Perfection

  Perfection

  Kitty Thomas

  Burlesque Press

  Contents

  Publisher’s Note:

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Perfection

  Digital Edition

  Copyright 2020 © Kitty Thomas

  All rights reserved.

  Digital Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or shared. If you did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Respecting the hard work of this author makes new books possible.

  Publisher’s Note:

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Neither the publisher nor the author endorses any behavior carried out by any character in this work of fiction or any other.

  To Darlene G. Thanks for the meme!

  And for Annabel Joseph: from one ballet kink lover to another.

  1

  Today is the happiest day of my life. For a short time, I defined the happiest day of my life as the day I married the perfect man, the wealthy and beautiful Conall Walsh. In the months that followed, I learned just how imperfect he was, until today, three years later, when I'd had enough of this perfection.

  I just killed him. The body lies at my feet, more blood and gore than I'd expected to be honest. I'm not sure what I thought cutting up a body entailed, but I had to get rid of it. Obviously, I know there is the tub-of-acid option. And I considered that. I really did. But all I could think was wouldn't it be fucked up if I ended up burning my own skin away while trying to destroy the body?

  I don't think I processed the idea that I could also have a chainsaw accident. And by the time I had that harrowing thought, he was already in nineteen pieces while I contemplated if I needed to make his torso any smaller or was this enough? Now the possibility that I could injure myself with the chainsaw has squirreled its way into my brain. No, we're done here. Nineteen pieces. It'll have to do.

  I put what's left of the perfect man into several black heavy duty garbage bags. I take down all the plastic wrap I'd taped up and laid down to catch everything. I've seen enough TV to know how this is done. Except on TV you don't really see everything about clean-up, do you? If I had, blood wouldn't have slipped out of the plastic onto the white tile floor of the master bathroom.

  Fuck me. That is never coming out of the grout.

  I take him out to the ocean... in his own boat. He named that boat after some side piece he was fucking. Probably fucked her yesterday. There's something really satisfying about taking him on his last ride on the boat he used to rub Stella Crenshaw in my face. The Delectable Stella it's called. That fake-titted bimbo he was fucking in his office. I imagine him bending her over the copy machine after office hours, her fake nails digging into the hard plastic of the machine while she fakes her orgasm. Because there is no way she wasn't faking it. Part of that is because Conall is bad in bed, and the other part is... well, everything else about her is fake. What's one more thing?

  My husband was a real piece of work, and if fucking his secretary had been the worst thing he'd done to me, we'd just be looking at a divorce. I asked for a divorce; he told me if I left him, he'd kill me. I don't know why. After all, he had The Delectable Stella. But some men just need a Delectable Stella and a Punching Bag Cassia.

  I'm not sure how far out to take him. You never see that part on TV. You just see the murder, then suddenly there's a boat out on the ocean, and the bags are going into the water in the dead of night. I wonder suddenly if beachfront property is so expensive because of the ease of body disposal. That's a perk you can't get in the heartland.

  I finally decide I'm probably out far enough and dump the bags over the edge. I remembered to weigh them down with heavy rocks. Otherwise, the bags will float to the top, some deep sea fisherman will pull it in with his haul, and then the investigation starts.

  It's three a.m. when I finally get back home. The house is so quiet. No yelling. No glass crashing against the wall. No screams (mine). No sound of my body being slammed against the wall. I really don't know how I've survived this long. I guess a dancer's body is built for a certain amount of abuse. But not this much. And not this kind. One of our more recent fights pops into my mind.

  “Are you fucking him?”

  “Who?”

  “You know who.”

  “He's my dance partner. And he has a boyfriend. I didn't date other dancers in the company even before we met. You know that.”

  I spend another half hour standing in the bathroom staring at the bloodstains in the grout. Am I in shock? Am I a sociopath? Why don't I feel anything? I just feel... numb. Relieved and numb. But I don't feel free. What if I get caught? What if I go to prison for this? I couldn't live another day with him, and there was no other way out. He closed off all my other options.

  A jury wouldn't care about that.

  What is wrong with me? I still can't believe I was able to just cut up a body like that... the body of a man I once thought I loved. I think it was the adrenaline. The poison worked fast, and then there was no backing out. I just had to get rid of the body. I couldn't think about it. I just did it.

  And now I can't stop staring at the grout—the last evidence of the man who sold me all the lies of a perfect life. He'd come in and rescued me out of poverty. He'd given me everything—or at least that's how it looked to everyone else.

  Professional dance pays shit, especially when you aren't a principal. You have to work your way up through the hierarchy, and a lot of dancers never get out of the corps de ballet. And in truth, the dance world is SO competitive that being in the corps of a decent company is still the dream and much more than many can ever hope for. So I don't complain. I'm lucky.

