Performance Anxiety

A knock woke Brynn from a deeply satisfying sleep.

Taking one look at Jean, the Artist Director of her dance troupe and she immediately ushered him into her hotel room before he collapsed from exhaustion.

"What happened?" she asked anxiously, his weary, red rimmed eyes and the grey tinged stubble on his strong chin showing he had likely been up all night. A faint waft of cigarette smoke, alcohol and sweat passed her as he moved into her single bed hotel room. The theatre had provided her the room while the troupe was performing in Caracas.

Jean, normally a poised, graceful mover dropped onto the foot of her bed like a sack of potatoes, fatigue and some deep emotion robbing him of agility. The bleak expression on his face worried her.

"What happened?" she repeated.

"I made a big mistake, Brynn" Jean said hollowly, not looking at her. "Big."

Shocked by how pathetic he seemed, the dancer went to him, sat beside him and gingerly put an arm around his strong shoulders. Over the three years they had worked together, Brynn had grown to respect, appreciate and adore the older man. The retired dancer was the best choreographer in her state and a well known, highly sought after choreographer who had taken a shine to her when they had begun their association. Because of the blonde Frenchman, Brynn had improved to the point of becoming a lead dancer in the company, which gave her the opportunity to travel the world and see things she'd never thought possible. If her mentor were hurting, she would do anything in her power to make him feel better. It was both in her nature and the least he deserved.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"I don't. I'm too ashamed, but... I need your help."

At last he made eye contact. Normally twinkling, blue eyes seemed watery, less vibrant as he looked into her own anxious, amber coloured eyes. The connection gave her to opportunity to show him how much compassion she felt, how willing she was to make things better if she could.

"What do you need?"

The fierce, assured way she said that impacted him, it was obvious. Taking it in, he smiled weakly, the corners of his mouth and the wrinkles around his eyes both slightly creasing with appreciation for her offer. Then he sighed heavily as he remembered what he had to ask.

"You know I think you are very special, don't you Brynn?"

"Yes, you've said so."

"But you believe it?"

"Sometimes."

The older man smiled sadly.

"You are. You have a spark, a light that shines in you."

The compliment, even coming from him in a time of stress, felt glorious to her love starved soul. Fully aware she had a father shaped hole in her life, Brynn often pretended Jean filled that space in spite of him being older than her contemporary's fathers were.

"I'm worried the favour I need from you might dim that spark..."

For all the talent, joie de vivre and intellect Jean possessed, empathy and compassion had never been his strong suit. An impulsive, selfish man, Jean's abundant charisma usually smoothed the feathers he ruffled, his intuition about people giving him the gift of being able to say the right thing to get out of awkward moments. By expressing concern for her emotional well being, he indicated both his affection for her and the magnitude of what he was going to ask.

At a loss in the face of his powerful emotions, Brynn simply rubbed his back soothingly, anxiety building in her throat.

"I was up all night. Gambling."

Saying the word gambling cost him some dignity, he glanced at her to gauge her reaction, but couldn't hold her gaze. Masking her shock, Brynn nodded to encourage him to continue.

"Some wealthy donors to the theatre asked me to join them. It was an honour... so I thought." Bitterness seeped into his tone, but then gave way to a remembered thrill as he talked about the game. "For the whole night, I slowly added more and more money to my pot. I didn't win every round or anything, but I played smart and with skill." The familiar bravado came back into his voice. "They didn't like losing to a foreigner" the Frenchman chuckled. "They poured more and more money onto the table, buying in again and again until the sun came up."

Wistfully looking at the wall, the memory consuming him, Jean lowered his accented voice. "I had a straight flush. Jack-high. A very strong hand. It was the last hand of the night, everyone had agreed. I had forty thousand dollars in front of me." The number stunned Brynn. "The odds of anyone having a better hand were astronomical, but for some reason one of the others was pushing me, adding more each card. Then on the flop, when I saw I had a straight flush, I lost my mind internally. I believe I maintained a blank visage, but my heart was pounding."

Caught up in his telling of the story, Brynn continued rubbing his back as she felt his excitement mounting.

