Page 25

Dried leaves of gold and brown scatter around me as I push through the double doors to ABTC a few weeks later. I rub my hands together, icy from the sudden chill descending into the city. It’s only the beginning of September, but it appears fall has arrived. I check my watch—I’m still early for my meeting with Uncle Ian to discuss the progress of the tour as we prepare to leave for Paris in mid-October for the first international stop.

It doesn’t matter, I’ll just work in the VIP lounge upstairs to wrap up some contract approvals I didn’t get to finish in the office.

My dress shoes squeak against the marble floors as I make my way into the opulent main hall. It’s only seven in the evening, but with the sun setting earlier, the space is shrouded in an eerie darkness, punctuated by occasional murmurs from dancers out of sight.

This building is a statement of old-world grandeur and mystery, completed with vintage lighting fixtures and massive crystal chandeliers, which are currently turned off, no doubt to conserve energy. I clamber toward the grand staircase spiraling upward from the center of the hall.

Reaching the lounge, I push open the door and step inside. But instead of the usual tranquil silence, I’m met with faint sounds of giggling and conversation. Frowning, I look around, not seeing anyone in the room.

“Stop it, Tay. You’re messing with my design,” a voice complains from a far corner in the space.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you and trust me, there are no plums on the Sugar Plum Fairy costume.”

The hairs on my forearms rise at the familiar sardonic voice of Taylor, the woman who has interrupted in my sleep too many times—my fevered mind always imagining her sprawled on top of the pristine white sheets on my bed, her raven hair spread over the pillows, her dark eyes glowing like embers as I rammed into her.

Over and over again.

“More!” she’d scream at me.

“Don’t you hate me?” I’d growl, the pleasure rising like a tsunami. I could practically smell her sweat and tears.

She’d respond by digging her nails into my back, drawing blood.

But I’d wake up before my release, my cock throbbing to the point of pain. And nothing would satisfy it even as I’d fuck my cock in my hand to memories of the dream or of us on the dance floor.

How long does insanity last? Or is this affliction permanent?

Frustration lances my insides as I walk toward the voices, past the burgundy velvet armchairs scattered throughout the room, not bothering to turn on the brass sconces in the darkened space.

A door designed to blend with the dark mahogany paneling is popped open in the back of the room, a warm light filtering out into the main area.

I quietly stand by the entrance to see what’s going on in there. Taylor is with Ainsley and a few other girls I don’t recognize.

A loud sneeze echoes in the room.

“Dang, Tay. You don’t look so good. Do you want to go home and rest?”

“It’s nothing. Let’s get this done. You guys don’t have much time left.”

Taylor is on her hands and knees, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. A pile of used tissues is scattered on the floor near her. The hem of her loose gray shirt has ridden up, exposing a large swath of milky white skin. She’s hovering over a sparkly costume, her fingers nimble as she works a thread and needle over the dress. Blood rushes in my ears as I drag my eyes down to her tight ass, perfectly displayed in the soft black leggings she has on.

My dick jumps in my pants and images from my lurid dreams pop into my mind.

Fuck.

“There, it’s done. It’ll fit better and we don’t need this plum appliqué to distract from your dance for the showcase.” Taylor sits up and tosses her supplies into a container on the side.

“If you’re sure,” Ainsley muses, her voice sounding doubtful.

“I went through the showcase at another academy when I was your age. If you do well, you may get a few more sponsors for scholarships. Tons of rich people like to take artists under their wings. It makes them feel important. They don’t really care about us.” She shakes her head in apparent distaste.

I frown. Is this what she thinks of the wealthy, of people like me? I know from Steven that she and Grace had a rough go in childhood before they were reunited with Linus. They lived in the Bronx and Grace worked multiple jobs so they could get by, but I didn’t know it was this bad.

“Men like you just know how to take what’s not yours. Because you know you can get away with it. You’re all one-dimensional. So how dare you lecture me on emotions!”

Her words from the Met Opera slip into my consciousness.

No. There’s something more to her hatred than being poor. Maybe it has something to do with the person who hurt her.

My hands tighten into fists as the fire I try to keep leashed inside me threatens to erupt.

What happened to you, Taylor?

