Dance of Ruin: Chapter 4

“You’re funny.”

“And you’re terrifying,”

The words creep into my subconscious as I emerge from Washington Square subway station and start walking down Waverly Place.

Maybe that’s the wrong way to put it. Saying they “creep into” my head suggests that they weren’t already there, which is a lie. That’s exactly where they’ve been for the last two days: firmly stuck in both my subconscious and my very conscious thoughts.

All I can think about is the dark rooftop. The city below me. The man’s scream as he fell. The way Nico’s fingers locked around my wrist, keeping me from the same fate.

He pushed a man to his death, and then he saved me.

I keep circling back to that: he killed one person and saved another in the span of thirty seconds.

My pulse flutters when I think about the way he looked at me. Not just that, but the way it felt to have him looking at me like that—his gaze dark, unreadable.

Dangerous.

Alluring.

Alluring enough to make me keep thinking about him and his piercing eyes, not that I witnessed him kill a man immediately before.

Which might be a strong indication that something is seriously wrong with me.

Milena teases me all the time, saying I’m too uptight. Too focused on everything but myself and “my needs”.

I feel my face heat just thinking about it.

In cruder terms—Milena’s exact terms—”You need to get laid”.

Easy enough for Milena, one of my best friends in the world, who dances in the Zakharova with me, to say. She’s freaking gorgeous. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and the girl won the damn genetic lottery with everything from her skin to her nose to her legs to…okay, all of her.

She’s also effortlessly cool, knows how to be sexy, and doesn’t take shit from anyone. Ever.

I mean, yeah, she’s Bratva royalty, so I guess that comes with the territory. But still. If you look like Milena, and act like Milena, and carry yourself like Milena, it seems to me that it’s a bit easier to just “go get laid”.

It’s harder when you’re me. Short, limp-haired, anxiety-ridden, chronic imposter syndrome, and definitely not mafia royalty.

Never “gone out and gotten laid before”, either, if we’re keeping score.

I shake myself, forcing my thoughts back to the present. I need to stop thinking about him. About that night.

It’s just another memory.

Ideally, it wouldn’t even be that, just something I surgically erase from my thoughts, like Jim Carrey in Eternal Sunshine Of the Spotless Mind. But since that’s never going to happen, it’s going to stay buried in the very back of my mind. Where. It. Belongs.

I didn’t see anything.

Didn’t hear anything.

Didn’t witness anything…certainly not a crime.

I want to tell myself that this is a choice I’m making entirely myself. Maybe I am, in part. But a lot of it has to do with him.

Whether I want to admit it or not, he scared the shit out of me the other night.

“How do I know you’re not going to kill me? I mean…later.”

“You don’t.”

I’d love to tell myself that he was obviously just trying to scare me. But that starts to take on water real quick when I remember that he literally killed someone mere minutes before.

I take a shaky breath and try to clear my mind as I head down West 10th Street into the heart of the West Village and to the studio address on the card in my pocket.

For the gazillionth time, I ask myself if I’m crazy—although at least this time the question doesn’t pop up because I got all fangirly over a fucking murderer putting his hand on my neck—yeah, good job, self, you freaking weirdo.

No, it’s because I can’t believe I agreed to this photoshoot at all.

I’d been standing in the produce section at the grocery store a week ago staring at the bananas when he approached me—early forties, a dusting of silver in his hair, thick-framed glasses. He looked like every other artsy New Yorker I’ve ever seen, dressed in an all-black ensemble that screamed coffeehouse intellectual.

He told me his name was Gus, glanced at the ballet tights visible under my hoodie and skirt, and asked if I was a dancer. My guard went up instantly, but I’d nodded anyway.

He told me he was working on a photography book—Young Artists of New York—and that he was supposed to shoot a ballerina the next day, but she had backed out last minute.

I was flattered when he told me he thought I was perfect for the shoot. But what truly hooked my attention was that he was willing to pay me five hundred bucks for an hour of my time.

