right one. I needed a shoulder to cry on. Needed support. But who could I call? Most of my so-called friends were dancers, and news traveled fast in ballet circles. By now, they'd all know I was officially finished at Imperial. They’d turn their backs to safeguard their careers. And I couldn’t blame them. If you’re trying to be a star, the last thing you need is the dead weight of a broken ballerina.