Page 18 of Shattered Diamonds

I walk to where I left my pointe shoes yesterday and remove my T-shirt, leaving me in nothing but my thin strapped black sports bra that barely covers my ample chest and a pair of pale pink pajama shorts. After stretching to limber up my muscles, I cue the system to one of my favorite songs.Quietby MILCK starts to play. I heave my tense body off the hardwood and begin to release the tightness I have built up inside my muscles. Nothing has ever fueled me or refreshed me like ballet has. The strength it takes to move my body, twisting it into movements that most humans can’t imagine is therapeutic to my mental state. It was my outlet as I was growing up. My safe place. My dream. That is, until that dream was no longer a viable one. I was never going to be a prima ballerina, I knew that, but I wanted to go back to where ballet originated in Italy and perform in one of the shows. I wanted to be one of the chosen ones, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t be. My body didn’t allow it. Once I hit my teenage years and puberty took over, I no longer had the svelte body of a willowy ballet dancer. My chest expanded rapidly. My hips spread and my ass, although still very firm, developed its own zip code. My body quickly became the dancer who got paid nightly for taking her clothes off rather than the dancer who was under contract with a prestigious ballet company.

I fell into a depression, abused my body, and rebelled against the weight that came along with the change in my figure as I became a young woman. I tortured myself, mentally and physically. I spent countless hours just staring at dinner plates filled with delicious foods, moving it around the contained space to make it seem as if I ate, only to consume it from the refrigerator later that night when everyone was asleep. Or I would hide behind the closed door of my bedroom when the starvation diet I swore would give me back what I thought was a perfect body rejected the torture and strain I was putting it under. I would scarf down copious amounts of food and then feel so guilty I would run to the scale and weigh myself. It would rise a pound, or three, and I would feel sick to my stomach at my lack of control. I fought with myself, chastising myself every single time I faltered. I considered myself weak minded as I cried a river of self-loathing tears. Then I fell into the trap. I binged. And the only way to correct that binge was to get rid of what I consumed. Countless hours were spent over the rim of my private en suite toilet.

Only one person, my bodyguard Finn, noticed the change in me, in my body. To my family, I assumed they had just believed I dropped back down to my dancing weight pre-hormone range. I guess they figured it was youth at its worst and best. Ma never said a thing. In her defense, she was too wrapped up in Da’s illness. His dementia had just been diagnosed. The fear of one day losing her soulmate to something other than a human became consuming and crippling. It snuck up on them and attacked without warning. They were both at a loss on how to defend themselves. Ma’s disadvantage was because she couldn’t fix it. Every bit of her time and focus went into my Da and his health, researching in the false hope that she could cure him. My father accepted that one day he would retreat to that dark place and not come back, eventually leaving his beloved family behind, exposed to the dangerous world he created. It became the unknown. The waiting game. Day by day passed. One day was good. The next was bad. Those moments of seeing my real da became few and far between. The stress of it only aided to my illness. Cillian stepped in, got me help, and became the head of the family, running the business while my father slowly became a dimmer light. His days as of late are rapidly diminishing. I can see the strain on Cillian’s face as each day passes. The sad part is, I think only once my father finally does pass, Cillian will become less regimented and stressed. Their relationship has become strained. More so in the beginning than now when Dad was more cognizant. When my father was first diagnosed, I had overheard some major battles between father and son behind the closed door of my father’s office. It was always about business. Decisions were made on my father’s part without the warranted discussion with his partner, his son. The leading emotion in the tone of their voices was more of an emotional turmoil than the rigidness of their business. I never heard the full gist of what the arguments were about, but I can tell you Cillian did not agree with the choices my father had made for the family’s future in his absence. Now, Cillian must uphold those contracts, and I can tell the pressure is getting to him. I believe it is one of the reasons why we have come to the States. I have asked him, but I was not given an answer.

The beginning beats ofWicked Gameby Daisy Janestart to strum. My legs shift into limber-controlled noodles as I lift to the tips of my toes and glide across the floor with small quick steps. I jump, launching from both toes and landing on both feet with a gust of strength. My arms move with graceful precision. Sweat rolls down my temples. I am right where my body and mind need to be. Lost in the music.

My thoughts shift from my movements to the man who has kept me awake. I expunge my body of the confused energy forcing me to stay awake with each move I compose. Demetri Carbone is an enigma to my innocent life. He is a threat but also a promise. A hazardous temptation. One that my innocence is unreasonably attracted to. My curiosity is becoming my enabler. She’s a fickle bitch, aiding in my conclusion. Demetri is trouble.

I find myself becoming more passionate with every move. My body temperature is rising beyond the typical as I exert myself thinking of him, the handsome devil that has caught my attention. It’s both bothersome and strangely welcoming. I jump, lifting and turning in the air with powerful stamina. My legs are so unnaturally straight, they are as tight as a taut string under pressure. With a graceful landing, I twist and spin with gust. My head gracefully flows with my body. It’s just me, the music, and the craving of my addiction that let me process my thoughts of him.