"The last man in front of me had been losing to me over and over, seemingly unwilling to admit I was a better player. He went all in... with seventy thousand dollars. I should have known he would beat me, but the odds of it were so ridiculous... I was tired and drunk, so I went all in as well." The older man was vibrating now. "When he pointed out the vast difference in our pots, conversation around the table got animated. That should have been the end of it, but he insisted on me matching value. The others convinced me it was the local house rules. Things grew tense when I begged off, not having the money to put up. A gun was put on the table. A threat. Only then did it occur to me that these men might have been setting me up. I believe that man is a criminal."

"What happened?"

"They told me how I could make up the deficiency of my funds. A private performance by one of the dancers." Briefly his eyes met hers and skipped away. "They asked for you by name, Brynn."

"I'm happy to dance, if that will help" she offered eagerly. If the thing she was most skilled at could help the man who had trained her to be so good, how could she deny him?

"I knew you would, so I agreed, of course. With that hand it wouldn't be a problem anyway, I thought."

All the vigour drained from him at that point.

"I lost. I couldn't' believe it, but he had a

royal

flush. It's almost impossible." Sadly he turned to Brynn. "I lost."

"Don't worry. I'll dance. It'll be alright."

"No. I thought it was just a dance. He said performance, very specifically. Performance. With the gun on the table beside his massive pile of money, he told me he wants you stripped. Fully nude."

The pit of Brynn's stomach fell away, leaving her falling through sensations she had never felt before.

"Then he intends to have sex with you."

Brynn's eyebrow furrowed together in confusion as she attempted to process what he had said. The anguish in his eyes, the chagrin on his face told her he wasn't joking, but still, she couldn't accept what he'd said at face value.

"Nude?"

"And sex" he nodded.

"But..." nothing came after that.

The possibility that the man she had trusted, adored and done everything she could to earn the respect of had sold her body to a stranger because of a poker game was too giant a leap of logic to achieve in her groggy early morning state.

"The performance is to be tonight."

"Performance..." she repeated the meaningless word, her brain still not processing everything.

"Yes. There will be a crowd."

"What?!" Suddenly Brynn felt much more alert.

"He told me he'd just paid thirty thousand dollars for the performance. To get value for his money it needs to be a spectacle, so he's going to invite people and also... he's going to film it." A sickly, pathetic smile flashed across Jean's sorrowful face, a lame attempt to mitigate the impact of that last statement.

Brynn was crying even before she fully understood what Jean was telling her.

It was Jean's turn to comfort her. As he put an arm over her shaking shoulders, she began to sob, the violation of what he had done, the loss of innocence around their relationship, shook her to the core. Accepting his soothing back rub even felt wrong. For three years she had yearned to be held by him, desperate for someone to approve of her, to treat her well and it now came with an unthinkable price tag.

"Shh shh shh" her mentor shushed her, rocking her as she bawled in his arms, face buried in his chest.

The day before, the petite dancer would have thought there was no price too high to be exactly where she was at that moment, being held and comforted by the man she most admired in the world. As it turned out, there was a price, a steep price. Could she pay it?

Muttering sulkily into his chest she murmured "I don't think I can do it sir."

Gently, Jean disengaged from her. Holding her shoulders in his soft, warm hands he squared her to face him, both turned to each other on the bed.

"Brynn, these are dangerous men."

The look of fear in his eyes ignited panic in her chest. A man as confident as Jean, a man of import in their field looking as uncertain and frightened as he did ripped the carpet out from under the young dancer.

"There is too much to tell you, but one man is in the government, another the military and the third... the man with the gun... likely much worse." A shiver ran up her spine. "They won't let any of us leave the country unless you do this. The whole troupe, me, the crew... they said we'll all be imprisoned." A tremble in his voice, the quiver of a lip and the tears in his eyes said more to her than the words spilling from his mouth.

"Please Brynn. Please do this!"

It broke her heart to have him beg. Unable to look at him, her mind sought a reprieve, a way out. Would one of the other dancers do it instead? Who would? How could Brynn ask anyone else to do it in her place?

They had asked for her by name.

With a mind spinning crazily, looking for something to do, a way out, she asked a question, words falling from her mouth, not really the question she most wanted to ask.

