Brutal Obsession (71)

There’s another video in the suggested list on the side—an interview with Mia Germain and Violet. I don’t know who Mia is, but I’m curious to see Violet. Not just dancing, but her demeanor.

It’s different in front of a camera, that much is immediately obvious. Her and an older woman sit in cushioned chairs side by side. Violet on screen is thinner than she is now. She wears a t-shirt, leggings, and a wraparound cardigan cinched tight to her waist. It gapes at the top. Her hair is slicked back in a bun. Even her face has a sharpness to it that isn’t present nowadays.

The date on the video is from a year ago.

I hit play.

“Mia,” an off-camera woman says, “you’ve created a stunning company, and this latest show is probably your best work to date. Was it a hard decision choosing your next ballet?”

Mia Germain, director. Her name and title appear under her in blocky letters, hovering there for a moment and then vanishing. I skip through her answer.

“And Violet,” the interviewer says. “You’re nineteen, with the world ahead of you, and you’ve just been cast as the principal in Mia’s upcoming production of Swan Lake. Can you tell us what went through your head when you found out?”

Violet rubs her hands together and leans forward. Her smile is enigmatic. “It’s a dream come true. Mia called me and told me just a few days ago, actually. There were some tears… After this show wraps up, we’re beginning rehearsals for it. I couldn’t be more thankful to Mia for giving me this opportunity.”

“Violet has enormous potential,” Mia interjects, patting Violet’s leg. “She has a unique ability to portray both the innocence of the white swan and the darker side of our black swan.”

“Did you draw inspiration from any other ballerinas, Violet?”

“Turn that off.”

I drop my phone. It falls off the bed and across the floor, coming to a stop under the desk. It still plays as I stare at the real Violet. The girl in the flesh.

How different she is now. Her skin flushes, her hair is shiny. She’s got a body that I don’t think I’m going to break when I sink into her.

I stand and make my way to her. She backs up until the wall catches her. She’s got a ragged, holey t-shirt on and shorts. No bra. Her nipples stiffen under my gaze, standing out under the cotton.

Behind me, the tinny voice of the old Violet is talking about whoever she consulted.

I’ve seen Black Swan, but that’s about as far as my knowledge of ballet goes. I know that sort of role could drive someone crazy. And that’s what they were talking about. That’s the show Violet was invested in…

“You were going to be the swan when I hit you.” I haven’t seen any performances of her as it—does that mean that it was ripped away from her before she could be the lead?

She flinches like I’m hitting her now.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” she repeats. “You forced me to share a room with you, and then you act like an asshole.” She moves past me, ignoring her body’s reaction.

I roll my eyes and strip off my shirt. I drop it on the floor and follow her away from the steamy bathroom to the beds. I should’ve asked for a king, but it’s not my tab. Coach definitely would’ve had questions.

When she turns back around, her breath stutters.

“You know what I want, Violet?”

She lifts one shoulder an inch, then lets it fall. I can see the war within her, strong as a hurricane. She doesn’t know what to make of me. Cruel, brutal, kind, gentle. I’m giving both of us whiplash.

Well, she’s doing the same fucking thing.

“No,” she answers. “But you’re going to tell me.”

I scoff. “I want a truce. Just for the remainder of this trip. Until we get back to Crown Point.”

Her eyes narrow. “A truce,” she repeats. Skeptical little thing.

“Just believe that I’m actually being nice.” I scoff. “It’s not completely foreign to me.”

“It is to me,” she says under her breath.

Still, she seems intrigued.

The clock is ticking. It’s almost three-thirty, and my alarm is set for nine. The bus leaves at noon, and we’ll be back by mid-afternoon. It’s not a lot of time. It’s doable.

“Come on,” I press.

She finally nods.

I stride forward and wrap my arms around her.

The action surprises her, but whatever. I have a feeling she needs a hug. The seconds tick by, and I almost doubt myself. But then her arms come up around me, and she grips me tightly. I realize I’m shirtless at the same time she does. When her cheek touches my bare chest and her fingers dig into my skin.

Doesn’t matter. Her body heaves, and she bursts into tears.

Oh.

Well.

I make a shushing noise and rub her back. I have no fucking idea how to handle crying women, but she doesn’t object to my terrible soothing. I keep going, up and down, and slowly steer us to one of the beds. At least the video on my phone has stopped.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath, then steps back.

“Thanks,” she murmurs. Embarrassment heats her face. The red creeps down her neck, where the hickeys I gave her begin their trail south. Bet she had fun discovering those.

I flip the covers back and retrieve my phone. I plug mine in and hers beside it. Hers is open to a message thread with her mother. There are a bunch from Violet—at least five—over the course of three days that have gone unanswered.