Blush Pink Rose: A Rose and Thorn Prequel

  Blush Pink Rose

  A Rose and Thorn Prequel

  Fawn Bailey

  Copyright © 2018 by Fawn Bailey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Disclaimer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Sneak peek

  Acknowledgments

  More information…

  To those who dare dream with their eyes open.

  Fawn

  P.S. This prequel is inspired by Behind Those Eyes by Roberto Attanasio.

  Disclaimer

  Fawn Bailey is the dark romance pen name of Isabella Starling.

  1

  Harlow

  Once upon a time, there lived a girl who loved to dance.

  It had always been my dream. Something so perfectly out of reach yet just close enough to be attainable. I’d wanted to be a ballerina since I was a little girl, the love of dance and classical music instilled in me since birth by my mummy. We’d been close until she passed away, leaving me in the care of my father. We didn’t have much in terms of a family, and one by one, the relatives dropped out of touch, leaving only my father and me in a toxic relationship that threatened to destroy us both.

  I let out a breath of air, the exhale coming out in a puff of fog. Winter was in full force, its icy grasp making me tighten the scarf around my throat.

  It was a busy day in London, just like so many others. I still loved it, though, rushing through the streets with my coat bundling me tightly, and my eyes scanning the crowd, always looking for something, someone. I loved it because it was free, bohemian. It felt like the perfect place to be myself in, and I was never ashamed of the attributes that made me so uniquely me.

  Nobody even glanced twice at my outfit in London. I wore a pink tulle skirt with white tights, and a black coat on top, bundled with knitwear my mum used to wear. I was late for practice and knew I wouldn’t have time to change once I arrived at the studio. So I’d changed at home instead, rushing through the crowd while simultaneously trying to tighten the bun on top of my head.

  Madame would be upset with me yet again.

  She’s been my teacher since my first ballet lesson almost twelve years ago, and she was just as strict and unrelenting as she had been the first day, sending me home to cry to Mummy. Back then, my mother had taken me in her arms and consoled me as best as she could, but now, I was on my own and more determined than ever. I’d decided to make a career out of dance, every second, every minute of my time devoted to the beauty of expressing myself with my body.

  Madame had been good to me, accepting only a small payment. I knew she charged other dancers much more, but she must have seen something in me that made her believe I would eventually succeed. Perhaps she would be famous then, too—no longer the prima ballerina who turned into a supernova, breaking her leg and ending her career in her very first major performance with the Great Russian Ballet.

  I always had a feeling she was jealous of me, and sometimes, especially after she’d spent hours shouting at me, I wondered why she even kept teaching me if she resented me that much. Nevertheless, I stayed, knowing she was the cream of the crop in the business and my best hope for reaching professional status.

  “Excuse me,” I muttered at a man in my way, trying to move past his enormous body. “I need to catch the tube.!”

  He finally moved, and I dashed down the stairs into the underground. I barely managed to get on the tube before the doors closed. My journey started off a little rocky, but at least I was on my way.

  It didn’t take long to reach the studio, just ten minutes by tube and a few minutes of walking from my flat. I’d rented a place in the neighborhood on purpose, and I worked a waitressing job to pay the rent. My father was no longer in my life, and according to my fake documents, I was twenty years old, not seventeen. Only Madame knew the truth.

  Ten minutes later, I got off and ran up the stairs. The studio was right across from the station, and I dropped all my stuff in the changing room before rushing to the studio and joining the rest of the dancers at the barre. Madame’s back was turned to me, and the other girls merely smiled when I joined in as if I’d been there all along. Madame turned around, her beady eyes zeroing in on me.

  “Miss Granger,” she said coldly. “I see you’re late, yet again. Are you doing this on purpose to annoy me?”

  I ignored her, focusing on making the perfect pirouette, my body straining with the effort. But she didn’t return the same favor; instead, she approached me and tightened her lips into a thin line as she stared at me. Her glare was so intense beads of sweat erupted on my forehead.

  “I won’t tolerate this,” she told me. “Once more and you will sit out practice.”

  I blanched at her threat, but she’d already moved on to the next girl in line, snapping at her about her posture. That meant the attention was off me, and for that, I was grateful.

  I stumbled a few moments later, tripping and wincing when I dropped to my knees.

  “Be careful,” Madame told me sternly. “One wrong move on the tips of your toes, and you’ll hurt yourself badly. You’ll never be able to dance professionally.”

  My head swam with too many thoughts to focus on her critique.

  Still, I listened when she corrected my posture, nagging me about not wrapping my feet the previous night. They hurt badly, but I bit my tongue and hid the pain. Anything, anything for my dream, even if I was in excruciating pain.

  Practice took three hours before we broke for lunch. I unwrapped the celery sticks and hummus I’d brought with me when I noticed my friend Amber cowering in the corner.

  “Nothing again?” I asked, and she shook her head.

  I sighed, moving over to make some space for her on the bench.

  “Come on then,” I said. “You can share mine.”

