Dancers in the Dark and Layla Steps Up Page 3

  Then he bit her.

  All her problems were over, her every muscle relaxed, and she was whole again. Her body was smooth and even, and everything inside her was perfect and intact.

  The next thing Rue knew, she was weeping, sitting on the floor with her legs crossed. Sean was sitting by her side, leaning over with his arm around her shoulders.

  “It won’t be like this again,” he said quietly, when he was sure she would understand him.

  “Why did that happen? Is it that way for everyone?” She rubbed her face with the handkerchief Sean had handed her. Where he’d kept it, she couldn’t imagine.

  “No. The first time, you can see what makes you happiest.”

  Can, she noted. She was sure it could also hurt like hell. Sean had been generous.

  “It will feel pleasant next time,” Sean said. He didn’t add, “As long as I want it to,” but she could read between the lines. “But it won’t be so overwhelming.”

  She was glad he’d had enough kindness to introduce her to this in private. Of course, she told herself, he hadn’t wanted her to collapse on the dance floor, either. She would look stupid then, and so would he. “Can you tell what I’m feeling?” she asked, and she deliberately turned to look him in the eyes.

  He met her dark eyes squarely. “Yes, in a muffled way,” he said. “I can tell if you are happy, if you are sad—when I bite.”

  He didn’t tell her that now he would always be able to tell how she felt. He didn’t tell her that she had tasted sweeter than his memory of honey, sweeter than any human he’d ever bitten.

  Chapter Three

  They danced together for two months before Sean discovered something else about Rue. He wanted to call her “Layla,” her real name, but she told him he would forget and call her that in front of someone who…and then she’d shut down her train of thought and asked him to call her Rue like everyone else.

  He followed her home every night. Sean wasn’t sure if she’d seen him that second night, but he made sure she never saw him again. He was careful. His intention, he told himself, was simply to make sure she arrived at her apartment safely, but he inevitably analyzed what he saw and drew conclusions.

  In all those nights, Sean saw her speak to someone only once. Late one Wednesday night, a young man was sitting on the steps of her building. Sean could tell when Rue spotted him. She slowed down perceptibly. By then Sean had bitten her five times, and he could read her so closely that he registered a tiny flinch that would have gone unnoticed by anyone else.

  Sean slid through the shadows silently. He maneuvered close enough to be able to help Rue if she needed it.

  “Hello, Brandon.” Rue didn’t sound pleased.

  “Hey, Rue. I just thought I might…if you weren’t busy… Would you like to go out for a cup of coffee?” He stood up, and now the streetlight showed Sean that the young man was a little older than the common run of students, maybe in his late twenties. He was very thin, but attractive in a solemn way.

  Rue stood for a second, her head bowed, as if she were thinking what to do next. The parts of her that Sean had begun to know were brittle and fragile, forged by fear. But now he felt her kindness. She didn’t want to hurt this man. But she didn’t want to be in his company, either, and Sean was dismayed by how happy this made him.

  “Brandon, you’re so nice to think of taking me out for coffee,” she said gently. “But I thought I made myself real clear last week. I’m not dating right now. I’m just not in that mode.”

  “A cup of coffee isn’t a date.”

  Her back straightened. Sean considered stepping out of the shadows to stand by her side.

  “Brandon, I’m not interested in spending time with you.” Her voice was clear and merciless.

  The man stared at her in shock. “That’s so harsh,” he said. He sounded as though he was on the verge of crying. Sean’s lip curled.

  “I’ve turned down your invitations three times, Brandon. I’ve run out of courtesy.”

  The man pushed past her and walked down the street in such a hurry that he almost knocked over a trash can. Rue swung around to watch him go, her stance belligerent. She might look ruthless to the human eye, but Sean could tell she was full of shame at being so stern with a man as guileless as a persistent puppy. When she went up the steps, Sean drifted down the street, wondering all the while about a beautiful woman who didn’t date, a woman who camouflaged what she was under layers of unattractive clothing, a woman who was deliberately rude when her first inclination was to be kind.

