“It’s my ballet,” he retorted. “You do it my way. The way I told you to do it.”
A few dancers drifted in to stretch and warm up for the next practice. Petra glanced over at them and lowered her voice.
“I don’t take orders from you anymore.”
“In here, you do,” he said, making no effort to be quiet. “We go again. Do it right this time. No wild arms. Lyrical, like this.”
He showed her what he wanted but she only scowled at him, pursing her lips. “Don’t insult me. I wasn’t doing wild arms.”
“They looked wild to me. And I’m not insulting, I’m directing. If you’d take that crown off your head, princess, you’d dance better.”
Petra bit her bottom lip hard. If the other dancers hadn’t been there, she would have gone off on him. As it was, she nodded to the accompanist and proceeded to repeat the combination—ignoring every fucking thing he’d said.
He felt rage. She turned to look at him over her shoulder, dismissing his opinion. Dismissing him. Without thinking, he strode over and yanked her arms into the correct position. “Do it right, damn you. Like this.”
She slapped his hands away. “Don’t ever jerk my arms like that.”
“If you won’t do what I say, what choice do I have?” He turned to the gawking dancers sitting against the wall. “Get out. All of you get out. Next rehearsal is not for five minutes.” A few of them moved, but not enough to suit him. “Get out!” he yelled in a breaking voice.
Even the accompanist jumped up, making a beeline for the door. Petra turned to leave too, but he grabbed her hand to stop her, hauling her over toward the mirror. “Not you. You don’t go anywhere.”
“Are you finished?” she asked, turning on him. “Are you done scolding and disrespecting me in front of everyone? Do you think you could give me just the tiniest bit of artistic license to interpret your ballet?”
She was talking too fast for him to understand, but it didn’t matter. He only answered one thing to her these days. “No.”
She ground her pointe shoe into the floor with a vicious twist and then turned to leave again.
“No,” he repeated. “You do it the way I like or you don’t go.”
“Oh, really? Are you being serious right now?” She looked as beautiful as ever with her green eyes flashing and wisps of her blonde hair escaping her bun.
“We premiere this fucking show in five days, Petra,” he said, his voice hard. “I don’t have time for this bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit. I’m trying to make it my own. I’m not doing the Ashleigh Keaton version.”
“Why not? She danced as good as you. Better, in this,” he added just to hurt her. It wasn’t true. Petra did his ballet beautifully, but somehow, she wasn’t there for him emotionally. She wasn’t dancing love. She was dancing distance. Anger. Disgust.
“I’ve left you alone,” he said quietly. “I did what you asked. Why do you hate me so much?”
He thought he saw her flinch a little. “I don’t hate you.”
“You hate me. You hate my work. You hate my ballet.”
She turned away but he didn’t let her go. He pulled her closer and leaned into the curve of her neck. Oh God, the smell of her hair. “Petra,” he groaned. “I miss you so much. Why won’t you come back to me?”
He felt her shiver. “I can’t. I’ve explained why a thousand times.”
“I still don’t understand.” He smoothed his fingers over her hair. “I don’t understand nothing. I’m too stupid.” His fingers skimmed lower, over her shoulders and down to her hips. The closeness of her body haunted him every second of every day. He pressed his cock against her as it stirred to life. “I’m stupid and selfish but I know how I feel about you. I don’t care about other women any more. I don’t look at them. I only think about you.” He smoothed his hands over her practice tutu, then lifted it up out of the way to press his palm between her legs. He could feel her heat like he felt his own heart racing. “I know we belong together. You know it too.”
“Stop.” She pushed his hand away. “Stop it. The others are waiting outside. Someone will see.”
He would have stopped if he thought she meant it, if she wasn’t melting into him like a lost, frightened child. “I don’t give a fuck if they see.” He caught her hand and twisted it up behind her back, so she fell forward against his chest.
She made a soft, scared sound. “They’ll see. Let me go.”
“Why? Am I too dirty for you? Too nasty?” He ground his hips against her in rough anger. “I’m not good enough for you, yes? Well, too bad. I don’t want to let you go. I care about you, Petra, I love you. What the fuck do you think about that? So what if somebody sees us? Does the world come to an end?”
She tipped her face up, pleading with him. “I told you from the beginning, I’m not going to be my mother. I’m not giving up all of this for you.”
Enough. He’d had enough of that explanation. He let go of her and threw out his arms. “I don’t want you to give up anything. I never asked you to give up one thing, not one. This is about you and your fucking father, not about me. You care so much about him, what he does, what he thinks. He doesn’t give a shit about you. Me, I love you. I’d do anything to be with you, and this is what I get.”
He could see his words hit home. She lashed out, her voice trembling in anger. “You keep saying you love me, but you don’t. You just like to fuck me. I know you don’t love me.”
“I know you don’t love me,” he mocked in a high pitched voice. “You don’t tell me how I feel, okay? Because you don’t know. You’re a very confused person, Petra Hewitt. You don’t know what love means.”
“That is quite enough.”
They both turned at the sharp voice of the theater director. Yves Thibault stood across the room, his arms crossed over his chest.
“This is not a discussion for the rehearsal room,” he said. “Every dancer outside can hear what you’re saying to each other.”
“I didn’t say nothing that isn’t true,” Rubio
spat, glaring at Petra. “She won’t follow direction. We can’t dance anymore, not like this.”
Yves’ eyebrows shot up. “You are contractually obligated to dance with her. The spring season premieres in less than a week.”
“She won’t dance Waking Kiss the way I like.”
Petra spoke over him. “He won’t consider any of my suggestions. He’s being a hardass just to frustrate me.”
“And you’re ignoring my suggestions to frustrate me,” he said. “It goes both ways.”
Yves held up a hand. “You two are the face of this company, the artists the other dancers look to for leadership. This squabbling and yelling cannot continue. It’s not professional behavior and I won’t have it at City Ballet.”
Petra’s rejection was bad enough. Now he was being lectured like a naughty kid. Him, The Great Rubio. Had he fallen so far? Was it even worth it anymore? He stared down at the lines in the well-worn parquet floor. “Fuck being professional,” he muttered, stalking to the side of the room for his dance bag. “Do it without me. Do everything without me, however you like. I’m going home.”
Chapter Eighteen: All Your Fault
As always, the tabloids worked fast. Brutal Ballet Break-up, blared the papers the next morning, with some months-old stock photo of her and Rubio looking annoyed. Petra wished she knew which shitty little corps dancer was supplementing their salary by selling stories to the press. Maybe the theater’s PR department circulated the stories to increase ticket sales. There was a last minute surge as curtain time neared, as people purchased tickets to watch the feuding dancers perform together. They’d be disappointed when The Great Rubio didn’t appear as her partner.
No one could find Rubio, and no one could rustle him up on the phone. Not Yves, not Liam or Ashleigh, not Petra herself. The Love Stories premiere couldn’t be rescheduled, so Yves tapped Edward to partner her instead. Edward hadn’t danced Waking Kiss before but professed to know “most of the steps.” If he got lost, she’d have to coach him along under her breath during the performance. Fun times.