Unveil a dark ballet ret.., p.3
Unveil: A Dark Ballet Retelling, page 3
Speaking of getting laid, my boyfriend, Ozias, couldn’t make it tonight due to a last-minute family thing, and to be honest, I’m kind of glad. We’ve dated for six months, but I’m still not sure if he actually even likes me.
We’ve barely been physical, and believe me, I’ve tried. But it’s either Dad’s overbearing “someone must be guarding you at all times” philosophy or Zy’s “I respect you and Mr. Bordeaux too much” ridiculousness that gets in the way of anything past closed-lip pecks.
It’s gotten to the point that I can no longer stand Ozias’s white knight, goody-two-shoes nonsense. His straitlaced personality should’ve been my first red flag, not the fact that he barely touches me.
And the worst part? I know the difference. I know what it’s like to be needed in that passionate, all-consuming way, thanks to a masked stranger during my last birthday masquerade. One hot, steamy makeout in a dark corner behind a haunted pirate bar and I was ruined, I tell you. Ruined.
Then he was gone.
So actually, fuck that guy for leaving me hanging.
I wince at the annoyance building hot in my chest. Even my irritation at a stranger is stronger than anything I feel with Zy.
“You guys killed it!” Brylie shouts as she gives me and Benoit a pale-yellow shot.
“She killed it.” Benoit lands a sloppy kiss on my cheek, reeking of beer. I didn’t notice while we were dancing, his natural talent kicking in at the time, but someone clearly didn’t care about breaking a leg tonight.
“Ewww. Gross!” I give him a fake glare as I wipe the spit off my cheek with my sweaty shoulder, not much better, but then I smile and raise my glass to him. “Laissez les bons temps rouler! To you taking the Manhattan Classical Ballet by storm as principal!”
A blush creeps underneath his light freckles. “Please. Corps de ballet, first. You know that. I’m not a prodigy.” Before I can argue, he raises his drink. “And to you! May your dad loosen the leash enough for both of us to roam.”
We clink the plastic cups and down something that tastes suspiciously like straight gin. I shake my head at the burn but keep a straight face, even though I’m dying inside, so I can win the game. Benoit gasps, his expression contorting.
Yup. He always loses.
“Luna’s Liquor Poker Face streak is still alive!” Brylie laughs.
He groans. “I can’t help it. I’m like Loose and her tea. If there’s no sugar, I can barely keep it down.”
“Hey! Stop making fun of my Long Island Iced Teas.” Lucy crosses her arms, then adds smugly, “And y’all somehow forget that I’m the only one who can drink absinthe without throwing up.”
“Gin, absinthe… and she’s only twenty,” Brylie groans. “We’ve corrupted the good girl.”
“Cheers to that,” Benoit snorts, clinking another plastic cup—where the hell did that come from?—with Lucy’s. “But touché, little McKennon. Touché.”
He sips while Lucy downs hers. When she displays the empty cup proudly, he tips an imaginary hat to her and laughs.
God, I’m glad he’s having fun. Tonight was hard for him, even though he’d never show it.
Madam G passed last year. With her gone and his parents never found, he was heartbroken over finishing senior year alone. We were there for him, celebrating every moment, of course. But when you long for a home that no longer exists, nothing compares.
Brylie and Lucy disappear to find more drinks, but I grab Benoit by the suit coat from his Manon costume.
“Hey. You know my dad will let you go. Being one of the Phantom’s shadows isn’t for life anymore, and you’re like a son to him. He’s thrilled for you about MCB. We all are.”
His smile doesn’t reach his glossy blue eyes. “I… I worry about leaving New Orleans. It’ll be like they’re actually gone.”
My chest squeezes, and the gin dries on my tongue. I have no idea what to say. I’ve never been good at this stuff. I open my mouth to try, but a wistful smile crests his face as he takes in the stage we grew up on.
“You guys are my only family now. I know it’s time. It’s just hard.” He smirks. “And what if I don’t even like it up there? Maybe I’m meant to be here forever. It’s home, you know?”
I nod. A lump clogs my throat, because I do know. I just feel the opposite. I’m dying to get out, an itch deep in my soul that only open roads and blue skies can scratch.