  Rue May—Layla LaRue LeMay—was hiding. But from what? Or who? He’d been dancing with her for two months now, and he didn’t know anything about her.

  * * * *

  “We got a call from Connie Jaslow,” Sylvia said two weeks later. “She wants to hire three couples to dance at a party she’s putting on. Since it’s warm, she’s determined to have a tropical theme.”

  Rue and Sean, Julie and Thompson, and the third pair of dancers, Megan and Karl, were sitting in the padded folding chairs that Sylvia usually pushed against the walls. For this meeting, they’d pulled the chairs in front of Sylvia’s desk.

  “She’d like the gals to wear sort of Dorothy Lamour-style outfits, and the guys to wear loincloths and ankle bracelets. She wants some kind of ‘native-looking’ dance.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” said Karl, disgust emphasizing his German accent.

  “Connie Jaslow is one of our big repeat customers,” Sylvia said. Her eyes went from one to the other of them. “I agree the idea is silly, but Connie pays good money.”

  “Let’s see the costumes,” Julie said. Rue had decided Julie was a good-hearted girl, and almost as practical as Sylvia.

  “This was what she suggested,” Sylvia said. She held up a drawing. The women’s costume showed belly button; it was a short flowered skirt, wrapped to look vaguely saronglike, with a matching bra. The long black wig was decorated with artificial flowers.

  Rue tried to imagine what she would look like in it, and she thought she’d look pretty good. But then she re-evaluated the low-rider skirt. “It would be that low?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Sylvia said. “Showing your navel is in right now, and Connie wanted a sort of update to the island look.”

  “Can’t do it,” Rue said.

  “Something wrong with your button?” teased Thompson.

  “My stomach,” Rue said, and hoped she could leave it at that.

  “I can’t believe that. You’re as lean as you can be,” Sylvia said sharply. She wasn’t used to being thwarted.

  Rue had a healthy respect for her employer. She knew Sylvia would demand proof. Better to get it over with. Dancers learned to be practical about their bodies. Rue stood abruptly enough to startle Sean, who was leaning against the wall by her chair. Rue pulled up her T-shirt, unzipped her jeans and found she’d worn bikini panties, so she hardly had to push them down. “This would show,” Rue said, keeping her voice as level as she could.

  The room was silent as the dancers gazed at the thick, jagged scar that ran just to the left of Rue’s navel. It descended below the line of the white bikinis.

  “Good God, woman!” Karl said. “Was someone trying to gut you?”

  “Give me a hysterectomy.” Rue pulled her clothes back together.

  “We couldn’t cover that with makeup,” Sylvia said. “Or could we?”

  The other two couples and Sylvia discussed Rue’s scarred stomach quite matter-of-factly, as a problem to solve.

  The debate continued while Rue sat silently, her arms crossed over her chest to hold her agitation in. She became aware that she wasn’t hearing a word from Sean. Slowly, she turned to look up at her partner’s face. His blue eyes were full of light. He was very angry, livid with rage.

  The dispassionate attitudes of the others had made her feel a bit more relaxed, but seeing his rage, Rue began to feel the familiar shame. She wanted to hide from him. And she couldn’t understand that, either. Why Sean
, whom she knew better than any of the other dancers?

  “Rue,” Sylvia said, “are you listening?”

  “No, sorry, what?”

  “Megan and Julie think they can cover it up,” Sylvia said. “You’re willing to take the job if we can get your belly camouflaged?”

  “Sure,” she told Sylvia, hardly knowing what she was saying.

  “All right, then, two Fridays from now. You all start working on a long dance number right away, faux Polynesian. You’ll go on after the jugglers. Julie and Thompson are booked for a party this Saturday night, and Karl and Megan, you’re doing a dinner dance at the Cottons’ estate on Sunday. Sean, you and Rue are scheduled to open a ‘big band’ evening at the burn unit benefit.”