"Who will be there?

"I don't know. His cronies, I suppose."

"Will the troupe be there?"

"No."

"The crew?"

"Some. As few as possible."

"What's he going to do to me?" Brynn sobbed that last question, still not the one she most wanted to ask.

"Brynn... He's going to do whatever he wants to you. I can't stop him. No one can."

Without knowing it, he answered the question she desperately wanted to have answered. Why was Jean doing this to her? Because he couldn't' stop it. Having an answer wasn't the same as asking him directly, but the words caught in her throat, so that was all the answer she was going to get.

If Jean couldn't stop him, how could Brynn.

"I suggest you

perform.

You

dance!

" Anger flashed in Jean's blue eyes. The gifted choreographer grew animated as he directed her. "You

act

like you love whatever he does to you. Make everyone believe it and when we get home..." the anger dissipated and Jean stroked her shoulders soothingly, his expression sad and sincere. "I will get you the best therapist possible. I will heal you my dear. You won't have to suffer forever."

Like always, Jean inspired her, his words exhilarating, his enthusiasm contagious. The sincerity in his words and demeanour pierced deep, any measure of affection from him nourishing to a starving heart.

The Artist Director's energy flagged and he yawned hugely, covering his mouth, having the good grace to look embarrassed. Soon she was alone with her whirling thoughts as Jean went to his room to sleep after an emotional night.

The night before had been a big night for the troupe, the last performance on a lengthy tour of South America. The tour had taken six weeks, hitting every capital city in each countries of the vast continent. Their final performance was in Venezuela in the capital of Caracas.

The massive cement structure in one corner of the beautiful Parque Los Coabos had been glorious to perform in, the wide Complejo Culteral Teresa Carreno theatre full to bursting with the glitterati of Caracas. The audience had enthusiastically applauded the performances and the dancers had given everything they had to the final performance and the appreciative crowd. The party afterwards had been delightful as speeches were given, gift passed to each dancer and amazing food provided in beautiful displays of culinary art.

All that alone had been overwhelming for Brynn on her first trip abroad, on the most physically gruelling tour she'd ever done. The culture shock, strange food, languages she didn't speak, the emotional friction of travelling with a group of people all had a profound impact on her mind, body and spirit.

Then Jean had deposited the most gut wrenching news she'd had since her mother had sent Brynn away to live with her grandmother.

Brynn needed air.

Their hotel was across the street from the theatre, so Brynn went to wander the park surrounding it. Meandering, allowing herself the gift of feeling as lost physically in the towering trees as she did in her heart, Brynn contemplated the idea that Jean had gambled her body on a card game. Years spent dedicating herself to her craft had meant Brynn had denied herself many of the experiences other girls her age had. Romance had not been a priority. Most of her male friends were gay, or much older and already partnered. Jean's direction to act like she took pleasure from it seemed beyond her abilities. Brynn had only one fumbling, awkward sexual experience to draw from for her attempt at deceiving the man with the gun into believing she enjoyed having sex with him.

No. that was her mother's voice talking. The voice that consistently told Brynn she was unlovable, untalented and worthless. Disposable. The young dancer's lived experience was that she was talented, and her acting ability was a large part of why her dancing connected with the audience. Brynn new she could fool him. She had to. It was their only way out of that dangerous, corrupt country.

A couple hours wandering amid the trees brought her a measure of clarity and Brynn returned to the hotel determined to learn how to be an excellent lover in one afternoon. Using her phone and the hotel wifi, the dancer poured over the internet, scouring videos that would give her tips on how to be a good lover. There were far more resources than she would have believed and much of it was contradictory, but after an hour, she began to hone in on what she was looking for and discovered exactly the type of instructional videos she needed.

Studying hard, she did her best to absorb the new information, her brain already trained to learn new, complex movements. The vocabulary of what to do with her body was different than dance steps, but because she had absolute mastery of her physical form she adapted to the new positions and actions without much confusion, just an abundance of embarrassment.

