PHOENIX
If a female bird of paradise doesn't think the male’s dance routine is smooth enough, she walks away.
I told Jackal we had to rehearse a few hours earlier this morning just to be a brat, but when the alarm goes off, I curse myself for this idiocy. I got even less sleep than usual last night, dancing until four this morning and up at six. I drag inside the building, slogging my way down the dark hallways, and fumbling with my keys to open the door to the studio. I turn the music on and start stretching, feeling the comfort that comes when I move. I like my body to hurt, to push itself to its limits. It’s the only time I feel like I exist. The rest of the time I’m numb. It’s why I dance nonstop most days—that, and because the only way to be any good at ballet is to do more ballet.
I face the mirror as I move into Dancer Pose, lifting my leg higher and higher until it’s well over my head. I study my hair as I try to relax, the curls coming out of the knot in my hurry to get here first. It’s good that it’s not perfect, I tell myself; otherwise, it would look like I’m trying too hard. I am wearing my best leotard today. Not because I care what Jackal thinks. At all.
I see him in the mirror first. He’s ogling my ass like he’s never seen one before, which is the furthest thing from the truth.
I release my foot and lower my leg, gently stretching before moving to my Silverbook to turn down the music and switch playlists.
“Motherfucker,” I whisper when I scan the article.
“What?” I hear behind me. I jump when I hear Jackal’s voice.
“Gwen Allison.” I shake my head, reading the article as fast as I can. “Gwen Allison has escaped from prison,” I tell him absently. A few paragraphs down there is a picture of her baby, Rebel, with his guardian, Langley.
“Gwen’s escape changes nothing. This baby is in my custody and will be guarded even more carefully now.” Langley is quoted as saying.
“What?” Jackal steps closer and reads what’s in front of me. He makes little noises as he goes, curses and clicks and sighs. When he’s done, I turn around to see him rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “She just walked out of there,” he says, incredulous.
I read the paragraph again. “Not alone. She took a hundred prisoners with her, some of them guards.”
Jackal and I exchange a glance before turning back to the article.
“They’ll be caught,” I say with finality. “How long can a hundred people evade capture?”
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t put anything past her. There are people willing to help.”
My mouth suddenly goes dry. I’d be willing to help. I have no strong feelings about the End Men. No attachment to the cause. But to be part of something...
“Well, Folsom definitely knows how to pick them…” He sounds proud.
I glance at him, confused. “You know her?”
“Met her,” he says. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips.
“What’s she like?” I can’t help myself from asking.
I’ve been following the story ever since Gwen made her first speech. I felt so sick when they arrested her after Rebel was born, that I faked a stomach bug and skipped rehearsal.
He purses his lips, enjoying the fact that I want something from him. And I wish I could take it back, stuff my damn words back in my mouth.
“Forget it,” I say.
I spin on my heels, but he grabs my hand before I can get two steps away and pulls me back. His eyes are on my lips. My reaction—or lack thereof—drags across ten seconds as I look at our hands in alarm. Our hands are clasped like two people in love, fingers intertwined. How did that even happen? Each of my fingers are spread wide to accommodate his very large, tan ones. I blush at my own thoughts and the heat that appears between my legs. I’m trying to tug away from him, but he holds on, raising his eyebrows like he can’t fathom why I’d want to pull away.
“She’s strong,” he says, and I stop struggling. “But in a very gentle way.”
I nod because I want him to go on.
“Yea high—” He holds his free hand in the air about four inches below the top of my head. Seeing his hand in front of me makes me aware that we’re still holding hands, but I don’t try to pull away.
“Folsom…” he pauses.
He’s not looking at me now; he’s staring at the floor, eyes narrowed and lips folded in. He’s seeing Folsom in his mind, and I wonder how close the two of them are.
“Folsom is the reason most of us are okay doing this. He’s got this sense of duty. You know he hates it, but he’s doing it because it’s who he is. He wants to be the solution. He’s the grownup, you know?”
I nod.
“He broke the rules and fell in love with Gwen.” He looks directly at me when he says this, and I hear my own sharp intake of breath. Jackal eyes me curiously.
“A romantic,” he says, surprised.
I yank my hand from his grasp, and his laugh follows me to the bar.
“Nothing to be ashamed of, Phoenix. I like to consider myself a romantic as well.”
“Oh please,” I shoot back. “Mr. Orgy, a romantic? Do you fall in love with everyone you fuck?”
“Lately I’ve been falling for girls I haven’t.”
I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. I press my lips together and glare at him.
“We need to get to work,” I hiss between my teeth.
“But I want to talk to you…”
“Why?”
“Because I like the things you say.”
“This is a dance studio, Jackal, not a shrink’s office.”
“Have you ever seen a shrink?” he asks.
I pause. I have, but I don’t want him to know that. I could list my disorders: eating, personality, mental health…and somehow I feel like even if I did, he wouldn’t flinch.
“Have you?” I shoot back.