“Let’s take it one adventure at a time, okay?” I finally say.
He grins. “You’re right. I leave next week for rehearsals, but I’m still your shadow until then. So no funny business with Ozias Thrasher until I’m gone. Your dad would be so pissed.”
I roll my eyes, barely keeping myself from muttering, Fat chance.
Benoit is a shadow, one of Dad’s men. Uncle Jaime was Momma’s shadow before she officially met my dad, so bodyguard besties are kind of his thing. With all the training my friends and I have had over the years, it’s questionable who’s guarding who on our wildest nights.
“I know you can’t wait to get rid of us,” I joke.
“Actually, kinda.” He laughs. “No chick talks to me because they think I have a thing for you.”
We both gag. Dating Benoit would be the literal equivalent of dating my brother.
“Good thing you’ve got Nox to wingman you.”
“Don’t get me started. When it’s not your fault, it’s his. Girls can’t even see me past his tall ass.” His brows wiggle. “Good thing I don’t mind sexy seconds.”
He tilts his forehead toward Nox, now surrounded by dancers and actresses who apparently don’t care how big of a player he is. My brother doesn’t go to BC, attending New Orleans State instead, but his reputation precedes him anywhere he goes.
When he catches us looking, he makes a show of turning his baseball cap backwards. I roll my eyes so hard I swear I see my brain.
“Oh shit,” Benoit laughs. “He brought out the big guns.”
Lucy tsks as she appears. “That boy’s read way too many of my spicy books.”
“Hey, the manuals work,” Benoit counters, pointing a thumb back at Nox, happy as a clam amidst all his starry-eyed fans.
Brylie’s nose crinkles. “Do you think he’s gonna do that thing again? The one where he dances with everyone until he finds the perfect girl or two, then leaves the rest hanging?”
“It’s his schtick.” Benoit shrugs, then grins. “Which means at least one will need a strong shoulder to cry on when he’s done choosing. Wish me luck! Gotta go protect the Prince of the French Quarter from the swarm.”
“You’re gonna miss your turn to bow!” Lucy reminds him.
“Listen, if I find a girl between now and the time I’m supposed to go out on stage, I couldn’t care less about bowing.”
She frowns. “But it’s your last one.”
“You’ll understand when you’re older,” he jokes and snatches her cup, downing it with a smack of his lips.
“Benny!” she yelps.
“Sorry, Loose. It was either Brylie’s straight liquor or your middle school Screwdriver. See ya!” He starts but stops to point hard at me. “I mean it about Zy.” He backs up, pointing two fingers between his eyes and mine. “Don’t get me in trouble.”
“I won’t!” I raise my hands in mock surrender.
“Kinda hard to do that if she’s breaking up with the guy,” Brylie mutters.
“Bry!” I whisper-shout, but Benoit’s thankfully already out of earshot.
“What?” She shrugs while Lucy huddles closer to us both as we wait for my turn to bow. “Maybe Benny will be able to convince you to do it.”
“Are you gonna do it, tonight?” Lucy asks.
“She should,” Brylie says. “The Troisgarde girls need guys who are obsessed. Anything less and he’ll never be able to stand toe-to-toe with our dads.”
I groan, “Agree, except my dad actually likes Zy.”
Even Lucy grimaces at that. “Eww.”
“That’s the worst,” Brylie agrees. “Any guy my dad is even nice to instantly gives me the ick. I swear they only like the boys we don’t.” She shudders for effect. “But my Spidey senses are telling me you’ve gotta do it quick, Lu. Something’s up. I can feel it.”
Benoit’s name is called, and we look around, only to find him laughing with Nox and three girls in tutus from Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty.
“Typical,” Brylie snorts. “You’re up soon. What’ll it be? Single or sad?”
I arch a brow. “‘Single or sad,’ Bry? Really?”
She lifts a shoulder. “I said what I said.”
Lucy gives me a knowing smile, so I answer her instead of the prickly one with the humor drier than a desert. “My cutoff is midnight. I refuse to be with someone at twenty-two who makes me feel”—I tug at my suddenly too-tight bodice—“unwanted.”