  Slowly, the willowy redhead approached and sat next to me. Her fingers trembled as she reached for some celery and rolled her eyes back when she tasted it.

  “How long since you’ve eaten?” I asked, and she gave me a sly little look.

  “I’m not supposed to, anyway,” she mumbled, and I poked her in her bony ribs.

  “Don’t listen to Madame,” I said. “You’re tiny.”

  She really was. Pale, creamy white skin peppered with freckles stretched over bones. But she was tall for her age, over a head taller than me, even though she was thirteen to my seventeen. Too tall to be professional, as Madame kept telling her. But she had high hopes and didn’t want to give up. Every penny she saved went toward lessons. Amber was from a small lower-class family just like I had been, and she had four siblings. They couldn’t afford the lessons, so she did odd jobs around the studio to pay for them.

  I had sympathy for the girl, even though others might see us as rivals. But I hoped she would excel just as much as I hoped I would. She was the closest thing I had to a friend.

  We had lunch together, and afterward, we had another four hours of stretching and practice. Ballet was hardcore, but I was willing to take it. I was made to dance, and I had every intention of following my dreams until they came to fruition.

  Once finished, I was exhausted, and my muscles ached from tiredness. I chatted with Amber and another friend, Carina, in the changing rooms while they took their tutus off. I hadn’t brought any spare clothes, so I’d have to make another trip back home in my tutu and b
lack leotard.

  “I heard a nearby teater is casting The Nutcracker,” Carina whispered conspiratorially. “It’s a small production for one of the theaters in Soho. But I would do anything to dance in it.”

  “Why would they cast one of us?” Amber asked, her brow furrowed in confusion. “We’re nowhere near professional level.”

  “I heard,” Carina leaned in, “that a scout was here last week and he was very impressed with one of us.”

  My skin prickled, and I turned to look at them sharply as I undid the laces of my slippers. Could it be true? Had a scout really visited our small studio? Sometimes we had visitors during practice, but Madame never called our attention to them. They came and went, so I never paid them any mind. Even today, several people had interrupted, either to watch us practice, deliver a package or greet Madame.

  “Do you think it’s true?” I asked softly, and Carina tilted her head at me, her eyes calculating.

  Carina was one of my friends too, but she was much different than Amber. Carina was smart, a little bit older, and with a full, voluptuous body that wasn’t made for ballet. But she was a stunning dancer, and even Madame had to grudgingly compliment her every once in a while. Her dancing was impeccable and held an almost sexual passion I found hard to embrace myself.

  “What’s true?”

  The three of us turned toward the direction of the voice, and my eyes sparkled when I saw Tommy walk in.

  He was a couple of years older than me, a little taller and had a body of steel muscle. He was handsome in a way dancers were, and I’d had a crush on him for the past few years. He never seemed to notice me though, and not just that, he gave me grief all too often for every wrong move I made. Sometimes he helped out Madame, and the days when he came in were my favorite.

  Now, I was pouting because he hadn’t joined our rehearsal, but still thrilled because I got to see him.

  My crush might have been unrequited, but that didn’t mean my feelings wavered for a second. Just seeing Tommy again made my crush flare up, and I hurriedly turned my eyes away, trying to cover up my blushed cheeks.

  “Someone is looking for their next big star in our studio,” Carina announced proudly. “They’ve found someone they like, apparently.”

  “Who could it be?” Tommy asked, appearing right in front of me with his eyes dark and intense. “Surely it’s not our little Harlow?”

  “It might be,” Amber defended me. “You know she’s good.”

  “Yeah,” he muttered, his lips so close to mine my own parted. “But is she good enough?”

  Tears pricked the back of my eyes, and I turned away from him, putting my backpack on over my shoulders.

  “I should go,” I murmured, heading toward the door. Before I could reach it, Tommy’s hand wrapped around my wrist and he pulled me back roughly, his eyes still just as dark. “Let go, Tommy. I want to go home.”

  “What, you don’t want to play?” he asked me roughly, laughing at me.

  The other two girls stood frozen in the corner, their eyes on us. I felt impossibly awkward, painfully aware of every imperfection on my body and face as he stared me down, challenging me with those eyes that seemed to see everything. I hated him in that moment. I didn’t like being made fun of. But what else was there to do? He wasn’t going to let go, not even when I tugged to get my arm free.

  “I guess it’s ’cause you’re a virgin.” He smirked, and I paled.

  “How… how do you know?” I whispered.

  “Please,” he laughed. “As if it isn’t obvious.”

  I forced my arm out of his grasp and glared at him. I didn’t like him at all in that moment. The attraction I felt before disappeared like ice melting away to reveal a cold iron heart underneath.

  I didn’t even bother to say goodbye as I rushed out of the studio, ignoring the tears flowing freely down my cheeks. What he’d said had upset me. My heart was beating too fast, my breaths erratic. I hated being called out, made to feel inadequate. How could he be so cruel to me? He never treated the other girls like that. It was just me who he picked on endlessly… and yet a part of me, a sick, fucked-up part actually liked it. Craved his attention. Wanted him to do bad things to me.

