The Belgian Beast Read online

  The panic in Nina’s eyes was telling and to keep her calm, I kept my cool with the men I’d come in contact with many times. Bart’s grip on me tightened when I’d insulted him back. He was just one of the low-lifes my sister got herself tangled up with.

  “Shut the fuck up,” he hissed angrily as he pressed the knife to my neck a little more. I could just feel the blade nicking at my skin. “Your sister owes me and seems to have skipped out on me. That little bitch.”

  “How much, Bart?” These guys didn’t scare me. Their tactics worked on others and sure as fuck worked on my sister but not me.

  I knew she’d run off for a reason. Sophie and her inherited addiction to gambling. My dad would say, “De appel valt niet ver van de boom.” The funny thing was that he would refer to me but the apple that didn’t fall far was my sister. She took after him in his worst ways. She hydrated on alcohol and got her high from gambling away all her money, sometimes mine, and many times the man of dangerous men, like Bart, who wanted it returned with interest.

  “She took two thousand from me. I want back three,” Bart demanded with a sneer.

  Nina let out a whimper.

  I looked at her until her eyes met mine. I conveyed my relaxed nature through my eyes to calm her. She swallowed hard and her eyes never left mine. I had to reassure her she was okay with me and nothing would happen to her.

  “Done,” I answered Bart easily as I reached into my pocket and produced my wallet. Taking a stack of mostly green and some orange and blue Euro bills, I counted out three-thousand Euros before shoving the stack of money at him. “Here’s your money, now leave me and my friend the fuck alone. If you have business with my sister, fucking find her. I have nothing to do with your shit.”

  I stood and turned to the man I could finally see for the first time. With my height, I easily towered over the man who gaped at me with wide eyes. I took a step in his direction and he nearly tripped over the corner of a chair. One of his goons grabbed him and quickly stabilized him.

  “Now get the fuck out of here,” I growled angrily as I punched my fist against my other hand. At the sound of my fist hitting skin, Bart and his little sidekick jumped before turning and rushing away up the street without another word. “Fuckers,” I hissed as I sat back at the table.

  Nina was shaking and I could see tears forming in the corners of her eyes. Fuck, those guys had to ruin something good for me.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” I took her hand into mine and rubbed the back of her hand with my thumb. I was used to that kind of shit, but it didn’t mean she was. It wasn’t exactly normal to be approached on the street and to have someone put a knife to your neck. “I’m really sorry about that. My sister gets herself into some fucked up shit and big brother is always bailing her out as you can see.”

  She sniffed to keep her tears at bay, and I continued to hold her hand.

  Flipping her hand over, I allowed my fingers to playfully tap and massage the inside of her hand until a smile slowly began to grace her lips. That’s all I wanted.

  “Do you have siblings?” I asked as my index finger traced the lines of her hand.

  “An older brother. He’s pretty protective, like you.”

  “We’ve got to be sometimes. My sister, I love her to death, but I just wish she wouldn’t get into so much shit. Maybe one day but that’s a pretty big wish.”

  “She’s lucky to have a brother like you.”

  “I hope she feels that way.” My fingers walked along her hand pulling a giggle from her. Wow, that laugh was something else and I instantly wanted to hear its harmonic tone again. My fingers got to work again tickling along her hand and over her wrist until my eyes landed on a scar. There was actually more than one along her wrist.

  Nina’s eyes widened as she snatched her hand away and shoved the sleeve of her jacket over her wrist.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she shot defensively before she abruptly stood from her seat. “Umm, thanks for the lesson and for lunch. It was nice of you. I should really get going. My family gets together on Fridays. Au revoir.” Then she was off up the street.

  I gaped at her unable to process what happened.

  She’d walked away and I wanted so much more time with her. I feared that was all the time I’d get.

  Chapter Four

  Nina

  He’d seen my secret. The one thing I kept guarded and close to me. "I didn't want anyone to know the pain I inflicted upon my life, and the strength it took me to rid myself from the world of hurt." With walking away, I blew my chances at getting to know more about the stranger who understood me in more ways than one and had broken me out of my sheltered shell.

  Back inside my shell I went as I finished tying my scarf on my head and straightened the sleeves of my top. It was Friday after all, and that meant a special kind of torture I endured once a week, time with my family.

  It was Jumah, the day of gathering, and like every Friday in my Muslim family, we were all expected to make an appearance. Mom always made sure to cook everyone’s favorites to lure us to the family home. I knew if I didn’t come, she’d spend the next week blowing up my phone and wouldn’t let me live it down. Family was the most important part of life to her.

  Leaving my apartment, I was afraid he’d be there, waiting for me with questions, but he wasn’t. It was business as usual in the neighborhood with children riding bikes after school, friends strolling and chatting, and stay-at-home moms with strollers holding adorable little babies. There was no Marc and if I was brave enough to admit it, I was disheartened at his absence.

