Fever Dream Read online

  “You said he was excited to meet me,” she said, turning to Yves.

  “Yes, well—”

  “Yes, well,” Fernando cut in, “sorry you made the trip for nothing. We don’t need another principal here.”

  Yves gave him a harried look. “Yes, we do. We’ve lost two principals recently. Ashleigh and Mariel have both retired.”

  “You said we were meeting to talk about the ballets for next year,” Fernando said to Yves.

  “We will. We are. Now, if you’ve made enough of a scene, perhaps you’ll consider sitting down and behaving like a civil person.”

  The director’s voice never rose above a level tone, but the reprimand was obvious. Rubio snapped his mouth shut and slid into the remaining seat, fidgeting with his jewel-patterned tie. He angled himself away from her, as if to deny her presence. Petra felt gob-smacked. She’d flown all the way across the ocean, only to sit here and endure his scorn?

  “We talked about this,” he said to Yves in a stage whisper. “You said I got to pick. I told you, specifically, not this.”

  At “this,” he flicked a finger at her, the ballerina-who-must-not-be-named.

  “What’s wrong?” She shot him an arch look. “Afraid I’ll outshine you if I join the company?”

  “Outshine me?” Fernando snorted. “Maybe in makeup you outshine me. You have a tragically big forehead.”

  Yves made a faint, distressed sound as Petra drew herself up to her full height, which was not very high.

  “I do not have a big forehead,” she said. “And I find it hypocritical that you’d talk about my ‘tragically big’ forehead considering those massive feet you drag around the stage.”

  His expression hardened. “My feet are not massive. I have the best feet in ballet.”

  “No, I have the best feet in ballet,” she corrected him. “Everyone knows that. Your feet are big and square like...like bricks.”

  “Petra, Rubio, please, people are staring—” Yves tried to interject.

  “Me and my big feet do not want to dance with you,” Fernando snapped. “I need a partner with grace and lyrical beauty. Not a big-forehead robot like you.”

  She gasped. “I’m not a robot.”

  “You dance like a robot. You’re famous because you’re Grigolyuk’s daughter,” he said, waving a hand. “Nothing more.”

  That flippant wave infuriated her. She hated Fernando Rubio, hated him for dismissing her fame and accomplishments like they were nothing. She’d earned everything she’d achieved through her own hard work, not her father’s support. Grigolyuk had never even acknowledged her, although everyone knew he and her mother had had a torrid affair when they were partners at the New York Metropolitan Ballet, and that Petra looked exactly like him, down to his light blond hair and Slavic hazel eyes. And yeah, her mom had named her Petra to drive the point home.

  But Hillary Hewitt had never demanded a paternity test or financial support. “Petr knows he’s your father,” she used to say. “If he doesn’t want you, we don’t want him.”

  To this day, Petra lived by those words. She threw her napkin beside her plate and pushed back her chair.

  “Forget it,” she said to Yves. “If he doesn’t want me, I don’t want him.”

  The slim, stolid director shot up from his seat and followed her as she stormed toward the door.

  “Petra, please, let me explain.” He drew her over by the coat room and spoke in a low, urgent voice. “Rubio wants you—he just doesn’t know it yet. He’s in a bad place right now. He was...” Yves paused, frowning. “He was very close to his previous partner.”

  Well, that wasn’t the way to make Petra rethink things. After all the pain her father caused her mom, she was dead set against partner relationships. She wondered if The Great Rubio had knocked up Ashleigh Keaton, if that was why she’d left ballet.

  “He doesn’t even know me,” she said. “How can he be so rude?”

  Yves looked over his shoulder to where his star dancer sat alone, tapping his fingers on the table. “He’s a bit rough around the edges. Temperamental, like many artists. You shouldn’t take it personally. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

  “I don’t care how famous he is. I’m an artist too, and I’m not temperamental and condescending. I can dance with anyone in the world, anywhere I want to. New York, Paris, Berlin, Moscow.” She knew she sounded bitchy but, for God’s sake, she did not have a big forehead. She felt embarrassed and disappointed. Rejected. “You misled me,” she said. “I came here because you said Fernando Rubio wanted to dance with me.”