  Rue tried to feel pleased, because she loved dancing to big band music, and she had a wonderful forties dress to wear, but she was still too upset about revealing her scar. What had gotten into her? She’d tried her best to conceal it for years, and all of a sudden, in front of a roomful of relative strangers, she’d pulled down her jeans and shown it to them.

  And they’d reacted quite calmly. They hadn’t screamed, or thrown up, or asked her what she’d done to deserve that. They hadn’t even asked who’d done it to her. To Rue’s astonishment, she realized that she was more comfortable with this group of dancers than she was with the other college students. Yet most of those students came from backgrounds that were much more similar to hers than, say, Julie’s. Julie had graduated from high school pregnant, had the baby and given it up to the parents of the father. Now she was working nonstop, hoping to gather enough money to buy a small house. If she could do that, she’d told Rue, the older couple would let her have the baby over for the weekends. Megan, a small, intense brunette, was dancing to earn money to get through vet school. She’d seen Rue’s stomach and immediately begun thinking how to fix it. No horror, no questions.

  The only one who’d reacted with deep emotion had been Sean. Why was he so angry? Her partner felt contempt for her, she decided. Scarred and marred, damaged. If Rue hadn’t felt some measure of blame, she could have blown off Sean’s reaction, but part of her had always felt guilty that she hadn’t recognized trouble, hadn’t recognized danger, when it had knocked on her door and asked her out for a date.

  That night, when they both left the studio, Sean simply began walking by her side.

  “What are you doing?” Rue asked, after giving him a couple of blocks to explain himself. She stopped in her tracks.

  “I am going in the same direction you are,” he said, his voice calm.

  “And how long are you gonna be walking in that direction?”

  “Probably as far as your steps will take you.”

  “Why?”

  There it was again, in his eyes, the rage. She shrank back.

  “Because I choose to,” he said, like a true aristocrat.

  “Let me tell you something, buddy,” she began, poking him in the chest with her forefinger. “You’ll walk me home if I ask you to, or if I let you, not just because you ‘choose’ to. What will you do if I choose not to let you?”

  “What will you do,” he asked, “if I choose to walk with you, anyway?”

  “I could call the police,” she said. Being rude wasn’t going to work on Sean, apparently.

  “Ah, and could the police stop me?”

  “Not human cops, maybe, but there are vamps on the force.”

  “And then you wouldn’t have a partner, would you?”

  That was a stumper. No, she wouldn’t. And since vampires who wanted to dance for a living were scarce, she wouldn’t be able to find another partner for a good long while. And that meant she wouldn’t be working. And if she wasn’t working…

  “So you’re blackmailing me,” she said.

  “Call it what you choose,” he said. “I am walking you home.” His sharp nose rose in the air as he nodded in the right direction.

  Frustrated and defeated, Rue shouldered her bag again. He caught the bus with her, and got off with her, and arrived at her building with her, without them exchanging a word the whole way. When Rue went up the steps to the door, he waited until she’d unlocked it and gone inside. He could see her start up the inner stairs, and he retreated to the shadows until he saw a light come on in the second-floor front apartment.

  After that, he openly walked her home every night, in silence. On the fourth night, he asked her how her classes were going. She told him about the test she’d had that day in geology. The next night, when he told her to have sweet dreams, he smiled. The M of his mouth turned up at the corners, and his smile made him look like a boy.

  On the sixth night, a woman hailed Sean just as he and Rue got off the bus. As the woman crossed the street, Rue recognized Hallie, a Black Moon employee. Rue had met all the Black Moon people, but she did her best to steer clear of them all, both vampire and human. Rue could accept the other Blue Moon dancers as comrades. But the Black Moon performers made her shrink inside herself.

  “Hey, what are you two up to?” Hallie said. She was in her late twenties, with curly brown hair and a sweet oval face. It was impossible not to respond to her good cheer; even Sean gave her one of his rare smiles.

  “We just left practice,” Sean said when Rue stayed silent.

  “I just visited my mother,” Hallie said. “She seems to be a little better.”

  Rue knew she had to speak, or she would seem like the most insufferable snob. Maybe I am a snob, she thought unhappily. “Is your mom in the hospital?”