  I sometimes get a small solo, and I often have a pas de deux partner in some of the group scenes who lets me pretend for a moment out on that stage that I have some greater role, some greater career and that those screaming cheers from the audience at the end of everything are for me and me alone. I just want someone to really see me.

  But I'm background. Nobody notices me. They don't know my name. I'm there to make the principals look more epic because of all the background dancers swirling around them in perfect time. I'm lucky I get to do what I love, even if I'll never be known for it or ever make any real money at it. In a way, Conall was my patron. He funded my ability to keep dancing without worrying how I would also keep eating.

  I'm supposed to be in the studio for rehearsal at eight in the morning. We're opening with Swan Lake in the repertoire this season. I'll probably be dancing the same part in the corps that I always dance. I know this part. I've known it for ages, but we still have to rehearse. I have to get my shit together, get a few hours’ sleep, and dance like I didn't just kill a man.

  When I step into the studio, everything seems surreal, or hyper-real, or... something. Every sound is harsh and loud. Every color too bright. Every smell an assault. It's like a hangover, except I wasn't drinking last night. Maybe it's a murder hangover. Is that a thing? How would I know? It's not like I do this every week.

  The hyper-reality of life around me stands in sta
rk contrast to the unreality of my own sense of self. I feel like I'm glitching in and out of existence, accompanied by a static electric hum. I look up to find a fluorescent light in the studio hallway flickering in and out and roll my eyes at myself. Get a grip, Cassia.

  “We're in studio B today,” Melinda says to me as she passes.

  “Thanks,” I murmur, not meeting her eyes.

  My partner walks up then. “Oh honey, you look like shit. Do I need to kill that motherfucker?”

  I let out a too-loud hysterical laugh. In the first place, Henry is far more Fashion Week Aficionado than Aspiring Killer. He knows Conall hurts me. Or... hurt me. He's been trying to get me to leave him for more months than I can count. I didn't tell him about the death threats. I didn't tell the police about them, either, because it wouldn't matter. Conall Walsh is untouchable in this city. He'd hire someone to end me and make it look like an accident.

  Or maybe worse... he would have ripped away my financial safety net, and I might have had to quit dancing. A lot of the company people group up for living expenses, but I'm not factored into their plans. I'm married to a man with money. In their minds, I don't need them. And nobody has any room right now in their apartments anyway.

  “He went out of town. I just didn't get much sleep last night,” I say.

  It's not a complete lie. Conall was supposed to go out of town. That's why I chose last night. And technically, he is out of town. We were definitely outside the city limits when I dumped the body in the ocean.

  Most people won't miss him for a while. Besides, I'm sure he didn't have business. His business was a swank luxury vacation with Delectable Stella. She works hard leaning over that copier, letting him finger her under her skirt after all.

  “Good,” Henry says. “Not about the sleep. Good that he's out of town. We should have a movie night while he's gone.”

  “Sure,” I say, wondering if I can ever let Henry inside my house again with the pink stains in the bathroom grout.

  “Oh, by the way, Happy Birthday!” He pulls me into a tight hug. “I am definitely taking you out tonight!”

  Oh, yeah. That was today. Twenty-four. It feels like a clock on my life. Twenty-four hours in a day. Twenty-four years before your chances of becoming a principal start to slip into the background forever. Ballet is the only profession where twenty-four starts to feel like you should be putting in a good word for yourself at all the better nursing homes.

  I've been with the company for three years now; three or four years is pretty standard here to get raised out of the corps, but I know the sands of time are draining away on my dream. And as much as I try to put on a brave face and be gracious and acknowledge the luck of being able to do what I love, deep down I know I'll never be the swan queen or Giselle or Juliet or the Firebird. I'll always be scenery.

  Even so, I love being on that stage, the way I move through the air, floating, flying. Henry's hands on my waist, lifting me up, spinning me around like we're at some old-fashioned fancy party, except that I'm in pointe shoes.

  The corps drifts into Studio B for warmups. I stop by a set of lockers to put my extraneous things away. There is a bright red balloon attached to my locker, with “Happy Birthday” splashed in metallic gold lettering on the front. At least it isn't pointe shoes. Not that I don't love pointe shoes—at the same time I hate them—but on balloons they seem to be geared to pre-teen girls. And that would only make me feel old.

  I open my locker to find a gold glittery envelope with my name on it. I smile, wondering if it's from Henry or Melinda. Maybe it's even from the ballet master. Maybe it's an invitation to audition for a larger role.

  Yes, I still have ridiculous fantasies like that—even after three years here. Inside is a very elegant birthday card with a ballerina on it. But this ballerina is adult and sophisticated, far removed from the pink canopy beds and soft ballet shoes of girlhood.

  Inside the card with its pre-packaged well-wishes, is another card. It's a stiff white note card. Expensive card stock. And my heart leaps in my throat for a moment wondering if it IS an invitation to audition. But those are not the words typed onto the card.