  “He does! I promise you he does, it’s only a matter of adjustment and change.”

  “You asked me here knowing he would refuse me. That doesn’t inspire a lot of trust.”

  Yves sighed and removed his glasses. “I asked you here because he chased off the previous four prospects, and you’re the only one left.”

  “What?” That kicked her ego right in the gut. “So I was your last-ditch choice? Really?”

  “No, you were the most expensive choice. With Mr. Rubio on the payroll, we couldn’t afford another renowned dancer until a certain donor—who wishes to remain anonymous—agreed to foot the bill for your salary. I invited you to come the same day.” He put a hand over his lips and looked massively stressed out for a moment. He’d composed his expression by the time he looked up again. “Petra, you of all people must understand. Mr. Rubio needs a certain caliber of partner to inspire and motivate him, and that type of partner doesn’t grow on trees. You are his best match in the ballet world at the moment. The two of you could become a legend, one of those pairings that inspires a whole new generation of students to dance.”

  We could, thought Petra, if he wasn’t such a braying ass.

  “He said that he’d already told you no,” she said. “So why—”

  “Mr. Rubio is saying no to everyone and everything right now,” Yves said, cutting her off. “Again, you shouldn’t take it personally.”

  “It’s hard not to take it personally when someone says you dance like a robot.”

  “We all know you don’t dance like a robot. Please, give him a little time and space to redeem himself. You know, he and his previous partner began their acquaintance under terrible circumstances.”

  “Ashleigh Keaton? But they were—”

  “Amazing together? Certainly, but they first met under the pressure of a last minute substitution. She wasn’t prepared, he was incensed. He called her a whale, if I remember correctly.”

  “He called her a whale?”

  “And she accidentally kicked him during the pas de deux, barely missing his testicles,” he said, setting off the accidentally with air quotes. “He stormed away after the curtain call and she ran to the dressing rooms and vomited. Repeatedly. It was a disaster, but from such beginnings they developed into one of the most notable partnerships City Ballet has ever known.”

  “So what happened? Why did she leave the company?”

  “Ashleigh is expecting a baby in the spring.”

  She knew it! She shot a vicious glance at Fernando. “By him?”

  Yves’ eyes widened. “No, by her husband. Ashleigh and Rubio were friends, nothing more. When he gets to know you better, he will be your friend too. Please, don’t leave yet. Dance with him tomorrow so he can see all you have to give, what a perfectly matched partner you’d be. We’re rehearsing Romeo and Juliet for the fall. Perhaps you already know the choreography.”

  Petra sniffed and pulled at the clasp of her clutch. Of course she knew the choreography. Romeo and Juliet was a much-loved ballet, even if the maudlin, misery-of-cursed-love theme was a bit overblown. At twenty-eight, she’d danced the lead role in five different productions.

  “If he wants to dance, I’ll dance. But if all I get from him is attitude, I’m heading back to New York.” She looked past Yves to where Rubio sat scowling at the table. “And I’d rather not stay for dinner. I seem to have lost my appetite.”

  Yves
squeezed her hands. “Of course. I’m sorry. I’ll make this up to you, and I promise you’ll receive an apology from Mr. Rubio.”

  Petra wouldn’t hold her breath on that one. She climbed into the back of a cab, still fuming. She’d really wanted things to work out here. London City Ballet had great facilities, savvy management, and some of the most lavish productions in the world. There was a history here, a history that extended far beyond that of the companies she’d danced for in the US. Her father had chosen to dance with City Ballet after he left Russia...and he still lived in London.

  That wasn’t why she wanted to be here, of course, although she’d had fleeting fantasies of him coming to meet her after a performance. Of the two of them hanging out and bonding backstage. Since her earliest years, she’d imagined a scene where her father would come to find her, perhaps in her dressing room, or in the dark hush of the wings. He would hold out his arms and smile and say, “I’m so proud to call you my daughter. I’m sorry now I was never part of your life.”

