Phantom's Romance by Lesa Howard ~ Part 2: Following Christine

Today I'm sharing Phantom's Romance, part 1: Following Christine by Lesa Howard. For you who are not familiar with it, it's a scene from Phantom's Dance in Erik's POV just like I posted last week.

You can also find it on Lesa's Wattpad.

Phantom's Romance:

Part 2: Following Christine

The central lights are off now and a security guard is doing rounds, making sure the Wakefield Center is empty. But Christine is holed up in the main lobby restroom. Curiosity is killing me. I am dying to know what she is up to. Not that I am afraid she'll venture down to the basement and find my shelter, she has no reason to, but it's the adorable way she struggled with her decision to stay behind before descending to the lobby where she secreted away to hide in the lady's room. She had chewed her lip, fumbled with her handbag, and wiped her hands on her dress a half dozen times. Her inquisitive nature intrigues me. I doubt it's a side of her that her classmates or instructors ever see.

From behind one of the vestibule's massive wooden columns, I notice a female usher stroll to the restroom door and shove it open. "Anyone here? Closing time. Lights out." A few seconds pass and the usher turns off the restroom lights and walks away, tapping her black flashlight on her hip and whistling a tune from the ballet as she goes.

With my functioning eye, I peer around the column and count to myself. One, two, three… …twenty. Twenty seconds is all Christine can wait before opening the door and poking her head out. Not sure why, but I find her impatience cute. I ease back a bit when her gaze sweeps the grand room. Angling sideways, I can still look around but remain unseen.

When she is sure no one is near, Christine pulls the door ajar and it moans with a metallic grind. A worried frown creases her brow and she freezes in place, midway out of the exit. I draw in a breath, surprised by how amazing she looks paused there with one leg jutting through the half-open door. My gaze travels from her stiletto-clad foot up that long, slender leg to where the hem of her dress drapes across her powerfully strong thigh.

"Daaamn," I murmur then snap my mouth shut and whip my head back. Did she hear me? Surely she caught my crude outburst. Barely breathing, I strain to hear footsteps crossing the carpet or the velvet timbre of Christine's voice calling out. When neither happens, I take a chance and slip my head out an inch or two and release a soft sigh. She is outside the restroom but not moving toward me.

I allow myself one last look at her heavenly legs before she turns and practically skips down the hall to the passage that connects to the dressing rooms. I grin. Sneaky thing. She wants to prowl through the dance troupe's dressing rooms.

Hauling up my jacket hood, I tug it low over my forehead. It's too big so it fits like a shroud—which is why I wear it. Then I take out the mirrored aviators from the jacket pocket and slide them onto my face. I am taking no chances. If she should double back and catch me behind her, I don't want her to see my fused and fibrous flesh. Or worse, she might try to look me in the face and get lost in the dead opaque orb that used to be my left eye. With the sunglasses on she'd simply see her own beautiful face reflected back at her. Once the shades are on, I fall in behind her with light, silent steps.

A couple of times I have to dip into an adjoining hall when she slows as if listening for someone. Behind her like I am, I have an excellent view of her shapely, tight bottom swishing daintily under her swaying skirt. A thrilling sensation surges through me. It's the first time I've felt this alive since the fire, since I'd last danced.

When she halts in front of Claudette Sunderland's dressing room door, I slip quietly into the broom closet across the corridor a few doors down. It comes as no surprise that she goes to Claudette's room rather than the corps de ballets'. The corps is a stepping stone to the lead. Christine will be a principal dancer. She stands before the door, takes a deep breath, and raises her hand to tap her knuckles on the wood. She looks to her left and to her right, but I know she doesn't see me. She's not really expecting anyone to be here, especially in a utility closet. Her scrutiny is a sign of her excitement, her nerves.

After a second unanswered knock she lays a hand on the doorknob, caressing it gently she gives it a twist. This door is even louder than the lobby restroom door. It screeches like something from a horror flick. I can see Christine shiver, but the creepy wail doesn't stop her from moving forward and into the room.

"Mrs. Sunderland, are you there?" Christine's voice floats out of the room into the hallway.

Several moments pass and I decide to leave the security of my lookout. A few wall sconces bathe the passage in an eerie gray light, making my own shadow appear ominous.

As I near the open dressing room, I tilt my head to catch any sound coming from inside. I plaster myself against the wall and chance a quick look. The chamber is like every other principal dancer's dressing room with its dressing table and racks of costumes, vases of flowers and boxes of candy from devoted followers. It brings back memories of my childhood when my mother was…when she danced.

I swallow old memories, sad memories that threaten to rise up and possess me. Then I catch sight of Christine admiring the abundance of expensive costumes hanging on a garment rack, and the memories fade. Her hand rustles softly like butterfly wings over the chiffons and silks, while the crystals and rhinestones shimmer a muted light from the hallway onto her creamy skin, causing her to twinkle.

Christine abandons the costumes and walks over to the dressing table. A couple of rose-filled vases sit on one side of the table, while Claudette's makeup, hair accessories, and perfumes are on the other. Christine's fingers twitch at her side. She wants to touch Claudette's things. My own fingers twitch and burn with a growing desire to touch Christine.

She starts to back away and my stomach jumps to my throat. If I don't pull out now she may catch me. Then all of a sudden there's a silence-splitting crash from inside the room. I pitch about and bolt down the passageway without looking back. 

