Reasonable Doubt 3

  “Go to hell.” I hung up and continued packing, even faster now.

  Subject: Cab.

  Miss Aubrey Everhart,

  Your cab has arrived at the address you specified. It will wait for exactly five minutes.

  —Durham Cab Co.

  I rushed into the bathroom and filled a plastic bag with toiletries, and then I placed them into my suitcase and headed outside.

  “Bus station, right?” The cab driver, a woman, smiled as I approached.

  “Yes, please.”

  She took my bags and placed them into the trunk as I slid into the backseat. I felt my heart hurting with every second that passed, and as much as I tried to block out the thoughts about Andrew, images of his face infiltrated my brain anyway.

  I was picturing the last full night we spent together, the night before he kicked me out of his condo, and no matter how hard I tried to make sense of what happened the very next night, I couldn’t. All I could do was cry.

  My phone vibrated against my knee and I flipped it over, hoping to see Mr. Petrova’s name, but it was Andrew.

  “Hello?” I answered.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I have ballet practice on Wednesdays…Shouldn’t you know that by now?”

  “If you were actually in ballet practice you wouldn’t be picking up your phone.”

  Silence.

  “Aubrey?” He sounded concerned. “Are you crying?”

  “No.” I lied, turning up the volume on my car radio.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I just said—”

  “Stop fucking lying to me, Aubrey,” he said. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I got sent home from practice today.”

  “Okay. And?”

  “There is no ‘And’ about this…” Tears welled in my eyes. “I’ve never been sent home before. He made me feel like shit today. He even told the understudy to be prepared to take my place right in front of me, and then he told me not to come back until next week…”

  “I’ve told you the reason why he does that. Why don’t you believe me?”

  “Because I really was bad today,” I admitted. “My feet are swollen and I didn’t bandage them properly, so I was off by an eighth of a count for most of the day…”

  He sighed. “I’m sure you were still ten times better than everyone else. Don’t you think?”

  “No…”

  “Trust me. I’m pretty sure he’s just—”

  “Can I come over tonight?” I cut him off, hoping for a yes, but all I heard was silence. I knew I’d pushed my luck the first couple nights we spent together, but I didn’t want it to be a rare thing. I wanted more.

  “Are you going to give me an answer, Andrew?”

  “Yes,” he said. “You can come over. Where are you?”

  “Outside your door.”

  He opened it seconds later and looked me up and down, raising his eyebrow. “I would’ve picked you up.”

  “I almost asked you to…”

  He grabbed my hand and pulled me inside, keeping his eyes locked on mine. As the door shut, he pulled me into his arms and shook his head at me.

  “What are you doing, Aubrey?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why do you keep insisting on breaking every rule I have?”

  “Why do you keep letting me?”

  Without saying another word, his lips were on mine and his hands were sliding around my waist—deftly unbuttoning my skirt, quickly pushing it down to the floor.

  His hands grazed my backside, searching for my panties, but there were none.

  “Remind me to return your collection.” He laughed softly and led me over to the couch.

  He dropped my hand and then he sat on the floor, looking up at me. Unzipping his pants, he pulled out a condom and slowly rolled it over his cock.

  I started to bend low so I could sit next to him, but he grabbed my thighs.

  “Stop,” he said. “I don’t want you to sit on the floor.”

  “Okay.” I looked over my shoulder. “Do you want me to sit on the coffee table?”

  “No…” He trailed his fingers up my legs. “On my face.”

  “What?”

  “Sit your pussy on my face.”

  I stood still, speechless—unable to process what he’d just asked me to do.

  Smirking, he pulled me close and tapped my left leg. “Lift that onto the pillow behind me.” He commanded me with his eyes and I slowly lifted my foot and pressed it into the cushion.

  “Good girl.” He rubbed his hands along the inside of my thighs, blowing kisses against my skin. “Grab onto my hair...”

  My hands found their way onto his head as he slipped two fingers inside of me, as he slowly moved them in and out.

  He darted his tongue against my clit and groaned. “Are you actually going to follow my directions today?”

  “Yes…”

  “I need you to be as still as possible.” One of his hands cupped my ass, palming it as he continued to stretch my pussy with his fingers. “Can you do that?”

  I nodded, letting a low moan escape my mouth.

  “Is that a yes?” He didn’t give me chance to answer. He drew my swollen clit into his mouth, instantly making my knees buckle beneath me.

  Shutting my eyes, I screamed as he gripped my hips and slightly rocked me against his mouth—licking every part of me with his tongue, lapping up every drop.

  “Andrew…” I could barely hear my own voice. “Andrew…”

  My right leg lost its hold on the floor and I nearly fell forward, but he grabbed me and held me still—not moving his mouth away.

  I pulled his hair hard, begging him to slow down, to let me attempt to control the pace, but it was no use.

  He continued to fuck me with his mouth, ignoring my every scream.

  As my hips jerked and quivers began to race through my body, he wrapped his arms around my legs and slowly pulled me down, lowering me onto his cock.