His grin is so wide it almost reaches his ears. “Coincidentally, I am one.”
“Bullshit.”
He’s messing with me. He’s trying every angle to get under my skin, and I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.
He shrugs. “Do you think this is all I want? That because I’m a man I’m supposed to be content to study pussy all day and not want anything else?”
“So you’re telling me that you have a degree in—”
“A master’s in psychology,” he interrupts me again.
I feign disinterest, straightening my hair in the mirror while casually glancing at his reflection. But the reality is I want to know everything; my tongue is practically curling over the questions I want to ask as I wait for him to say more. But he doesn’t say anything else. I watch, frustrated, as he empties his pockets, whistling jovially like he’s already moved on.
“Why psychology?” I finally ask.
I can hear the exasperation in my own voice. He looks up in surprise. Fake surprise. Okay, fine. Two can play at this game. I lift my leg behind my head casually and watch as his eyes grow just the tiniest bit wider.
“I’m interested in people.”
I want to stomp my foot in frustration. It’s like getting water from a rock. I hold my leg there for another minute before turning my back to him and switching to the other leg. Maybe he is an ass man.
“What about them?” I ask.
In the mirror in front of me, I can see his reflection. Definitely an ass man. I smile to myself.
“Before most of our written records, society was centered around women. They were revered for their mysterious life-giving powers, honored as priestesses of the great goddess. They reared their children to carry on their line, created both art and technology, and made important decisions for their communities.”
“How do you know this if there were no written records?” I interrupt.
“Hush,” he says. “I’m telling you a story.”
I frown, but I keep my mouth shut. I want to hear this.
“Then a transformation occurred—whether through a sudden cataclysm or a long, drawn-out change—and society was thereafter dominated by men. The culture and the mindset that came after was ‘patriarchy.’ The discovery of paternity, and that sex caused childbirth, was as cataclysmic for society as, say, the discovery of fire. Gradually, the idea of male ownership of children took hold...”
“For thousands of years,” I add. I’m facing him again, charmed by the sound of his voice and by the things he’s saying.
“For thousands of years,” he repeats.
His voice is gravelly and his eyes are hooded as he stares at me. I shift on my feet. My whole body is tingling and I don’t know why.
“So what does this have to do with psychology?”
Jackal’s smile is faint.
“We’ve been on this planet for a very long time, and we keep making the same mistakes. It’s a cycle.”
“And now women are at the top of the food chain again,” I say slowly.
“But for how long? This time we’re going extinct as a race.”
I swallow. He’s right, of course. It’s the monster in every room, among every nation; the one we’re trying to ignore while simultaneously trying to find a solution.
“So you study human psychology to answer the greatest question we’ve ever been asked?”
“How do we survive?” he says quietly.
My tongue feels thick and useless in my mouth. I was expecting him to say something stupid, something I could pick apart and laugh about when I was alone. He’s just a man...a sex toy. I wanted him to make me dislike him even more. I didn’t expect to...respect his answer.
“So...how do we survive this?”
“We need harmony between the sexes. A true yin and yang.”
He walks toward me, his steps so sure, so fast I don’t have time to move, and then he’s right in front of me. He places a single finger on my jaw, lifting it up until I’m forced to meet his eyes, our lips only a breath apart.
“You’re familiar with harmony, aren’t you, Phoenix?”
I keep my face still, all but my nostrils, which are flaring out of control.
He wraps an arm around my waist, resting a hand on my lower back. With one firm pull, I’m crushed against him. This shouldn’t be a big deal, I’ve been touched on every square inch of my body, it’s my job to be touched. Dancers have no personal space.
“Agreement,” I whisper.
He cocks his head, pretending he didn’t hear me, though the look in his eyes says he’s toying with me. Bastard.
“Agreement,” I say louder.
“Do you not agree to this?” he asks.
He’s inching toward my face like he’s going to kiss me, both of his hands wrapped around my waist now. I lean slowly away from him, too fascinated by what he’s doing to pull myself out of his hands. I don’t want him to think he has any effect on me; I’d rather show him my power to withstand his advances. Lower...lower...my back is now a perfect arch, the top of my head pointing to the floor, and he still holds me, his hands hot on my waist. The thin material of my leotard does nothing to protect me from the feel of him. He slides one hand higher up my waist toward my rib cage, and one thumb moves in an arch and skims the underside of my breast. I keep my body stiff like we’re dancing, but my body has never burned like this for a dance. It’s there—the urge to allow him access to my feelings. It’s a good thing I’m a pro at controlling my urges. I lift myself upright and find myself in the exact position I was avoiding—face to face with Jackal.
My hair has fallen over my eyes. I leave it where it is to shield my eyes from his. But then he does the unexpected. He lifts a hand from my back to sweep it away. Instead of tucking it behind my ear, he leaves his hand there holding it away from my face. And he smiles at me, not a happy, toothy smile; it’s a wolfish grin.
My skin erupts in goose bumps. He’s baiting me like I’m his prey.