Lucy pouts. “We want you.”
“Thanks, Loose,” I snort. “But I’m already in one platonic relationship with—”
“And last, but not least, our Bordeaux black swan,” the emcee announces.
“Oh, gross.” I grimace at the phrasing and my stomach twists. “He wasn’t supposed to say that. Now I look like a narcissistic bitch.”
“Oh my God, no one thinks that,” Lucy laughs.
“Who cares?” Brylie slaps me on the ass, making me squeal before she pushes me toward the curtain. “It’s your last bow, babe. Make it count.”
“Don’t break a leg,” Nox calls from the back.
“Butthead!” I shout over my shoulder as I stop at the red fabric wall.
“Giselle and Swan Lake, danced by Luna Bordeaux!”
I sweep through the curtain, rise en pointe, and perform one last fouetté. The fact that I nail it, even after a couple of shots, goes to show I’ve danced my whole life. The crowd goes wild, nearly deafening, as I land and bow.
Tears blur the sea of friends and family who’ve supported us. And I quickly open the curtain to wave everyone out to soak in this moment too. It’s not mine. It’s all of ours.
We bow together, our pride, nostalgia, and anxiety over the future palpable. The emotions swell in my chest like a balloon.
I shouldn’t even be here for many reasons. For one, I was supposed to be a junior like Brylie and Nox. But I couldn’t wait to start my life, so I took my core curriculum over summer breaks.
Part of me also expected to get kicked out before I ever got my degree. I didn’t think I’d make it to high school graduation, let alone college. After all the shit my friends and I have pulled, we should’ve been expelled several times over. It was mostly harmless stuff. Tourist pickpocketing, underage drinking, trespassing…
Of course, there was that time when I escaped handcuffs before Nox took the cop car on a joyride. That was certainly a bad idea.
The worst was when we were caught breaking and entering a Bourbon Street “toy” shop at fifteen. We’d been swordfighting with the questionably large appendages, eating edible underwear, and laughing loud enough for Sabine’s wife—the absolutely zero fun police chief—to hear us. Momma forced us to apologize to the shopkeeper in person, and my cheeks still flush with embarrassment thinking about his horrified face.
The fact of the matter is, I’ve been cleared of too many crimes to count, but everything I did was in the name of chasing a thrill. I crave adventure, like the ones in the ballets I’ve danced my whole life. I just hope I can find that freedom outside of New Orleans. You know, without getting arrested.
“And that’s it for Bon Temps Senior Night, folks. You’ve been a great… wait, what is… Oh.”
The clapping and laughter die down as the emcee reads a card a stagehand delivered.
“Alright, well this is, uh, exciting!” His uncertain chuckle says otherwise. “We’re making Bon Temps Night history with this one. Ozias Thrasher, come on up.”
My chest seizes, murmurs ripple through the audience, and the crowd around me backs away, leaving me alone at center stage. I glance around, catching Lucy’s and Brylie’s confused faces in the wings.
Then boots thump up the stage-left stairs, and Zy’s dark mop of hair, wide smile, and golden tanned skin light up in the spotlight as it follows him to me. The auditorium falls silent. I try to school my “what the fuck are you doing” face.
He really is handsome. Tall—even taller than Dad and Nox—and his broad shoulders fill out a dark jacket, reminiscent of Siegfreid in Swan Lake but with dark jeans.
“Hey, Luna.” He smiles, his deep voice soft, white roses in hand. Momma’s favorite. Not mine, but still pretty.
“Uh, hey Zy, what’re you doing here?”
Okay, I couldn’t resist, because what the fuck?
He laughs nervously. “Hey emcee. Can I have the mic?”
What the hell?
My cheeks heat. I’m used to the spotlight, but not one that literally overshadows everyone else.
As the mic is passed, the faces that were full of tears and excitement a moment ago are now colored with confusion. Some people even look pissed. Stealing the limelight from theatre kids and dancers is so not the move.
“Sorry,” I mouth, grimacing.
