Pier Lights

Pier Lights

Ella M. Kaye

Caroline was a relevé away from
becoming prima ballerina when, partly due to her own actions, she
was damaged enough to never be allowed en Pointe again. Returning
to her hometown area, she finds a grittier dancing job and
determines to land on top this time.
Dio hides away on his farm near Charleston, South Carolina, and
ventures out only when he can be in disguise. He uses his swordsman
skills to work out aggression and connect with others while he
maintains distance. When the two collide on the beach in the glow
of the lights from the pier, their personal scars push them away,
and pull them in, just as the ebb and flow of the
Atlantic.

Pier Lights. Copyright
©2013 by LK Hunsaker writing as Ella M. Kaye. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by
any means without written permission from the publisher, except for
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This is a work of fiction.
Names, places, and events are of the author’s original creation or
are used fictitiously. Resemblances to real live or formerly live
humans and to things that have happened or may happen are entirely
coincidental. Neither author nor publisher is liable for use of
information within.

Cover art: LK Hunsaker.
http://www.lkhunsaker.com

~1~

Caroline curled the toes of her right foot
in the sand and dug them in as far as she could. Her polish would
scratch, she supposed. As late as it was already, she didn’t want
to go home and repaint her toenails. Still, she dug. The lights of
the pier sparkled in the dark to her right: a long string of lights
beckoning her to join the festivities under the pavilion. Soft
streams of jazz floated over along skimming waves and pulled at her
soul.

Gripping the cold, damp sand firmly with her
right toes, Caroline raised it up from its hole, extended her foot
and leg behind her, let her body drift forward in balance. Balance
was difficult in the sand. Still she managed a decent arabesque
with her arms extended, one over her head, the other reaching up to
the sky.

She should dance on the pier, she supposed.
Normal dance. Not trained danced. Bringing her right leg and foot
back to the ground, Caroline felt a long aching wail ready to
stream forward from her tired soul. The soul that longed to dance.
Trained dance. Not normal dance.

With a cleansing breath of ocean air, she
decided it wouldn’t hurt to at least get close enough to the pier
to hear voices. There was no reason to make the decision until
morning. He’d given her that long.

Sand shifted under her feet and she moved
closer to the water until waves brushed up over her toes, over her
ankles, and deeper still until it splashed up onto her calves.
Normally, she would never walk where she couldn’t see what her feet
might find. Her feet were her lifeblood. Or they had been.

Now, she could walk where she pleased.
Caroline did her best to convince herself the freedom would be
worth it, it was the good side, where others had told her to focus.
The good side. All in all, she would rather go back to watching
every step. The good side had never been much of a friend, that
she’d been able to tell.

A sting on her arch made her jump and she
pulled her foot up to survey the damage. It was too dark to see
whether there was blood or a protrusion. Rubbing her hand gently
over the spot, she didn’t feel anything other than moisture, and
the pain felt only surface deep. A prick from a sea shell, Caroline
guessed. Karma was, after all, a true bitch.

Swishing her foot, her right foot, around in
the water to soothe the pain, Caroline continued toward the lights,
the music, the voices. She wouldn’t go up on the pier. That was far
closer to people than she had any need to be. Instead, she stayed
in the water and made her way to the large wooden posts holding the
pier like three rows of silent sentries from high on the beach to
far into the waves. Not terribly far, considering the size of the
Atlantic and that the pier, huge compared to humans, was only a
little speck of minor interruption of the ocean’s flow.

Hand-in-hand couples nearly made her turn
back. She rolled her eyes. Wait until reality slaps in, little
ones, she thought as she moved away from them, farther up the
beach. She made her way to the path underneath the long pier where
locals and tourists talked and laughed and stomped against the wood
planks above her head. Time to go home. She had an interview in the
morning. Her looks mattered; bags under her eyes wouldn’t do any
more than would scratched toe nails.

Home. Caroline laughed at herself. The bed
and breakfast barely off the beach wasn’t home. The three days
she’d hidden inside didn’t make it hers. Especially since she
sounded like a visitor to South Carolina, which used to be home.
Her voice training had been worth the cost. Her accent was all but
gone. If anyone guessed, they guessed she was Canadian. She refuted
it but never said where she was from. Caroline from South Carolina
was far too worn out to have to listen to it one more time.

She moved back down the beach, out from
under the pier, still along the water as it splashed her ankles.
Just before she turned off to head back to her room for the night,
a flicker of light over the water caught her eye. It was a moving
flicker, similar to the lighthouse off and on glow as it turned its
continuous circles around Sullivan’s Island, but far smaller. And
far closer. She headed that direction. Caroline had always been too
curious. Her mother had told her she was many times. It killed the
cat, so the story went. Caroline figured she was safe enough since
she wasn’t a cat. She’d gone well past her nine lives of curiosity
and it hadn’t killed her yet.

As she got close enough to find the source
of the flicker, out on the water but not too far out, she decided
it might not be all that safe. A man. With a sword. On a small
boat. Alone.

And mostly naked.

Her gut told her to turn away, to go back to
her room, to shower and redo her toe nails and sleep, in case her
answer would be yes. Although in all truth, she expected it not to
be. She only wanted the option.