  You were a very bad girl. If you don't want me to report what I know about last night, meet me at the old opera house after rehearsal. I will tell you the price of my silence when you arrive. If you speak of this or bring anyone with you... no deal.

  I quickly stuff the note back into the card and shove it into my locker. I look around the hallway but everyone is already in the rehearsal room warming up. When I enter Studio B, the door clangs behind me. Everyone looks up from the barre.

  But I'm still ten minutes early, not ideal for getting shoes on and warm-up time, but I'm not late. The ballet master looks up from his notes, smiles at me, and nods to indicate an empty spot at the barre. I smile back. He goes back to his notes. He normally comes in right at class time, so it's jarring to see him now as though I'm late and doing something wrong by coming into the studio.

  He's got this really long Russian name that starts with a V that nobody can pronounce. So we were all instructed to call him Mr. V. He's in his early fifties and danced with the Bolshoi. I drop my bag as quietly as possible in one of the corners, take off my outer layer of clothes, and put on my soft ballet shoes and leg warmers.

  I'm grateful we aren't starting with pointe work today because those shoes take longer to get on than simple ballet shoes. I move to the indicated empty spot at the barre and start warming up. Some pliés, tendus, several ronds de jambe because my hips tend to get tight. I do a few small jumps and then some stretches on the floor. I have just enough time to get through my most basic warm-up routine when Mr. V clears his throat. Everyone stops what they're doing and stands, facing him.

  There is something sort of militaristic about ballet. On the stage it's all about flow and grace, but there is discipline and precision beneath this illusion. Life in a classical ballet company is pretty regimented. Some people would hate this life, but I love it. I love knowing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing. I love that I don't have to make the decisions. I just have to execute the movement as perfectly as possible.

  “We'll be starting the season with Swan Lake. Casting was posted just this morning, so if you haven't seen it yet, be sure to check the list,” Mr. V says.

  I haven't seen the casting list yet, but as a member of the corps, it's probably not anything spectacular. I might be lucky and get a solo, but ultimately, what does it matter which nameless character I play?

  2

  The next two hours go by in a blur. It’s kind of hard to focus and be present in the moment when you have a blackmailer threatening to expose your crimes to the authorities. Even so, somehow I didn't fuck up too badly in class. Poor Melinda kept falling out of her turns, and everyone else's minor ballet misdemeanors were ignored as she received the full weight of Mr. V.'s unhappy attention.

  “Dinner and drinks on me, birthday girl,” Henry says, attaching himself to me like an octopus as we exit Studio B. I want to laugh at his antics, but I can't. I have to go to the old opera house. Tell no one. Bring no one. What if it's a friend of Conall's who wants personal revenge? The possibility sends a chill down my spine.

  “I can't. I have somewhere I have to be tonight, but we can do it tomorrow. I promise.”

  Henry looks suspicious. “Girl, if you think I'm going to let you snuggle in bed and binge-watch TV and cry into a rice cake about your aging grizzled self, you are out of your mind. It's your birthday, and we're going to celebrate, because I, for one, am glad you've made it another year.”

  “I'm so tired. I got no sleep last night. I have to rest. Please. I need to come to terms with twenty-four and regroup. Tomorrow, I swear,” I plead. This is actually a convincing lie. The angst of twenty-four cannot be overstated.

  He sighs. “Okay, fine. But we will celebrate, so prepare yourself.”

  I force a laugh at that.

  I know the only reason he's letting this go is because I look
like shit. Murder and insomnia will do that to a girl. He hugs me again.

  “But don't binge-watch. Sleep. Promise me. And use that milk and honey mask I gave you. You need it. Don't get me started on those circles under your eyes.”

  “Yes, Mother. I promise.” I wish I could tell Henry. I wish I could tell anyone about the expensive white card nestled inside the birthday wishes in the glittery gold envelope.

  The old opera house is a historic landmark. I don't think it's actually officially on the registry of protected historic buildings, but nobody wants to tear it down. At the same time, the city doesn't have the money to restore it, and no wealthy benefactors have come forward to fund such an ambitious project.

  So it sits in limbo—a ghost clinging to this world—and no one else can let it go, either. Neither living nor dead, the building stands enormous, imposing, creepy as fuck. There is no good to be had in this building. It's probably not even unlocked.

  I try one of the elegant front doors. Yep. Locked. But then I realize there’s a small rolled-up paper slipped under the handle. I pull it out.

  The side door, Ms. Lane.

  What an asshole. Somehow this note makes me think whoever is in the building isn't going to kill me. I don't know why I think that, but this little bit of sarcasm makes me irrationally think that at least my life is safe. I can feel the eye roll in the note. It's exasperation—like this person knew I'd try the front door, which of course wouldn't be unlocked. But why would any door be unlocked? Whoever this is obviously has a key.