  “Ahhhh….” I breathed as he buried himself inch by inch. “I…I…”

  “You, what?” He kissed my forehead once he was entirely inside of me. “Do you not want to ride me this way? Would you prefer if I bent you over?”

  I shook my head, and he covered one of my nipples with his mouth, swirling his tongue around it until it hardened.

  Without him telling me to, I wrapped my arms around his neck and moved myself up and down his cock.

  “Harder…” He bit my neck. “I want you to fuck me as hard as I fuck you…”

  I grinded my hips into him again and again, as forceful as I could, but he grabbed me and began thrusting his own hips up from the floor.

  “Andrew, I’m going to cum…” I cried out as he completely took over. “I’m going to—”

  He slapped my ass as my body finally gave in, as his gave in, too.

  Breathless, I leaned against his chest, but he didn’t let me rest long. He eased me out of his lap and stood up—walking off to toss away the condom.

  Heading back over to me, he scooped me into his arms and carried me into his bedroom, gently lowering me onto his sheets.

  I rolled over to the side of the bed I preferred—the side by the window, and waited for him to lay next to me, but he didn’t. He took a seat near the edge of the bed and lifted my feet into his lap.

  I was too tired to ask him what he was doing, and the next thing I felt was a warm, soothing liquid dripping onto my skin. Then I felt his hands slowly spreading it around the places where the swelling hurt the most.

  I moaned as his fingers massaged my soles, said his name as his fingers caressed every tender spot.

  “Shhh,” he whispered, rendering me speechless as he continued to soothe me.

  Every few minutes, he looked back at me and asked, “Would you like me to stop?”

  I shook my head and kept my eyes shut, relishing every moment of this.

  After what felt like hours of bliss, after he’d gi
ven me the best foot massage I’d ever had, he climbed in bed next to me and pulled me against his chest.

  “Goodnight, Aubrey,” he whispered. “I hope you feel better.”

  Elated, I threaded my fingers through his hair. “You’re not going to insist on taking me home tonight?”

  “Not unless you keep talking.” He growled. “Go to sleep...”

  “Thank you for the foot massage…That was really—”

  “Stop talking, Aubrey.” He rolled me on top of him. “Go to sleep.”

  “I was just saying thank you. I can’t say thank you?”

  “No.” He pressed his lips against mine and kissed me until I couldn’t breathe, saying, “Don’t make me fuck you to sleep,” in between breaths.

  I attempted to roll over, but his grip was too strong.

  Smiling, I positioned my head against his heartbeat and whispered, “Can you hear me? Are you sleeping?”

  No answer. Just deep, sleeping breaths.

  I hesitated a few seconds. “I love you…”

  Foreseeable Risk (n.):

  A danger which a reasonable person should anticipate as the result from his/her actions.

  Andrew

  “Jessica!” I glanced at the slightly normal looking cup of coffee on my desk.

  “Yes, Mr. Hamilton?”

  “Could you ask Miss Everhart to come in here, please?” I needed to see her face.

  She’d been avoiding me all week, and if all I had to say was “sorry”—whether I actually meant it or not, it was worth it. I missed seeing her seductive mouth in the mornings, remembering how it felt when she pressed it against mine.

  “I would do that,” Jessica said, “but seeing as though she put in her resignation letter last week, I’m pretty sure that’s impossible.”

  “She quit?”

  Without telling me?

  Jessica raised her eyebrow. “She did. I gave you the letter she left, too. It was quite interesting.”

  “I never got a letter.”

  She walked over to my desk and sifted through the clutter.

  “Here it is,” she said. “She left you two letters…Anything else?”

  “No…”

  She tilted her head to the side and tapped her lip, looking as if she wanted to say something, but she smiled and left the room.

  Locking the door, I tore the first letter open and read it.

  Dear GBH,

  Thank you very much for hiring me as your undergraduate intern. I’ve had quite the experience working for you and am honored by all I’ve learned. However, due to personal reasons, I am resigning as of today.

  I apologize for such short notice, and I wish your firm continued success in your future endeavors.

  —Aubrey Everhart.

  I sighed and opened the other letter that was addressed directly to me.

  Dear Mr. Hamilton,

  FUCK. YOU.

  —Aubrey

  Overrule (v.):

  To reject an attorney’s objection to a question of a witness of admission of evidence.

  Aubrey

  New York City was an entirely different universe. It was nothing like I expected, yet everything I wanted all at once.

  The sidewalks were persistently packed with people rushing to get somewhere, the streets were seas of taxis, and the cacophony of sounds—the shouting from the street vendors, the rumbling of the subway below, and the endless chatter between the executives and casual-ites all blended into an almost pleasing melody.

  Not that I had much time to listen to it, anyway.

  The second I arrived in New York last week, I’d checked into a cheap hotel and rushed to register for the NYCB audition.

  Every day for the past week, I jumped out of bed at four in the morning and headed to Lincoln Center to learn the required audition piece—the hardest choreography I’d encountered in my life.