That is, until I hear, “What are you dancing away from, sunshine?”

I stumble, my pointed toes falling flat, my arms dropping from above my head with weight, and blocking my chest from the sudden unease at someone entering the room without my knowledge. My body deflates when the apprehension subsides at seeing who it is standing in my private space watching me dance. My hands drop to my hips, ready to reprimand him for scaring me. I release my held breath, trying to reenergize my body before speaking.

“Finn.” I breathe a heavy breath. “What are you doing down here?” I relax as best I can, trying to recoup now that I know I am safe from an unknown intruder. “It’s so late. You should be asleep,” I tell him as I walk to the cooler and grab an ice-cold water.

“You’re dancing,” he states, watching me a mindful minute. “You looked beautiful, passionate, and poetic. I haven’t seen you like that in some time.” He steps to me, holding out his hand, gesturing for me to give him the bottle of water I’m struggling to open because of my sweaty palms.

“I was down here the other night too,” I inform him, glancing around the open space as I hand him the bottle.

“You were,” he agrees, acknowledging that he knew. “But you were not so, should I say, fiery. There was life in your movements just now.”

I weakly nod, agreeing, knowing exactly who gave me that fire.

“It’s late, Finn. You should be in bed.” I hand him my half full bottle and grab a clean white towel to wipe the sweat from my forehead.

“As should you.” He looks at his wristwatch noting the time. “It’s four thirty a.m.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I admit.

“Just got here,” he informs me. “I was ready to head to bed when I heard the music.”

“Sorry, didn’t realize it was that loud.”

“Not so much loud as a sense you were down here. You going to tell me?”

“I’m not dancing away from anything. Just had some pent-up energy I needed to burn.” I shrug, not wanting to tell my bodyguard that Demetri Carbone has become an unwanted intruder in my late-night thoughts.

“Hmm,” he hums, nodding while on the lookout for anything I am not saying. If there is one thing about Finn, he knows me. He has been my bodyguard since I was a kid. “This have anything to do with tonight?”

“Tonight?” I’m too quick to answer, my heart hammering, thinking he knows about the fight. About the wager. About my heated thoughts of Demetri.

The moment becomes somewhat tense. I glance away and when I look back, I notice Finn’s eyes have dropped to my overexposed chest. My body has cooled down and the temperature change has made my nipples stand at attention.

He clears his throat, looks away, and remarks with a heaviness to his voice, “Must have been that thriller of a movie Ciarán told me you guys watched this evening.”

“Yeah, must have been.” I grant the lie to wash over my lips without looking at him. It makes me feel so terrible an ache forms in my chest.

He leans down, grabs my T-shirt off the floor, and holds it out for me to take. He clears his throat once again then takes a step back.

“It’s late.” I make the excuse so I can get out from under the heaviness I feel. “I need to shower.”

“That you do.” He smiles softly, an act I have seen him carry out only when he is in my presence.

Finn has a hard exterior. He fits the perfect description of a bodyguard. But with me, in a private setting, his interior is forgiving and gentler than his shell. He is six years my senior at twenty-seven, but life has made his maturity level that of a man in his later years. He has been around and involved in violence since he was just a small boy. He came from a family that was dirt poor and uneducated, becoming illiterate criminals born from a broken underprivileged society. There was no finesse to their illegal dealings. Years of their half-witted street schemes only carried them so far. Most of them are dead or in prison now. Finn began working for the family in his mid-teens when he sought out my father for work to help his family. It wasn’t until later that he became my bodyguard.

I found myself gravitating to him as we both grew. He was easy to be around, and I realized I was leaning on him more than I should. We generated a friendship that was beyond the typical bodyguard–client structure. I had misconstrued those crossed lines one night when I found myself so frustrated at the choices I made, that I kissed him. I had just left a frat party where young men showed their immaturity. I became the “new girl challenge” and was being hit on from every direction I turned. It was disgusting, and I voiced that once I got back in the car. After returning home and Finn checked out my private off campus apartment, making sure it was safe and secure, and was getting ready to leave, I laid one on him. He became as stiff as a board. Our lips were stagnant for a full ten seconds. My lips were just there, glued to his, with no motion. Then it turned into something else. Finn took control. My back hit the door with an energy that he had never touched me with before. His mouth moved over mine. His experience showed. It was new and exhilarating. Only a hint of his tongue pushed through my parted lips and swiped my tongue before he pulled it back along with himself. Heated desire swirled in his eyes as he glared at me. Then he left. Just left. Walked out without a word said. I was left standing there in embarrassed wonder. The next morning, he was waiting at my door like he had done every single day before. No words were spoken. No explanations. No excuses. We just went on with our typical day.

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