Taylor grabs a glass of thick orange liquid that doesn’t look like orange juice and takes a sip. What on earth is she drinking? I wince as I watch her down the glass like she’s playing beer pong. She lets out a loud burp of satisfaction.

My lips twitch in amusement. She’s a walking contradiction. How is this woman one of the top ballerinas in the best ballet company in the nation?

Ainsley blanches. “Carrot juice—it’s revolting, Tay.”

“It’s the best thing on earth. Carrots. Soooo delicious.” Taylor grins, the smile transforming her entire face, and I blow out a breath. This woman has so many facets to her, I’ll never understand them all.

But damn, I want to read every fucking page of her soul and learn all her secrets.

Ainsley sighs. “Now we just have the backdrop to finish.” She motions to a large cardboard and paint supplies tucked away in a corner. “Maddy flaked on us today—I don’t know why. She was so worried about the showcase. She needs the scholarships the most, you know, with her mom being sick and on disability.”

“I thought I saw her earlier in the halls. She looked sad—did something happen?”

“I don’t know. For the past two weeks, she’s been moping around. I asked her if things were okay at home, if her mom’s fibromyalgia was getting worse. She picked up extra shifts at the bodega too. But she kept saying everything was fine,” Ainsley murmurs, her lips tipped in a frown.

Taylor sighs and looks out the window, appearing deep in thought. “I should check in on her. I know how tough it is to be in her situation.”

“But you’re on the other side now! An Anderson too!” Ainsley nudges her.

Taylor gives her a sad smile and shakes her head. “In some ways, things were happier back then—even though we didn’t have a lot.” Her lips tremble and she swallows, clearly overwrought.

I lean against the doorframe and clear my throat.

The girls startle. Ainsley beams and leaps to her feet, a small blush on her face. “Charles! What are you doing here?”

“I’m early for a meeting with Ian and thought I’d get some work done in here, but I heard you guys.” I look around the small alcove, completed with a few bean bags and a tiny circular window. “I didn’t even know this was here.”

“They said it was a hiding spot for the Underground Railroad during the Civil War,” Ainsley exclaims, her eyes bright. God, she reminds me of Firefly so much—the same bright energy, the same excitement about life.

“History buff, aren’t you?” I murmur, setting down my briefcase. I eye the dark-eyed minx who still hasn’t acknowledged my presence and is doing everything she can to not look at me.

Slowly, I approach the girls and take a seat near them, my back against the wall. Ainsley introduces me to her fellow dancers in the trainee program—Shelly and Tia.

“My sister loved history too. Her favorite time period was the Renaissance,” I murmur quietly and stare at the half-completed backdrop, half dusted in glitter and fake snow, no doubt a scene from the dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. “And the Regency era,” I shake my head, memories of Firefly swarming in my mind, “and World War II. She had too many interests for her own good.”

“Was?” A soft question uttered on an exhale. Taylor finally looks at me, her brows pinching.

I shouldn’t think of Firefly in the past tense. Shouldn’t I, as her brother, give her my strength and hope?

The uncharacteristic concern in her gaze slices me inside. I don’t deserve your concern, Tay.

“She’s still alive…barely.” My voice catches on the last word and the sudden wave of grief threatens to pull me under. “She has been in a coma for a long time.” I try to dislodge the lump in my throat as the heaviness that has receded in the background since Steven’s wedding comes roaring back.

I shouldn’t give up on Firefly, especially when I’m the one to blame for what happened to her.

But the whisper in the back of my mind, the one I’ve shoved in the darkest corner, hoping it won’t ever surface, makes an appearance.

I feel like I’ve been saying goodbye for a long time and with each passing year, with each pristine, unopened gift I place in the drawer of her nightstand, I’m leaving a piece of myself behind, and a new gash appears on my heart.

A slow death. Painfully bleeding out and no one notices.

I gnaw on my lip, a sharp pain spearing me when my teeth pierce the skin, but I pay no attention, lost in the world of what-ifs and regrets.

“Girls, don’t you need to go home? It’s getting late,” Taylor says, her voice soft with concern. I feel her gaze on me, but I don’t look at her.

I’m afraid she’ll see my sins on my face.