  Wiping my face angrily, I made my way into the underground and barely managed to catch the tube. It was filled with people, their bodies packed tightly with no room to sit down. Thankfully the journey was over quickly, and I exited on my stop, as usual, one of the few passengers who got off there.

  The platform was deserted, and what few people had exited the tube disappeared quickly. I walked toward the stairs, the wind blowing my blonde hair everywhere, getting the pale strands in my eyes and my mouth. I came to a stop in front of the stairs, feeling like there was someone close by. There was that unmistakable feeling of being watched.

  “Hello?” I called out, and the word echoed in the corridor.

  I furrowed my brow and wrapped my coat around my body a little tighter. And then I kept walking, up the stairs and into the cold evening air.

  It was only a brisk walk to my flat, and now, the streets felt fuller and bursting with activity. Yet in the back of my mind, I still had that strang, prickling sensation of being followed.

  Like somebody was watching my every step.

  Following me.

  I couldn’t shake it. Running the rest of the way home, I finally relaxed when I slammed my front door shut, the dishes rattling in my cupboards and the floor vibrating from the force. I secured all three locks and collapsed on the floor, wiping the dried tears from my cheeks.

  But the feeling persisted.

  After a few minutes, I managed to pick myself up from the floor. I was tired, exhausted from both the practice and my training. I just wanted a nice, long bath and something warm in my stomach.

  Unfortunately, neither of those were a possibility. I didn’t have a tub in the flat, and I was a horrible cook. cheese toasted sandwich it was.

  With a sigh, I dug in the fridge for some cheddar cheese and lathered up some bread with butter. I fried it in a pan, so ravenous I didn’t even bother to take my ballet clothes off. It was the only thing I could make, and pretty much all I ate.

  I sat at my little table with a chipped plate and turned on the small TV in the corner. The news blared at me, and I left it on, just because I liked the voice of the presenters. It made me feel less alone.

  The sad truth was, I really was alone.

  There was no one left to care about me. Madame only gave a shit because she had to—because I was her best dancer. But Mummy was gone now, and my father was God knows where. Probably drinking himself into an early grave. I’d left three years ago and never looked back. For a while, I lived in a home with several other dancers, but Madame trusted me enough to help me get a flat. It was cheap and dingy, more shabby than chic, but I still loved it. I loved having my independence, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

  I knew I looked young, much younger than seventeen. But at least I behaved like an adult. Knowing that my appearance would give me away otherwise, I needed to act older than I was so people would buy it. Madame expected me to keep up those appearances. We’d agreed to only tell my real age to any agent or ballet that wanted to represent me. There, it wouldn’t be a hindrance at all, but instead an advantage. It meant I had a long career ahead of me, and I was happy about that.

  The sandwich felt good in my almost empty stomach, and I devoured it in minutes. And like always, after I was done with my dinner I had no idea what to do with myself. Evenings were always hard. I wasn’t very social since most of my life was spent at training, and none of the girls from there liked to hang out afterward. Amber was too young, and Carina had her own group of friends, usually too busy for me. They went to bars and clubs I didn’t stand a chance of getting into. Still, I craved some company, so I called Carina, hoping to at least chat on the phone.

  She didn’t answer, even though I waited for ages for her to pick up. Finally, I cut the call, feeling more defea
ted than ever.

  I was lonely, t here was no other way of putting it. Some days I tried to deny it, but other days, like this one, life felt sad and boring with nothing exciting on the horizon.

  Settling in front of the TV, I decided to watch mindless series while I pulled out my notebook.

  I’d kept a diary for years, and even though it now seemed childish, there was still something beautiful about spilling my thoughts on a blank page. I started scribbling, and my mind wandered.

  Tommy had been such a jerk to me. Why was I still attracted to him? And why did I like him even more when he treated me like trash?

  The minutes ticked by slower than ever, and I was drifting off to sleep on my foldout sofa when I heard frantic knocking on the door.

  I stood up and grimaced at the door, hearing sobbing sounds on the other side.

  “Who is it?” I asked roughly, and more sobbing followed.

  “Me,” a miserable voice muttered. “It’s me, Carina.”

  I dashed to the door, surprised by her being here. Obviously, something was wrong, because she’d only been at my flat once and deemed it unsuitable For partying.

  Opening the front door, I came face-to-face with my friend, but she looked nothing like the girl I’d left in the changing room of the studio. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face streaked with tears. She was a mess, and she fell into my arms when I opened the door, crying so loudly I was worried she’d bring all the neighbors out into the hallway.

  “Carina,” I breathed. “Shhh, it’s okay. Come inside, please.”

  I half carried her into my flat where she collapsed on a chair, her face paler than I’d ever seen it.

  “What happened?” I asked her once the door was shut and locked. “Just tell me what’s wrong, please, darling.”