Like a dance.  You never really got that, even after all the Sunday afternoons sitting in the kitchen with your mother watching Lawrence Welk.  You weren't old enough to hate her then, question the endless probing and pushing she did that left you half-formed and twisted under the skin. She smelled like vodka and sugar, sickening sticky sweetness, smiling her blank smile at the couples dancing on the screen.  They were perfect sugar people, identical, who would dissolve in the rain.  She was drunk, and it wasn't even noon.

But it was okay.  The shades were down.  No one could see.

This dance was different.  No sugar, no sweet crooning music, just the pressure of the desk against your pubic bone and the hard throb of his hand pulling at your hair.  He smells like cheap cologne and sweat, and he's panting in your ear.  You feel one hard push of disgust for him before you can force it down.

He's your producer.  He owns you.  This is the way it goes.

He shoves everything off the desk and out of your way, a big dramatic gesture that's completely unnecessary.  You could almost like him for that.  His hand pushes you down hard enough to bruise ribs and take your breath away.  A paperweight presses into your collarbone, biting bruises, but  you know better than to complain.

He's a good man, basically.  He'd feel guilty if he knew he was hurting you; it'd ruin the fun of his game, and then you wouldn't be worth much anymore.

If he wouldn't feel guilty… well, you don't want to know about it.

The jeans are down around your knees, and your thighs are already starting to cramp.  It burns, as usual, hurts with a sharpness you hadn't been expecting that first time.  You suppose they were calling it being fucked over for a reason.

It still hurts, but differently somehow.  Mostly the monotony, the harsh breathing loud in your ear.  You just want it to be over so you can retreat back to your apartment and shower.  Sleep.  Forget.

The cough rattles in your lungs, tickling that's just below uncontrollable.  The reason for this; you have to fight for every revision, every hour off the set for sleep or food.  Six hours of sleep for a quick fuck.  An easy transaction.

Transaction.

Long, smooth fingers press into your wrist, like you'd been struggling, and you obligingly moan like it's the best time you've ever had.  The sound isn't pretty, just a hoarse dying sound.  You wonder how people can actually enjoy this.  You stare at the picture of his wife on the windowsill, her arms around her children.  You wonder if this is what they do, or if not, if this is why he needs you.

Needs.  A strange word; it sounds more important than it is.  'Uses' is probably a better one.

The strokes are getting harder now, jabbing deep, and the pain scales up with it.  You're probably bleeding.  You close your eyes and think of meetings, contracts, shooting dates until he's gasping and pushing into you.  Slick wet hot messiness.  Dirty.

You stare at the lines of light coming through the blinds while he pulls out and cleans himself up.  You, you're allowed to wander out looking freshly fucked.  It keeps you in line, reminds you…

Reminds you.

A pat on your hipbone, something you can almost mistake for affection.  It's more the love a man has for a car or a pet, but it's easier not to think that.

The door opens.  Shuts.  He's gone.

Five minutes.  Ten.  You inch off the desk, wincing when you smell blood.  There's a dark line along your stomach, matching ones around your wrists.  The imprint of his wedding band is a pale mark among the angry red.

The jeans slide back on, thankfully dark enough to hide the blood.  The shirt is easily tucked away.  You reach up to mess your hair back into shape and touch wetness on your face.  It comes away clear on your fingers.  You don't remember crying.

You try not to remember anything.

Everything is back in place besides the stuff on his desk, and you don't touch that.  Instead, you read out into the halls and past the security guard who doesn't even glance up when you walk past.

Your heart is going so fast in your chest that it's making you light-headed.  Propping yourself on the wall, you keep walking.  If you fall, they'll know.  No one can know.

The door opens, the bite of London air.  No coat, which they think means you're the idiot savant your publicists claims you are.  You knew England was cold; you don't live in a hole, for Christ's sake.  You like the bite of cold on your skin, the ache of breathing.  It reminds you that your body is still attached, and sometimes that's nice to know.

Your rental car is too nice for you, glossy smooth darkness that just howls 'stalk me'.  Or possibly 'penis car'.  Jon chose it for you, and you have to bite back the urge to rake the key along the paint.  Must behave.

Your hand shakes as you fight the key into the lock, and you grab your wrist with your free hand to steady it.  It doesn't help.

You drive home in the dark, fighting mostly empty streets.  On the radio, the Beatles sing inane little songs about holding hands.  The smell of copper and sour sweat is heavy in the air.

The valets and the security guards give you strange, lopsided looks as you pass.  You can't blame them; the hotel room is worth more than you are.  You duck your head, hide behind you hair.  Can't see, don't know, it's all right.  It's all right.

Your heart is still beating too fast, dizzying.  You're sweating in the elevator and shivering in the hall.  Fever.  The light in the hallway hurts your eyes, so you leave the room lights off and make your way in the dark.  All the fine, expensive furniture seems to get in your way, leaving you fumbling against carved wood and smooth carpet until you're half-crawling for the television.  Your skin feels raw, and you're relatively sure you're still bleeding.  Your fingers fumble for the television switch and slide away three times before you can even grasp it.

The first flare of light reminds you of nightmares you used to have about nuclear war.  One flash of light, and… nothing.  But you're still there when the light fades.  You blink at the cheery, clean newswoman who just used the words 'million dollar budget' in conjunction with your name, then change the channel.

Three switches, and then that voice smoothes over your skin like warmth, like honey.  The memories hit you like a slap.  You press your forehead against the glass for a moment, stinging with the guilt and the relief.  You can almost pretend you feel warmth.

He would hate you for doing this.  You know that.

So you get up, forcing your legs to hold you, and turn your back on Vincent.  Stumble to the nightstand, trying to peel off your jeans in the process.  Not wise, seeing as you've never been coordinated to begin with, but they come away with the faint crackle of dried blood.  You kick them under the bed to be ignored and reach for the bottle of cough syrup on your dresser.

It's sickly sweet and bitter at once.  You're tempted for a moment, but you don't know if one bottle would be enough to finish it.  Probably not.

You don't particularly want to be saved.  To force someone to save you.  Probably because you don't want to know if anyone would.

The woods are dark.  Sleeping Beauty rotted in her castle, Cinderella sliced an artery with her glass slipper when her prince never came, Snow White died in her sleep.  The dragon won.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your wrist and set the bottle down, mostly unused. Curling up in front of the television, you close your eyes.  And you forget.