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“nice girl” right over the edge. His mom didn’t understand.
She saw only his good side. She didn’t know what dwelled within
that would be unfair to lay on some nice girl’s shoulders. He
couldn’t do it.
    Moving farther into his routine, his
exercise, his release, Dio put his full concentration on his
movement, on the power, on the danger of the sword as it zipped
around his body, around his head. It took him to the edge, as it
always did. He brought it in even closer to his body, made it more
dangerous, more seductive. He scanned the area on the shore, saw
nothing. No one.
    Dio stopped. Set his metal tip down on the
wood plank of the boat, dropped his head. Focused on his breathing,
on the need to release his tension, on the control it took not to
allow it, to savor the moment. He stood still until it waned. Until
his body relaxed.
    He congratulated himself on his control.
Most nights, he would now go home and focus on his frustration. He
was also perverse to enjoy the frustration of the unallowed
release. But he enjoyed it. It took his mind off other things, off
everything else. Except the girl. So far it had not taken his mind
off the girl.
    As he calmed enough, he started again,
warmed up quick, got into the groove quick. Stroked hard and fast.
He got to the edge too fast. He’d wanted to enjoy the buildup
longer.
    He stopped. Put the tip down. Forced
control. But it didn’t work. The girl’s face was in his thoughts.
Her body. Her movement. Her small breasts. Her tight buttocks. Her
toned abdomen.
    Damn.
    Dio crouched in the boat as his body
succumbed.
    Damn.
    So much for his control. He leaned back in
the small boat, the sword now at his side. His breath fast. He was
too close to content, but not close enough. And it was more
frustrating than when he didn’t allow it, when he let himself be
purposely frustrated all night.
    The release was painful. Mentally.
    He sat up again and shoved his hands against
his face, leaned forward until his forearms were on his knees.
Breathed hard. He wanted a nice girl, but not too damned nice. He
wanted a girl he could show himself to, be himself with. And he
hadn’t let himself acknowledge that in months.
    He needed to see her.
    To calm his urges, Dio dived into the cold
dark water of the Atlantic and swam in the direction of the pier in
a hard, fast front crawl, then turned back. He hauled himself up
over the side and sat panting until he could make himself row back
to the dock.
     

 
     
     
    ~7~
     
     
    Caroline heard the applause, the yells, the
offers, the requests. She had to admit this was more satisfying
than ballet at least in the way the audience so fully connected to
the performance. Most ballet audiences appreciated the beauty of
the dance but they didn’t understand it, at least not fully. They
couldn’t name more than one or two of the French terms used to
describe what she did, if that many, and they didn’t understand how
many years and how much work and what kind of pain it took to get
up on that stage. Night cramps in her feet and calves were often
excruciating. Blisters. Spasms. And charley horses. She detested
those charley horses most of all since even as used to pain as she
was, they could nearly bring her to tears. And the pain from them
often lasted for two days.
    She had nearly quit when she first went en
Pointe because of the charley horses near every night. She thought
she wasn’t cut out for it, that her body was telling her she wasn’t
meant to be a ballerina. But then she overheard another dancer
who’d been en Pointe for a few months complain that she couldn’t
practice that day because of a charley horse the night before.
Caroline started to listen better. It was common. There was nothing
wrong with her.
    So she didn’t quit.
    Since then, any pain she had, she knew
others had it too and if they could get through it, so could she.
It was her mantra. If anyone else could do it, she could do it. She
would not accept any other