“Nothing lewd or provocative, naturally,” he’d been sure to clarify. “It’s not even necessarily about the female form. I want to capture the athleticism in your art. And my assistant will be there the whole time.”

He showed me his Insta, which looked legit. That, plus the money? Hi, sold.

Landlords in this city don’t care if you’re a starving artist. Neither does my body, and those visits to Dr. Miravalles are draining whatever savings I had.

And, as previously mentioned, I do not ask my father for handouts.

So now here I am, walking through the West Village, dressed in simple leggings and an oversized sweater, my hair swept up in a loose bun. I wasn’t nervous when I left my apartment, but the closer I get to the studio, the more I start to question myself.

A text buzzes in my pocket. I fish out my phone, half-hoping it’s an excuse to turn around, but it’s just Milena.

I stare at the message, debating what to say. I didn’t tell her about the shoot before, I don’t know why, but now it feels too late. Like saying it out loud will make it sound as sketchy as…well…as it sounds.

I grin, tucking my phone away as I reach the address and look up at the building.

Okay, it’s totally normal-looking. Actually, it’s one of the nicer brownstones on the street, which is seriously saying something given how ritzy the West Village is. I exhale, relaxing a little.

I’ve watched too many true crime documentaries. This is totally fine. I also tend to have a really good instinct about people, and Gus seemed completely normal. And it’s not like the guy accosted me in a dark alley to tell me he wanted to photograph me. It was broad daylight in the produce section, for crying out loud.

“Yes?” A voice crackles when I buzz the number he gave me.

“Gus? It’s Naomi?”

“Oh, good! Come on up! We’re all ready for you.”

A moment later, the door unlocks with a mechanical click, and I step inside, climbing a set of stairs that creak beneath my feet. The building is definitely an artists’ space, each floor divided into two apartments with names on the doors like “Celine Rios Ceramics”, another photography studio, and a few painters.

At the top, there’s just one door, standing ajar, with a plaque reading “Gus Carson Studio” affixed to it.

My brows arch in surprise when I step inside. The studio is way bigger than I expected, with a backdrop already set up against one wall and Softbox lights glowing warmly. A bunch of photography equipment is scattered about, and there’s a table stacked with books and cameras.

Gus looks up from adjusting a tripod, smiling when he sees me.

“There she is!”

His enthusiasm feels a little different now that I’m here, alone in his space. Maybe it’s just nerves.

I force a smile. “Thanks again for having me.”

“My pleasure,” he says easily, motioning to a clothing rack off to the side. “I borrowed these from a costume designer friend. I’d love some with you in the traditional tutu, of course. But there’s also a couple of salsa-style dresses I thought we could play with?”

I nod, glancing around the huge apartment. Gus clearly lives here, too. Half of it is his studio, the other half a huge open-concept loft space, with a kitchen area, a tastefully modern living room, and a bed in one corner. I blush when I notice the camera on a tripod facing the bed.

Gus laughs a little awkwardly when he sees where my gaze is. “Oh, sorry. Don’t mind that. My boyfriend is a content creator.” He rolls his eyes, “OnlyFans. It’s weird, but the money is stupid good.”

Not gonna lie, “boyfriend” definitely has my shoulders relaxing a little.

This is all totally fine. I’ll do the shoot, and I’ll be five hundred dollars richer.

“You can go ahead and change in there.” Gus nods toward a curtained-off corner near the photography backdrop. “Pick whatever fits you from the rack.”

I groan, blushing. “I actually…brought my own? I know, it’s a little extra…”

Gus chuckles. “No, that’s perfect. I meant to ask you to do that anyway and I forgot. So much more authentic. We shot this guy earlier this week who brought over his entire oil painting setup. Made a fucking mess, but I loved it,” he laughs, his eyes twinkling.

He turns and starts busying himself with one of the cameras laid out on the table. Meanwhile, I take my bag into the changing area and start pulling out my tights and one of my practice tutus. I pause, grinning when my touch lingers on the paperback libretto of Swan Lake.

