7. Closed Doors

Edric

I don’t go back to Luna Noir.

I tell myself that like it’s a promise, like if I repeat it often enough it will turn into something solid… something I can stand on when my knees threaten to give out.

The sun is barely up when I leave the apartment, the city still yawning awake. Queens feels different in the morning. Less predatory. Less like it’s watching me. I pull my jacket tighter around myself and keep walking, the echo of music from Luna Noir still lodged somewhere under my skin, like a bruise that hasn’t surfaced yet.

I shouldn’t miss it. I shouldn’t miss the stage, the heat, the way my body felt when it moved: loose, powerful and wanted. And I definitely shouldn’t miss him. Leon.

The memory of his hands, too strong, too sure, burns through me before I shove it away. The taste of his lips on mine. I can still feel it. I focus on the pavement instead, on the cracks and oil stains and old gum flattened into the concrete.

I am not going back.

That decision feels right when I say it. Noble, even. Like I’m choosing safety. Like I’m choosing myself… and maybe I am.

The first hotel audition proves how expensive that choice is. The lobby is polished to a blinding shine, marble floors and glass walls and a scent that tries too hard to smell like wealth. The woman at the front desk barely looks at me when she hands me a form.

“Dancers?” She says, eyebrows lifting. “We mostly need lounge performers. Background ambiance.”

Background.

The audition room is small. Sterile. No mirrors. No music system worth anything. I dance anyway, because dancing is the one thing I know now I can do without thinking. My body remembers even when my mind is fraying at the edges. Thanks to Luna Noir because I found that out. When I finish, the man watching me claps politely.

“You’re very talented,” he says. “But we can only offer one hundred a week.”

I blink.

“That’s… that’s full-time?” I ask.

“Yes.”

That's… that's four hundred a month!

At Luna Noir, I made that in a night. On a slow night.

I thank him anyway. Smile. Bow my head. Leave with my dignity intact and my chest caving in.

The second place is worse. A club on the outskirts of town, dim even in daylight, smelling faintly of stale beer and desperation. The manager watches me like I’m merchandise already damaged.

“We don’t do contracts,” he says. “Cash per set. Fifty dollars.”

I don’t even dance.

I walk out before he finishes explaining the “benefits.”

By midday, my feet ache and my hope is threadbare. Every place is the same; smaller stages, smaller crowds, smaller pay. No one wants a dancer who looks like he belongs somewhere dangerous and expensive.

No one wants what Luna Noir sells.

And the worst part? I understand why.

By the time I slump onto a bench near the bus stop, the weight of it all finally crashes down on me. I press my palms into my eyes, breathing hard.

I can’t go back. But I also can’t survive like this.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. For one terrifying second, I think it’s Leon.

It’s not.

It’s a reminder notification: Aria; oncology appointment: 2 days.

My throat tightens.

Two days.

Two days and I don’t even know how I’ll afford next month’s rent, let alone medication, let alone chemo. The bills are already stacked on the kitchen table like silent accusations. Every envelope a reminder that love doesn’t pay for anything in this world.

I swallow hard and stand.

I need air. I don’t realize where I’m walking until I hear the voice.

“Edric?”

My blood turns to ice.

I stop so abruptly that my shoulder collides with someone passing by. They mutter an apology. I don’t hear it.

I know that voice. I pray, stupidly, that it’s someone else. That my mind is playing tricks on me. That's it isn't who I think it is.

Then, I turn slowly.

Marcus stands a few feet away, leaning against a parked car like he belongs there. Like he hasn’t just reached back into my past and wrapped his fingers around my spine.

He looks… better.

Cleaner. Better dressed. Older in a way that sharpens instead of softens. His smile is the same, though. It is crooked, knowing and already claiming something that isn’t his.

My body reacts before my mind does and I step back. Then I take another step. Then I turn and run. I don’t make it three strides before his hand clamps around my wrist.

“Don’t,” he says, voice low. Calm. “You always did this. Running.”

“Let go of me,” I whisper, my heart pounding so hard it hurts.

He tightens his grip just enough to remind me how strong he is.

“Relax,” he says. “I’m not hurting you... yet.”

The word yet lands like a slap.

People walk past us. Cars honk. Life goes on, completely indifferent to the fact that my world is collapsing in broad daylight.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” I say. My voice shakes, and I hate that it does.

Marcus tilts his head, studying me like a puzzle he enjoyed breaking the first time.

“You look good,” he says. “Healthier. Studying still, I assume?”

I don’t answer.

If he learns that I dropped out and are now dancing for upkeep, he will laugh his ugly arse out.

His gaze drops, slow and deliberate, taking me in. My posture. My clothes. The way my shoulders are tight, ready to bolt.

“Figures,” he murmurs. “You always were made to be stupid.”

Rage flares, hot and sudden.

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

He laughs softly. “Like what? Like I know you?”

I pull against his grip again. This time harder.

“Let. Go.”

For a moment, something dark flickers across his face. Then it smooths out, replaced by something almost amused.

“You disappear for weeks,” he says. “No word. No explanation. And now I find you just walking around like you didn’t leave a mess behind.”

“I didn’t owe you anything,” I snap.

His hand tightens.

“You owed me everything,” he corrects. “I took care of you. I paid your bills for you. How is your sister doing? Dead yet?”

I swallow that because I know he just wants to hurt me, to control me the way he always did.

“You controlled me,” I say, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “You hurt me.”

His eyes harden.

“You’re exaggerating. How is a few hits hurting?”

That sentence, so familiar, so poisonous, makes my chest burn.

I stop pulling. I meet his gaze instead.

“Let me go,” I say again. Steadier this time. “Or I scream.”

He studies me for a long moment, as if weighing his options. Slowly, deliberately, he loosens his grip, but doesn’t remove his hand entirely. His thumb brushes my wrist, right over the spot where bruises used to bloom.

“You always did like drama,” he says. “I just want to talk.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t get to decide that… anymore.”

The world feels too loud, too bright. I think of Luna Noir, the danger, the secrets, Leon’s big body pressing against my mind like a storm.

And I think of this… of the past I ran from standing right in front of me.

“I won’t go with you,” I say.

Marcus smiles.

“I know that's what you think but you will,” he replies. “That’s why this is interesting.”

We stand there, locked in place, his hand still on my wrist, my pulse screaming under his fingers, neither of us willing to move first.

And for the first time since I swore I would never return to Luna Noir, I wonder which danger is worse…

The one I chose to walk away from, or the one that has just found me again.