  She wanted to jab an ice pick in her brain whenever she had those fantasies. Grigolyuk had turned on Hillary Hewitt as soon as he found out she was pregnant with Petra, destroying her ballet career. He hadn’t even come to her funeral a few years ago. Petra had been walking around wearing his face for twenty-eight years without the least acknowledgement of her existence, so why expect him to come meet her now? It was a stupid fantasy and it wasn’t even really a fantasy because she didn’t want it to happen.

  As for The “Great” Rubio, she’d dance with him tomorrow for Yves’ sake, but that was it. One chance to redeem himself, or she’d be out of here like Ashleigh Keaton.

  No wonder the woman had gotten herself knocked up—anything to get away from him. Four years of Fernando’s brand of professionalism, and Petra would be stark raving mad.

  *** *** ***

  Rubio banged open the elevator and stepped into the stillness of his soaring, cement-walled loft. He threw his keys on a table and collapsed on the couch, running his fingers through his hair. Petra Hewitt. Damn it.

  He’d only seen her perform two times, but that was enough to know he didn’t want her as a partner. She was too perfect, horribly perfect, and he didn’t like it. She danced like a robot, like an alien from some ballet planet where no one made mistakes. Her body was perfect, her balance, her technique, her face, her hands and feet, all perfect. She was so flawless that she shook his normally unshakable confidence, and he didn’t need that in his life right now. Petra Hewitt danced like she was tiptoeing over the skulls of her enemies—and he was pretty sure he’d made an enemy of her tonight.

  He bit off a few Portuguese expletives and reached for his phone to message Liam. Call me, a-hole. U suck.

  He went to the kitchen for an apple and then walked over to the wall of windows to look out at the London cityscape below. He was on the eighth floor of a modernized industrial building. He’d bought this concrete-bound loft because one of the walls was a giant window, but he hadn’t realized there would be nothing to see but more concrete and buildings. In the slums of Rio where he grew up, people built houses right on top of each other, rickety, cobbled-together houses that boiled in the summer months, but at least in the favela, there had been a view.

  His phone rang and he crossed to answer it, his mouth stuffed with a bite of apple. “Li-am?” He swallowed. “You fucking dick.”

  “I’m working.” His friend’s calm tone only increased his agitation. “What’s up? What do you need?”

  “I need you and Yves to stop conspiring against me.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Rubio tore off another bite of apple. “I know it was you,” he said, gnashing the fruit between his teeth. “Que droga. They couldn’t afford her without you.”

  “City Ballet has plenty of donors. Hundreds. How can you be so sure it was me?” Rubio could tell he was grinning, even over the phone.

  “I will punch you right in your ugly face.”

  “Aw, come on,” Liam said in his drawling American accent. “She’s the best, Ruby. Me and Yves thought you should have the best. She was restless in New York, having some kind of personal issue—”

  “Because she is a snotty, perfectionist diva! Everyone in ballet knows this.”

  “Look, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you’re not exactly known for rainbows and sunshine.”

  “She is worse than me. Much worse. She told me my feet were bricks.”

  “Let me guess, it was right after you said something horribly inappropriate to her.”

  “Is not inappropriate to inform someone their forehead is too big.”

  Liam sighed. “Your English is getting better but your charm factor sucks. If you’re going to dance with this woman—”

  “I’m not going to dance with her. No.”

  “You’re going to dance with her, you obnoxious fuck, and you’re going to like it. The paperwork is all but signed.”

  Stupid Liam. He didn’t get it. He wasn’t there, looking at her regal fucking majesty from across the table. Sure, Petra Hewitt was an amazing dancer. Sure, they belonged together but...damn it. She was just so good. He was used to being top dog at City Ballet. He enjoyed starring in all the photo ops, fielding all the big interviews and television appearances. He was the one with the fanciest dressing room. He was the exalted star the lower-tier dancers were afraid to look on.

  “You did this to stick it to me,” he said. “You and Yves. You want to stick it to me.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “You think I’m too much a diva. Too ego-tastical. Too full of myself.” He stalked over to the kitchen and tossed the apple core in the trash.

  “Well, yeah, sure, but—”

  “You want to take me down a nudge.”