This was my mother’s—a tattered, well-loved “little book” of the performance script for the infamous 1895 production of the ballet. She used it as a study guide when she was a cygnet in a production, and it’s got all of her meticulous little notes in blue pen in the margins.

To me, it’s always been like a good luck charm. And it’s only become even more meaningful to me after being cast in the role of Odette and Odile.

I give it a loving rub between my fingers before I stuff it back into my back and start pulling on my tights.

“Your assistant joining us?” I ask, adjusting my leotard.

“Yeah!” Gus calls. “He just had to run down the street for something. How we looking?”

“Good, I think?” I step out and smile, giving a dorky little twirl.

“Magnifico!” Gus beams.

Just then, the door to the studio opens and a fairly good-looking younger guy steps in. When he sees me, he grins.

“Naomi, I presume?”

I nod, smiling awkwardly.

“Seb. Gus’ assistant.” He strides over and shakes my hand. I wince a little at the brutal strength in his grip, which, weirdly, lingers a little longer than necessary before he pulls away. “Boss, you need anything?”

“Nah, we’re all set.” Gus turns to me. “Ready when you are, Naomi. Can I get you anything before we start? Sparkling or still water? A real drink for the nerves?”

I laugh lightly. “Tempting, but sparkling water is great, thanks.”

Gus gives Seb a curt nod, and his assistant walks off to the kitchen.

“Let’s get you set up right…here.” Gus indicates an X on the floor.

I walk over to it, standing there as he fiddles with a few lights.

“Here you go.”

“Thanks.” I smile at Seb when he hands me the sparkling water.

“It’s peach,” he shrugs. “Sorry, all we had.”

“Peach is peachy, thanks.”

I take a few sips and glance back over at Gus.

“Just another minute, Naomi,” he says, his back to me.

“I’d chug that back,” Seb chuckles. “These lights get hot, and Mr. Perfectionist over here takes his sweet time.”

“Hey, I’m paying her by the hour,” Gus laughs. “If we go over, Naomi, you’re getting double. Promise.”

“Then, please, take all the time you need,” I giggle, feeling more relaxed.

Seb’s right. The lights are crazy hot, and my skin’s already getting warm. My forehead feels damp, and I take another big gulp of the sparkling water. Then another.

Why the hell are these lights so hot?

“Why don’t you stand right here, Naomi,” Seb murmurs.

I’m confused when he puts his hands on my hips and physically moves me over a few steps. Then it all sort of melts together as a fuzzy feeling warms through me.

Those lights.

I start to giggle.

“How’re you feeling, Naomi?”

It’s suddenly a struggle to lift my eyelids as I raise my gaze to Gus.

His eyes aren’t twinkling when he looks at me now. He’s not smiling, either.

The lens cap is still on the camera sitting on the tripod in front of me.

“I… It’s hot,” I say quietly, my words jumbling together. Confusion claws at me, fading in and out, like I’m confused about why I’m confused.

I’m here for a photoshoot. I’m going to make five hundred dollars.

Easy.

Peasy.

Lemon squeez⁠—

My legs start to give out.

“Oops, let me help you,” Seb mutters, an edge in his tone that wasn’t there before. His hands land on my hips again.

Slowly, I sink limply into his arms.

What the fuck is happening.

“Why don’t you lie down, Naomi,” Gus growls into my ear. I feel a sense of weightlessness as I’m lifted and carried across the room.

Part of me doesn’t care. Part of me is still confused about being confused.

Another part is silently screaming blue fucking murder as I find myself laid across the bed in the corner.

The one with the camera on a tripod pointed right at it.

Hands begin to tug at my tutu.

“What are you doing…”

“We’re making a movie, Naomi,” Gus murmurs. His fingers slip under the strap of my leotard, his touch making my skin crawl. “And you’re the star.”

No.

No. No. No…

It doesn’t matter how many times I scream it in my head. It doesn’t stop the lights from dimming and the whole world from fading out.

But right now, that might be the best I could hope for.