  It was faster, choppier, and the instructors refused to show it more than twice a day. There was no conversation outside of tempo counts, no questions were allowed either. On top of that, the company’s pianist only elected to play the accompanying music at full speed, never slowing down to make the learning process easier.

  There were hundreds of girls vying for a place in the company, and from what I gathered from conversations here or there, most of them were already professionals.

  I didn’t let that deter me, though.

  When the grueling practices came to an end, I took that chance to find a new place in the city to dance on my own: A rooftop in view of Times Square, an abandoned historical store on the Upper East Side, or in front of bookstore windows in the West End.

  Despite my immediate love for this city, it wasn’t enough to distract me from my heartbreak. Nor was it enough to distract me from the fact that today, official audition day, I was late.

  Sweating, I jumped off the subway and ran down Sixty Sixth Street—paying no mind to my burning lungs.

  Keep going…Keep going…

  A man to my left stepped out of a cab and I immediately jumped in.

  “Lincoln Center, please!” I shouted.

  “It’s right up the street.” The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror, confused.

  “Please? I’m already late.”

  He shrugged and pulled off as I tried to steady my breathing.

  Not wanting to waste any time, I pulled my black tutu out of my bag and pulled it over my tights. I took out my makeup and applied it the best I could, and as we approached the curb, I tossed a ten dollar bill at the driver and jumped out of the car.

  Rushing into the building, I headed straight for the theater, relieved that one of the directors was still standing outside the doors.

  “Yes?” She looked me up and down as I approached. “May I help you with something?”

  “I’m here for the auditions.”

  “For the nine o’clock auditions?” She looked at her watch. “It’s nine fifteen.”

  “I’m sorry…I called an hour ago and said—”

  “Your first cab broke down? That was you?”

  I nodded.

  She studied me for a few more seconds—pursing her lips. Then she opened the door. “You can change into your whites in the dressing room. Hurry up.”

  The door shut behind me before I could ask what she meant by “[my] whites,” but as my eyes scanned the stage, I realized that every dancer was dressed in a white leotard and matching tutu.

  Shit…

  My cheeks heated as I looked over my outfit. I didn’t have my whites in my bag. They were at home.

  Nearing the stage, I set my bag in a chair and tried to ignore that dread that was building inside my chest. I just needed to focus on giving it my all during this routine. That was it.

  I found an open spot onstage and stretched my arms—noticing the smirks and whispers that were being thrown in my direction.

  Undaunted, I smiled at anyone who made eye contact and continued my routine.

  “May I have your attention, please?” A man’s voice came over the speaker. “Can everyone stop stretching and make your way to the edge of the stage, please?”

  I set my leg down and followed the crowd, finding a spot on the end.

  The man addressing us was a tall grey haired man with wiry glasses, and he was the definition of the word “legend”: His name was Arnold G. Ashcroft, and I’d followed him and his choreography for years. He was once the most sought after specialist in the world, but when he dropped in the rankings, it was only to his Russian rival: Paul Petrova.

  “We’re happy to see such a huge turnout for this session of auditions,” he said. “As you know, due to a series of unfortunate events, we are overhauling our entire staff. That said, we are keeping our current production schedule as is, which means we will be filling in the roles of principle dancers, soloists, and corps members within the next fourteen days.”

  “Rehearsals will be long and hard—four to ten, midnight if need be, and there will be no room for excu
ses or…” He looked me up and down, frowning at my attire. “Mistakes.”

  “This is the first round of six. You will be told of your status once the music stops, and if you are sent home, please don’t hesitate to try again next year. I see a lot of failures from last summer, so I’m hoping you’ve learned something between then and now…”

  “For this round, we’ll do a portion of the Balanchine routine in groups of eight. You may stretch for a few minutes and then we will begin.”

  He waved at the man who was taking his seat at the piano, and then he turned around and gave a thumbs up to three people who were sitting in the judge’s seats. Smiling, he ascended the stage’s steps, and greeted a few familiar faces.

  I made my way over and tapped his shoulder.

  “Yes?” He turned around.

  “Um…” I withered under his intense glare.

  “Good morning, Mr. Ashcroft. My name is Aubrey Everhart and I’m—”

  “Late.” He cut me off. “You’re also the only performer who isn’t wearing the mandatory white.”

  “Yes, well…” I stammered. “That’s why I want to speak with you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I want to know if you would allow me to go home and change.”

  “And why would I allow that, Miss Everhart?”

  “So I can audition with the group this afternoon and be judged fairly. I just think that I’ve already—”

  “Stop.” He pressed a pen against my lips. “Ladies, may I please have your attention?”

  An immediate silence fell over the theater.

  “I want you all to meet Aubrey Everhart.” He smiled. “She’s just informed me that due to the fact that she was late and decided to wear improper attire to her audition today, that there’s a chance she’ll be judged unfairly.”

  The ballerina across from me folded her arms.

  “Now,” he said. “Since the world of ballet is fair and has always been about catering to the needs of the unprepared, is there anyone who would have a problem if I allowed Miss Everhart to go home, change, and return for the auditions at six?”

  Every dancer on stage raised her hand into the air.