He secures the blindfold back around my eyes, and then he feeds me the cupcake. This time it's more intimate. It's not a fork, it's his hand... his finger pressing a bit of the pink buttercream frosting into my mouth. It tastes homemade. Did he make the cupcake, too?
I only worry for a split second that the cupcake is poisoned. But I'm now more concerned about something else. This feels like a seduction. And I don't want to think this thought, I desperately don't. I want to shove it back into the dark pit from which it came, but I can't stop it. His voice is sexy. Like... panty-melting, rough gravel. An auditory fucking orgasm. A throbbing need starts between my legs at this observation.
I am deeply disturbed. I know this. There are no more excuses now. After killing someone and then just going about my day the next day, and now finding someone who is basically my part-time captor, sexy, I really should be committed somewhere with soft padded walls and a nice calming view of a tree.
I don't even know what he looks like. I do know he's young. Maybe in his thirties? I can tell now that his voice isn't being magnified by a sound system. This psychopath is going to kill me or hurt me, and I'm speculating about how old he is and how hot he may or may not be. Well, now we know. I would have been one of those stupid twits trying to help Ted Bundy.
“Stop thinking so much,” he says. “Just enjoy your cupcake.”
One might assume that it's only the high-stress situation that makes me not worry a cupcake and lasagna will make me too fat to move across the stage. But that's not true. I mean, sure, I can't eat pasta and sugar every day, but most dancers eat a lot more than you might think. We're burning a ton of calories every day, and we have a lot of muscle that keeps our metabolism revved at a high rate. Most of us eat a normal amount of food. Really, we do. We need the fuel.
A glass prods at my lips, and I find the liquid he poured into the new glass is water. I didn't even get a chance to glance at it while the blindfold was off. My hands are still on the table. I haven't moved them since I first placed them there. Because he told me not to, and it's just not worth it to fight him on that, not when he hasn't started doing anything horrific to me yet.
“Don't move until I tell you to move,” he says. Then there is more table clearing, something else placed on the table, and then he's gone.
In the silence that follows, the thought occurs to me... if he's really letting me leave this building and carry on with my life for the most part, and I truly believe he's part of the company—which I do—then this is a man I see nearly every day. This is a man I know. At least from a distance. And it must be from a distance because I don't recognize his voice. So one of the principal dancers, or one of the choreographers or instructors who only works with the principals?
Several minutes have passed of me contemplating all this when his voice booms out over the speaker again. “You may take the blindfold off.”
I take it off. Sitting in front of me on the table is a black gift bag with gold tissue paper and gold glittery letters on the front that say: “Happy Birthday.”
All the dishes and the gun have been taken away. I try to shove away the thought that he has my gun now. I really don't think he's going to shoot me with it. And I haven't died yet from the food. No, he has far grander plans than a quick death for me.
“Open it.”
I pull the bag toward me, remove the tissue paper, and take out two large and clearly very expensive bottles of bath oil. The label reads “warm vanilla”. I know the principals are paid very well here, but even so, I'm starting to doubt this guy is a principal. I mean, why would he spend this money? What is this guy's game?
“On Wednesdays, before you come to me, I want you to take a bath. Use this oil, rose petals, and candles, and just relax until the heat leaves the water. I’ll know if you use the oil by scent and the way your skin feels, but I can't know if you'll do the rest. It will be up to you whether you decide it's worth trying to lie to me, or just obey my orders even when I'm not there.”
Another long breath escapes me. It feels like a million years ago that I was crying, worrying about poisoned lasagna. “Why are you doing this?”
“Does it matter at this point? You are dismissed until Wednesday. When you go out into the lobby, you'll find a key on the counter of the concession stand. Use it to unlock the side door and lock it behind you when you come in each week. We don't want to be disturbed, do we?”
I sit, stunned. I still don't know what he wants from me. Specifically what he wants, I mean. I have some ideas, and I'm scared but maybe not as scared as I should be.
Padded wall. Nice calm view of a tree.
“H-how long?” I ask.
“As long as I want. Until I'm done with you.”
“And then what?”
“Then nothing.”
“You won't report me?”
“If you obey me? No.”
“What will you...”
Before I can figure out how to phrase my question, he says, “No more questions. Go home, Ms. Lane. I'll see you Wednesday night at nine.”
The spotlight shuts off, and I'm left in darkness. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, I see the darkness isn't total. There are red glowing exit signs, and the floor guide lights, and a few other small out-of-the-way lights I didn't notice before under the overpowering glare of the spotlight. It's just enough for me to see the outline of my things on the stage floor. I gather them up, stuff them in my bag, and leave as quickly as I can, afraid every second that he will grab me, that he will touch me now that his identity is shielded by so much darkness.
But nothing happens. I barely have the presence of mind to grab the gleaming gold-colored key on the concession stand counter on my way through the lobby. The metal side door clangs and a gust of cool air hits me when I step outside. I run full-out to my car, lock myself inside, and get the fuck out of there.
3
It's Tuesday night, and I'm exhausted. Part of it is rehearsals. Part of it is the emotional drain of what I did the other night, accompanied by last night's introduction to my blackmailer and jailer. It's putting a lot of extra strain on me, and I'm pretty sure I didn't get more than four hours’ sleep last night.
I spent all day today at rehearsal trying to figure out who this guy is. The principal dancers cluster together and keep to themselves, but I need to know if one of the male principals is my blackmailer. Or is it one of the instructors or choreographers? It's not Mr. V. Obviously. I know his voice. And this guy is younger.
All day I wondered if my blackmailer was right in front of me, quietly mocking me.
Henry pops in a DVD, pulling me from my thoughts. The movie starts. We're sitting in my living room: Me, Henry, and Melinda.
“Oh God, no, not this one again. I hate this one!” I whine.
“Nope, you have to. It's the start of the season, and we have to watch this movie. It's the ballet movie we all love to hate. It is our forever frenemy,” he says.
“It's like a hate fuck,” I say.
“YES!” Henry exclaims, shoving a bowl of popcorn onto my lap. “You hate it, but at the same time, it's so good.”