The mortification she felt when a knock on her door interrupted her while studying porn wasn't as keen as when she understood that the knocker was an aesthetician come to groom her. The woman didn't speak English and Brynn didn't speak Spanish, but when the older lady showed Brynn the email booking her services to that room for that day, Brynn understood who had arranged for it. Acquiescing, the dancer submitted to having her genitals, anus, legs, arms, armpits, lip and eyebrows groomed smooth by the efficient, detail oriented aesthetician.

Not long after that humiliation was complete, another knock proceeded a nail technician booked to give her a manicure and pedicure. Less invasive, painful and degrading, it was still an imposition on her body she resented. The helplessness she felt to say no galled the dancer, even if she appreciated the talent of the lady who restored and made Brynn's bluntly chopped nails pretty.

After a long gap, Brynn began to feel she might be left alone, she showered and began to do her hair when another knock brought a stylist to do Brynn's hair for her. The woman cut and styled Brynn's bedraggled locks, trimming sun damaged ends and adding highlights to her already sun-kissed brown tresses. Styled long and loose, with large, swooping curls, Brynn reluctantly felt glee at how good her hair looked after the stylist left. The bemused girl was still studying herself when the next knock happened.

The make-up artist did such a great job, Brynn simply had to take dozens of selfies when she was alone, her face an adorable mask of perfect femininity. Contoured to make her cute features pop to their very best ability, Brynn's smoky eyes, gleaming lips and blushing cheeks radiated vitality, sensuality and perfection she would never have thought her own face capable of. The person in the mirror was the absolutele ideal version of her face.

The next knock was Jean coming to take her to the theatre.

Her mentor was stunned by the sight of her. Speechless, he simply gaped at her for an age as she grew more and more uncomfortable with his study.

"You look stunning Brynn" was his final assessment.

"Thank you" she replied simply.

Hoping he couldn't perceive how very important his opinion still was to her, she felt her heart leap at his compliment. Dressed in her favourite leotard, a dark one with sparkling rhinestones they used in the third number of the usual program, she walked with Jean to the theatre in silence, only the briefest necessary conversation breaking the tense quiet surrounding them.

The Artist Director left her in the largest dressing room, an array of snacks and drinks laid out for her, the only performer.

When a man entered without knocking, she was startled, but his confident, arrogant mien silenced her protest before she uttered it. Followed by an entourage of men and woman the impeccably dressed, middle-aged man studied her, his black eyes unreadable as she mirrored his assessment of her with her own of him.

Taller than her by only two or three inches, his sturdy, thick body radiated physical power. Broad shoulders, a wide back and deep chest made him stocky, but his waist was narrower than his broad chest, giving him a lethal look. Slick-backed, black hair gleamed with oil, a narrow, perfectly groomed moustache adorned his upper lip, his tanned face a craggy, oaken looking mask of imperious disdain.

In Spanish he spoke to her. When she didn't respond, he looked behind him and Jean appeared. Replying in Spanish, the choreographer and the scary man spoke for a brief exchange. The imperious man gestured up and down Brynn's body speaking rapidly to Jean. When the choreographer nodded affirmation, the dangerous seeming face turned to study Brynn once more, his eyes peering into her own. Unable to hold his gaze, she shivered under his intense scrutiny.

When his raspy voice asked a question, she peeked at him, but the inquiry was to Jean. One large, dark hand reached into his tailored suit and withdrew a slim wallet of some kind. Unzipping a zipper that ran all around the edge, he opened the wallet to reveal precisely arranged silver paraphernalia for injecting something, tiny vials of powders, and a slim packet of pills.

The choreographer shook his head, but the domineering man barked one word and Brynn flinched at the sound, the message perfectly clear he wouldn't ask again.

Turning to Brynn, Jean guiltily told her what the man asked.

"He would like to know if you want to take drugs."

Horrified, Brynn shook her head no to Jean, then hesitantly shook her head softly at the daunting man.

Black eyes studied her for several moments, expressionless, then an idea seemed to occur to him. A wicked grin spread across his sun weathered face. Withdrawing a pill from the small baggie, he popped one in his mouth, snapped his fingers and somehow a bottle of water appeared in his hand from someone standing close. Swallowing, he grinned dangerously and offered Brynn the baggie and another bottle appeared for her.