Dancer's Body

Chapter 15

Olivia yanked off her trousers and pulled on her warm-up leggings. She'd been on her feet all day, racing after Roman as he corrected the choreography. I must have ran ten miles back and forth along the stage apron, she thought, rubbing the soles of her feet. While she was used to hours of dance, running about in dress shoes brought on a new kind of soreness.

As soon as Roman had finished with the dancers for the day, he'd disappeared into his office. She hovered, briefly, until a trio of the dancers glided by. They hadn't looked at or acknowledged her, but she still felt foolish being caught standing there—like a dog hoping to be pet.

She spent the entirety of the rehearsal, between her bouts of performances, anxious in the wing and watching for his silhouette descending from the doorway.

Mrs. Bernard was in her element, as was Mia. Both seemed to be letting to grandiosity of the theater amp up their skills.

"Beautiful, Mia!" Mrs. Bernard cooed at her, and Mia let a tiny slip of a smile scuttle across her face. For an instant, she didn't look so hard.

When her cue came, Olivia moved to her spot and began to mop up the electricity of the stage. It really does fuel you, she thought. Something about the rich colors and the history demanded the best of her. Anything less, and she'd surely be dishonoring those who came before—dancers and patrons.

"Twenty more minutes," Mrs. Bernard announced. It was amazing how, even when she wasn't on the stage the majority of the time, those three hours blasted by.

With just one more scene left to perform, she swept onto the stage and began encircling Mia with a handful of other dancers. Mia was no longer the lead—instead, she was simply an anchor, a cue point, to help ground and direct Olivia's body. It really was incredible, how such a group was capable of creating such beauty from a mutual love of the craft.

She let Sexion d'Assaut's Avant qu'elle parte dictate not only how she moved, but how she felt. Olivia was in the sexually fueled house, paying homage to the ropes that bound her, her lips eternally slightly parted to tell the world she was open. Available, waiting, longing—for him. She turned the seemingly simple act of opening her knees to stand into sheer erotica and she could practically feel his hands on her, dictating her every move. It was almost painfully freeing. Why can't I feel like this all the time?

The song came to an end, Olivia's cue to leave, when she heard it. "Powerful." Roman's voice compelled all eyes on him, and she wasn't the only one in the troupe to look downstage where he was wrapped up in commentary with Mrs. Bernard.

When Mia turned to stage left, even her eyes were huge, but her shock didn't hold Olivia's attention for long. As soon as she settled beside the thick curtain of stage left, she felt that familiar stare boring into her. Roman looked only at her, even as Mia spiraled into her final solo. And for once, she returned the stage-arching fix, unashamed.

He seemed to be waiting for her outside the dressing room. "Come with me a moment," he said. She looked around, but none of her troupe was to be seen. Roman directed her into his office and gestured to the seat while he sat, casually, on the lovingly polished desk.

"You have a touch of kinesthesia in you. Do you know that?" It wasn't what she expected him to say. But, then again, she no longer knew what to expect.

"I—no," she said. "I don't know what that is."

"The sixth sense," he said, "though I loathe that word. In its original meaning, it was the ability to be aware of one's self, all parts of the body inside and out, in a highly sensitive way. For a dancer, it's a particularly special gift."