  “No, she’s in Van Diver Home, two blocks down.”

  Rue had walked past there a couple of times, and thought what a grim place it was, especially for an old folks’ home. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “She’s in the Alzheimer’s wing.” Hallie’s hand was already waving off Rue’s expression of sympathy. “If I didn’t work for Sylvia, I don’t know how I could pay the bills.”

  “You have another day job, too?”

  “Oh, yes. Every day, and nights I don’t work for Sylvia, I’m a cocktail waitress. In fact, I’m due back at work. I ran down to see Mom on my break. Good to see both of you.”

  And off Hallie hurried, her high heels clicking on the pavement. She turned into a bar on the next block, Bissonet’s.

  Rue and Sean resumed the short walk to Rue’s building.

  “She’s no saint, but it’s not as simple as you thought,” Sean said when they’d reached her building.

  “No, I see that.” On an impulse, she gave him a quick hug, then quickly mounted the steps without looking back.

  Two weeks later, Blue Moon’s three male vampires and three human women were dressing in a remote and barren room in the Jaslow mansion. Connie Jaslow had no consideration for dancers’ modesty, since she’d provided one room for both sexes. To an extent, Mrs. Jaslow was correct. Dancers know bodies; bodies were their business, their tools. At least there was an adjacent bathroom, and the women took turns going in to put on their costumes and straighten the black wigs, but the men managed without leaving.

  Rick and Phil, the two vampires who ordinarily worked together at “specialty” parties for Black Moon, had polished a juggling act. They would go on first. They were laughing together (Phil only laughed when he was with Rick) as they stood clad only in floral loincloths. “At least we don’t have to wear the wigs,” the taller Rick said, grinning as he looked over the dancers.

  “We look like a bunch of idiots,” Julie said bluntly. She tossed her head, and the shoulder-length black wig fell back into place flawlessly.

  “At least we’re getting paid to look like idiots,” Karl said. The driver of the van that had brought them all out to the Jaslow estate, Denny James, came in to tell Karl that the sound system was all set up and ready to go. Denny, a huge burly ex-boxer, worked for Sylvia part-time. Megan and Julie had told Rue that Denny had a closer relationship with Sylvia than employer/employee, much to Rue’s astonishment. The ex-boxer hardly seemed the type to appeal to the sophist
icated Sylvia, but maybe that was the attraction.

  Anxious about the coming performance, Rue began to stretch. She was already wearing the jungle-print skirt, which draped around to look like a sarong, and matching bikini panties. The bra top matched, too, a wild jungle print over green. The shoulder-length wig swung here and there as she warmed up, and the pink artificial flower wobbled. Rue’s stomach was a uniform color, thanks to Julie and Megan.

  Karl had brought the CD with their music and given it to the event planner who’d designed the whole party, a weirdly serene little woman named Jeri. On the way into the estate, Rue had noticed that the driveway had been lined with flaming torches on tall poles. The waiters and waitresses were also in costume. Jeri knew how to carry through a theme.

  Rue went over the whole routine mentally. Sean came to stand right beside her. On his way out the door with Phil, Rick gave her a kiss on the cheek for luck, and Rue managed to give him a happy smile.

  “Nervous?” Sean asked. It came out, “Nairvous?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t mind telling him. Head up, shoulders square, chest forward, big smile, pretty hands. “There. I’m okay now.”

  “Why do you do that? That little…rearrangement?”

  “That’s what my mother told me to do every time I went on stage, from the time I was five to the time I was twenty.”

  “You were on stage a lot?”

  “Beauty pageants,” Rue said slowly, feeling as though she were relating the details of someone else’s life. “Talent contests. You name it, I was in it. It cost my parents thousands of dollars a year. I’d win something fairly often, enough to make the effort worth it, at least for my father.” She began to sink down in a split. “Press down on my shoulders.” His long, thin fingers gripped her and pressed. He always seemed to know how much pressure to apply, though she knew Sean was far stronger than any human.