My gaze flicks to box five where Mom gives me a bewildered shrug. Whether that’s because she has no clue what’s going on or because Dad’s still MIA, I can’t tell.
Frustration and embarrassment heat my cheeks. I resist the urge to cross my arms, gripping my tulle tutu instead.
Flee. Flee. Flee.
I don’t know what’s happening, but my legs literally itch to run—hell, leap—anywhere else.
Zy has the mic now. He’s talking. I can’t process the words, my brain fritzing out like dying speakers. Something about us dating, running into each other by chance several times at my favorite bars before he asked me out. Cool cool cool.
What. Is. Going. On—
Oh my God, he’s… is he kneeling?
Nonononono.
“What are you doing?” I whisper. “Stand. Up.”
But he doesn’t hear me, or doesn’t care, as he reaches into his pocket.
“Luna Bordeaux…”
My eyes flit around, searching for my dad, because why in God’s name is he letting this happen? Something pulls my gaze to the right this time, and I find him in box six, the glossy ridges of his scars catching the light.
But my attention doesn’t stop there as a guy beside him leans into the light, black hair falling over his forehead. His dark stare demands my eyes stay on him, his deep scowl sweeping a cold chill along my flushed skin.
When Zy takes my hand, for some reason, it’s the guy in box six I mentally beg for help.
My gaze remains his captive, even as Zy asks, “Will you marry me?”
15 minutes earlier
“Damn, her tattoos are sick. I don’t know if I could draw them that well,” my brother, Hatch, murmurs behind me, his rough voice low. But I can hear him loud and fucking clear. “Especially the one on her thigh. I mean, look at that. When her skirt rises, you can see how far up it––”
“Watch it,” I growl.
He snorts. “This guy’s too easy, Dash. He needs some of your ‘Dr. Dashiel’ monkhood discipline.”
“Not like you have any discipline to speak of, Hatton,” Dash mutters as he taps his tablet.
I’d think it was med school shit if I hadn’t caught him checking a certain someone’s daily post earlier. None of us have social media, but that hasn’t stopped us from watching on burner accounts the past few years. With time almost up, keeping tabs is more necessary than ever.
I tune them out, leaning forward with my forearms resting on the golden railing lining box six.
My thumb traces my mouth as I mentally count.
Twenty-nine.
“You were right,” Hatch tries again. “She’s pretty good.”
Thirty.
“Swinging her leg out like that can’t be easy.”
Thirty-one.
“Bet she’s bendy. Tattoos, red hair, probably a freak in—”
Thirty-two.
Her raised foot lands, and I turn to slam my fist into Hatch’s thigh, forcing a mix of a groan and a cackle. It doesn’t matter that I’ve thought all those things already. What matters is she’s going to be my fucking wife.
“Damn, man,” he rubs his leg, his face contorted in a pained smile. “The closer you get, the easier you are.”
“You’ll feel it soon enough,” I warn.
“Give it two years,” Dash grunts, swiping his screen. With Brylie’s birthday only a couple of months behind Luna’s, Dash’s part of the pact is coming up soon. The wait’s gotta be getting to him too.
“Trust me, I’m beginning to fucking feel it,” Hatch grumbles, still rubbing his quad. “Being charmingly funny helps the madness. Y’all should try it sometime.”
Luna’s radiant smile lights up as everyone from backstage swarms her. My reckless little rebel has gotten quite the fanbase. But there’s a sadness at the edge of her eyes, and I’ve been trying to figure out why this entire show.
She has no plans that I know of after graduation, and I know everything about Luna Bordeaux. Maybe she’s sad this part of her life is over? In the same beat, though, she’s happy too, ecstatic even. Throughout the night, there’ve been glimpses of grins I’ve seen countless times right before she does something impulsive that I have to clean up. Her mischievous side makes her the life of the party, but the girl should at least think before she acts once in a while. Then again, she wouldn’t be my Luna if she did.
The curtain falls on the celebrating seniors, making my heart stutter with anxiety that she’s out of my sight so close to midnight.
“Where’s that after-party again?” Hatch asks, pulling my thoughts away.
“Masque. The speakeasy underneath the opera house,” I answer.