The flicker came from the sword as he
twirled it around his body. Twirled wasn’t the right word. That was
what Caroline did. Or what she used to do. It was a delicate,
graceful movement. But then, so was this man. He was a delicate,
graceful movement, if she could allow herself to stretch the
definition of the word delicate. His precision was. As far as she
could tell, the sword moved in exactly the same path, repeated,
smooth, strong, graceful. It moved like a dancer, but more
deadly.

Depending on its intent.

Caroline found herself wishing it was not
quite so dark, that the moon was more than half full so she could
see him better. He was dark haired. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Trim.
Muscular. His dark shorts hugged his hips and thighs. His thighs
were broad but toned. The rippled muscles were occasionally
highlighted by the moon’s glint and the lights from the pier.

His face was washed out by shadows. Not even
a glint. Odd.

The pattern changed, became faster, more
intricate. His arm muscles surged and receded in imitation of the
waves around him.

He stopped, chest expanding, shoulders
circling, sword tip down.

Caroline stood in awe. His head was down. At
rest.

When he raised it, she shrank back. He
looked her direction, as far as she could tell. His head tilted.
Slightly. Held still.

She shuffled backward, slowly. The knick on
the bottom of her foot pinched. She curled her foot to take
pressure off as she continued her slow creep away from the sword.
He didn’t move. He watched her. Or she imagined he watched her. It
was dark. She was too far away, in black calf-length leggings and a
long dark gray lightweight short-sleeved tunic. He couldn’t see
her.

To test her theory, she edged to the side,
out of the water, still backward, away from the angle his face
pointed.

His head followed.

Her stomach clenched and she turned, nearly
jogged up the beach toward the sidewalk that would take her back to
her room. Caroline glanced back several times but there was no sign
that he followed. As far as she knew, he was still on that little
boat, with his big sword resting its tip between his legs.

With her heartbeat calm again, she caught
the whiff of Taco Boy near the Beachside Bed and Breakfast and
detoured that direction. When had she last allowed herself greasy
tacos? She didn’t remember.

Tonight, she would splurge.

Tomorrow, she would decide whether to
audition for the job.

~2~

She’d expected a big, burly, slobby guy.

Why she did, Caroline wasn’t sure. She’d
never been in one of these places. Television, she supposed, not
that she’d seen much television over the past few years. Still, the
middle-aged clean-shaven man with a friendly smile threw her. She’d
been prepared for big, burly, and slobby, which would make it
easier to turn the position down. This guy didn’t look so bad to
work for. Maybe she could do it.

Well, she
could
do it. But maybe
she
would
.

The place didn’t look shady, either. Of
course, when the job paid between one thousand and three thousand a
week, depending on performance, Caroline shouldn’t have expected it
to be shady or shabby.

Truth was, she had no idea what to
expect.

“You’ve never done this kind of work before,
is that right?” The man walked fast and talked loud enough she
could easily hear from where she followed behind.

“Not exactly this.”

He stopped and turned to look at her. “Dance
experience. I saw that on your resume. Let me guess, local
theater?”

“No.”

He raised his eyebrows, waiting impatiently
for her to clarify.

“I’m ... or I was...”

“Spit it out. I’m a busy man and you don’t
look the type for the job so let’s make this quick.”

He was right on that mark. But she could be
right for it. She knew how to adapt. That was her specialty. “I’m a
classically trained ballerina.”

He laughed. “Okay, great sweetie. I have
things to do...”

“I spent five years in the Boston Ballet
company as part of the line and then moved up to understudy for the
prima ballerina. From there, I went to New York and made one
night’s start in Giselle when the star was ill. I can give you
contacts so you can check it out.”

Mr. Hayes scratched his chin. “Why do you
want to be a stripper?”

“I need a job.”

“Right. Why?”

Caroline raised her chin and threw out her
prepared line. “I needed a change of direction, a new challenge.
I’m good at challenges. I thrive on them. And I know you think I
won’t fit in here, but I will. If I decide to take the job, and I
haven’t decided yet if this is right for me, but if it is, I will
do a good job, a great job, and you won’t be sorry you gave me the
chance.”

With a thoughtful nod, Hayes paced away a
few steps then pulled up a chair. “Prove it.” He shrugged his head
toward the stage in the distance. It was a large stage, complete
with two poles at each side close to the front and a few props in
the back. At least she assumed the chair and boxes of different
heights were meant to be props.

“Without music?”

He threw her a sly grin and turned his head
to yell to someone she couldn’t see. “Charlie, turn on some music.
Have an audition.”

Scuffling of feet and the shrill bark of a
speaker not treated right led to a blare of music. Techno.

Caroline placed a hand on her waist. “You’re
not serious with this?”

“Can’t do it?”

“I could but I won’t. This isn’t sexy. I
don’t believe this is what you use, so give me some real music and
I’ll dance for you.”

“Dance? Sweetie, I don’t want classical
ballet. I want knock ’em off their feet sexy exotica.”

“That’s not a word.”

He smirked. “It is here. Going to do it or
not? Like I said, I’m a busy man and I don’t like to waste
time.”