  “Notch. Take you down a notch, you ego-tastical bastard. And no, that’s not what motivated Yves to bring her here. He did it for you, because you need a dancer at her level to continue to develop your art. Look, I love Ashleigh, and she’s a great dancer, but she struggled to do the things that came easily for you. Maybe it’s time for you to struggle a little. I’m sure you can do it,” he said in a bright voice that made Rubio want to kick him in the nuts.

  “It’s not just that,” Ruby said. “I don’t like her. She’s unpleasant. She’s stuck-up and she doesn’t smile. Her hair is this terrible yellow color and she has eyes like...like...lizard color. Snake eyes.”

  “Translation,” Liam cut in. “She’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen and she wasn’t sexually receptive to you, so now you’re pissed off.”

  “No, that is not it at all. I would rather die than have sex with her.”

  “What are you talking about? You can make super ballet babies. She’s already a super ballet baby, isn’t she? Grigolyuk’s kid? Add some Rubio to the mix and this kid can take over the world.”

  “We’re never having a kid,” he groused. “She’s horrible. I hate her.”

  “You adore her,” said Liam. “That’s good. It will create compelling sexual tension between you while you’re performing, sort of how you were with Ashleigh.”

  Rubio crossed back to the window and looked out at the cloudy, gray sky. No, no view at all. “I don’t know why we’re friends,” he muttered into the phone. “I hate you.”

  “Sort of how you ‘hate’ Petra Hewitt? Cool. Well, listen, I’m glad we had this talk but I have a security business to run. Your ghastly little dance partner isn’t coming cheap. So try to make it work, okay?”

  Ruby hung up on Liam and pressed his head to the window, breathing condensation onto the glass. He’d have to do some thinking about this Petra Hewitt situation. He didn’t like her, not really, but he admired her far too much. He wished she was horrible and ugly like a lizard but she wasn’t. She was very pretty. Her forehead was completely normal size.

  For the first time in a long time, The Great Fernando Rubio felt insecure and a bit threatened, a
nd he didn’t like that at all.

  Chapter Three: Mistake

  Petra could feel everyone’s eyes following her as she crossed the main rehearsal room. She stole a quick glance around to see if Fernando had arrived yet, but no, he wasn’t there. Maybe he wouldn’t show up. Petra had considered it, after she saw the morning papers. Someone at The Gilded Swan had snapped photos of them snarking back and forth across the table and sold them to the press. There was even one of her storming away with Yves in pursuit while Fernando sneered in the background.

  Ballet Battle Royale, one headline trumpeted. The Prima and the Prince, read another. Trouble in Paradise?

  Oh, there was trouble all right. Petra could honestly say she’d never been featured in a tabloid, not until now. Due to the media hubbub, tickets for City Ballet’s fall performances were selling out, and the theater was considering adding extra matinees to keep up with demand. She hadn’t even signed the contract yet!

  Yves had told her about the sold-out shows this morning, with carefully restrained excitement. He didn’t mention anything about the photos, but Petra noticed copies of the papers everywhere. In the cafeteria, in the costume room, in the dancers’ lounge. Everyone hid them when she was around, which made her feel even more unnerved about the whole thing. Petra Hewitt, tabloid fodder. Ugh.

  Maybe your dad will see it, said some unwelcome voice inside her. Then he’ll know you’re here.

  No. She didn’t care about that. She didn’t give a shit about her dad or the fact that everyone was reading about her and Fernando’s blow up. She doubted she’d even agree to dance here, although she desperately needed to get away from New York. Gary Paulsen was in New York. Creepy guy, who sent her flowers and chocolate and teddy bears, and letters five or six days a week. Eighty percent of her “fan mail” at the theater had been his bizarrely cordial notes. You’re so delicate, so lovely. Your dancing is like nothing I’ve ever seen. You are the most beautiful woman on earth. They disturbed her so much that she never replied to any of them, although the Met Ballet staff sent him the occasional autographed headshot. Near the end, he’d started sending his weird notes to her apartment, to her actual private address. Why don’t you reply to me? I’m your biggest fan. Your artistry gives me a reason to live. I wish I could hold your hand. I wish I could give you a hug. Are you lonely? I am.