I'm not the typical author. I didn't always enjoy reading or writing. While in school, I found it to be a chore I'd just as soon skip. I would rather have been daydreaming, my favorite past time. It wasn’t until I grew up and didn’t have to, that I realized reading was fun. I soon discovered that reading fueled my daydreaming. So, remembering a short story I'd written in high school, I began imagining expanding that story into a book. Before long I found I had loads of ideas for not just the short story but other books and stories as well. Fast forward a few years, a lot of studying about writing, practicing my writing, studying some more, taking classes from people who knew what they were doing, studying and practicing yet more, and ta-dah, author! In the same way I had learned I loved reading, I learned I loved writing, too. It’s just that writing is a lot harder than reading.

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads

Purchase Phantom's Dance on:

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble | Book Depository | Kobo | Smashwords

Don't hesitate to leave a comment telling us what you think of the scene!

Phantom's Romance by Lesa Howard ~ Part 1: Alone

Today I'm sharing Phantom's Romance, part 1: Alone by Lesa Howard. For you who are not familiar with it, it's a scene from Phantom's Dance in Erik's POV. I really love it!

You can also find it on Lesa's Wattpad.

Phantom's Romance:

Part 1: Alone

She's attending the ballet tonight. I watch her from my hiding place in the theater balcony. Her pink satin dress is cut low in the back, exposing her delicate neck and perfect spine. The sandals on her feet accentuate her toned dancer's legs. She's alone. Alone. Who would leave someone that beautiful to attend the ballet alone?

Romeo and Juliet unfolds magically on stage and Christine is lost in the performance. She stares transfixed at the company of ballet dancers and her face reveals much about her love of the art. Her brow tightens when she locks her gaze on Claudette Sunderland's feet, as if committing the woman's steps to memory. And when she bites her lower lip, I know she's comparing herself to Claudette, the principal dancer playing Juliet. I know this because I've compared myself to other dancers time and time again.

I have to clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle a chuckle when she sways with the music and even rises slightly in her seat as Romeo lifts Juliet over his head. She holds her breath, exhaling and settling back into her chair when it's clear the lift is a success.

Christine is a gifted dancer. The problem is she doesn't know it. Which comes as no surprise considering the inept teachers at the Rousseau Academy, especially Elaina Hahn. I wonder if the old bat knows her students refer to her as Attila the Hahn behind her back.

But whether it's repertory, pointe class, or technique none of the idiots there recognize what they have in Christine, the able dancer she is. Naturally agile, she's a born ballerina. It's easy to see, though, that something holds her back. She's eager to please her instructors, which comes across needy. But there's more and I struggle to put my finger on it. Something more than overbearing instructors and jealous classmates inhibits her and feeds her insecurities. I get that. I totally get being ignored for someone else. Maybe that's why I couldn't keep my freaking mouth shut when I saw her the other night.

I'd followed that annoying brat Evander, the one they all call a ballet prodigy, into the theater to see what he was sticking his nose into again. She'd followed him, too. But she's not as good as I am at tracking, and when Evander realized she'd pursued him, he sneaked out through the building's front entry. Satisfied he'd not be finding my sanctuary in the basement, I almost left, as well. Then she stepped onto the stage.

From behind the curtain, I'd watched her. She played like a child, flitting and flying around the stage on the tips of her toes. Unabashedly laughing and giggling. It was adorable. She was adorable. But when she checked her posture in the shadows on the dance floor, I knew immediately what she needed. So I spoke out and told her to stop checking her form all the time. If she insisted on worrying about technique, she'd never be able to freely express herself in her art.

After her initial shock at hearing me from behind the curtains, she took my comments as criticism and grew defensive. It irritated her further that I wouldn't come out on stage. Not having thought things through, I didn't know what to say when she asked why I stayed hidden. I couldn't exactly tell her that I resembled a sideshow freak who'd send mothers and babies shrieking if seen in the light of day. So I let her believe I was a theater employee.

She blew me off when I said I could help her, which was a good thing because I was sweating bullets. I mean how stupid was I, offering to tutor her. It would be impossible for me to be on stage with her. Talk about Beauty and the Beast. So she left that night and went home to her comfortable apartment and loving family, while I skulked back downstairs to my monster's lair in the basement boiler room.

Romeo and Juliet is over now and she stands with the crowd as they ready to leave. Then oddly she sits down again, rises halfway as if to stand, and then appears to make up her mind about something and drops back into the seat. Immediately, I know what she is doing.

"You're hanging back to snoop around, arent' you ballerina?" I mumble to myself. And in spite of the pull and draw of my melted cheek, I smile a crooked smile. "We're alike, Christine Dadey. We know what we want and we go after it."

I'm not the typical author. I didn't always enjoy reading or writing. While in school, I found it to be a chore I'd just as soon skip. I would rather have been daydreaming, my favorite past time. It wasn’t until I grew up and didn’t have to, that I realized reading was fun. I soon discovered that reading fueled my daydreaming. So, remembering a short story I'd written in high school, I began imagining expanding that story into a book. Before long I found I had loads of ideas for not just the short story but other books and stories as well. Fast forward a few years, a lot of studying about writing, practicing my writing, studying some more, taking classes from people who knew what they were doing, studying and practicing yet more, and ta-dah, author! In the same way I had learned I loved reading, I learned I loved writing, too. It’s just that writing is a lot harder than reading.

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads

Purchase Phantom's Dance on:

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble | Book Depository | Kobo | Smashwords

Don't hesitate to leave a comment telling us what you think of the scene!

Also if you don't have Phantom's Dance yet, you can win it on this giveaway!