  I took the train as normal, but this time I had to change trains to leave the city altogether. During my final year of secondary school, my parents decided to leave Brussels behind for the Flemish city of Halle. It wasn’t as fast paced as the city and I think my parents thought leaving the city would urge me to connect more with my familiar roots, but I only wanted to run away more and dive deeper into dance.

  My knuckles knocked at my parents’ door as usual. I’d been on autopilot and hadn’t paid much attention the entire way to their house but was caught in my overflowing mind as usual.

  “Nina!” My mother gushed as she swung the door open. She looked the same as usual, her dark skin illuminated against the bright yellow of her dress and headscarf. The wrinkles around her eyes seemed to grow with each visit as she aged. She was still just as beautiful but exhausted as she’d hung up her housekeeping apron for the role of grandma to my brother’s four children. “I just finished the Jollaf rice.”

  Always making my favorites to keep me coming back. It was generally the one day of the week I splurged on foods I didn’t eat frequently. I needed to keep in shape for dance after all.

  “Bonjour Maman,” I greeted my mother as she ushered me anxiously into the house.

  Her hands grabbing my arms at random to feel if I’d gotten any meat on my bones. The scents of Africa spilled out from the kitchen and the sounds of children filled the halls.

  Family brought it all together the way Mom liked it, and on our day of prayer all of us were expected to break bread together and thank Allah.

  “When was the last time you ate?” My mother squeezed my arm tightly.

  I sighed. In some families you were picked on because you were overweight, but in mine I was the object of humiliation for being thin. My mom never let me live it down and I was constantly encouraged to eat as if I didn’t live a perfectly healthy lifestyle.

  “Maman, I’m fine,” I grumbled in annoyance at my mother’s jabbing.

  She ignored my clear irritation and continued about me being skin and bones and how I should eat more or come over more often for good homemade meals. Giving up as I tended to do every week, her words fell on deaf ears.

  “There’s ma petite soeur!” I was greeted immediately upon entering the back veranda of my parent’s home.

  My brother stood with open arms and a huge smile on his face.

  I smiled at the ma
n who was my first friend. As children, we only had one another and eventually our cousins who joined the family in Europe later.

  Jaheem was five years older than me. He immigrated with my parents and held memories of our homeland. Sometimes he and our parents would reminisce together about their days in Mali while I was left out, having never been until I was much older, and while for them it was a return home, for me it was taking a step into a strange land I felt no physical connection with.

  “Mon grand frère.” As I reached him, I threw my arms around him and he picked me up. I giggled loudly as my big brother did what he tended to do every week. It was a tradition.

  “Put her down, she could get hurt!” Our mother fussed as she’d done since we were children.

  “That’s right. You already know she’s tiny, don’t want to break her,” a voice interrupted my giggles and I peered over to my sister-in-law, Jaheem’s wife, Suzanna.

  I wouldn’t call her my best friend, or my enemy. Suzanna and I got along the one time a week I saw her, and that was the extent of our relationship. She was the ideal African woman with flawless deep skin, and an incredibly shapely body from a huge chest to wide hips that grew with each child she and my brother produced. I was a beanstalk compared to her, but I was proud of the curves I did possess.

  “Bonjour, Suzanna,” I greeted her as my brother put me down. I bent and kissed her cheek followed by the forehead of the toddler sleeping in her lap. The little boy’s lips were pursed as he slumbered away in his mother’s arms.

  “Bonjour,” Suzanna greeted me with no particular emotion and I was fine with that.

  Suzanna was originally from Mali’s neighboring country Burkina Faso. She always seemed a little high strung to me and we never particularly took time to know one another. My brother loved her, and she was the type of good Muslim girl my parents wanted him with. They married as soon as my brother finished university and got to making babies right away. There were four all together. The baby in Suzanna’s arms and the other three off in the other room likely murdering one another without adult supervision as Jaheem and I normally did as children.

  “Où est Papa?” I realized my father was nowhere to be seen.

  “Imam asked for some handyman help after prayer and you know your father is the number one handyman and always ready to help,” Mom noted as she returned to the warm veranda with a bowl in hand. She handed it directly to me and the scent of the rice floated into my nostrils.

  My favorite, riz au gras or Jollof rice. With just the smell, I could already taste the curry spices on my tongue and my mouth was watering. Her food was always a weakness and would continue to be.

  Taking my seat with my bowl, the doorbell rang, and mom was back toward the door. This was how every Friday went and I both enjoyed and despised it at the same time. As I dug into my dish, family members began to flood into the room. My aunt and uncle strolled in with my grandmother and two of my cousins.

  My cousin Arjana strolled with two babies on her hips and her third trailing behind. Her husband was usually late as he arrived after work. Then there was my cousin Ayodele or Ayo for short. Of everyone in my family, he and I were the absolute closest. Ayo was a year old when arriving in Belgium and though he had the smallest connection to home, he didn’t have memories to depend on like everyone else.

  As usual, grandma took her seat. She wouldn’t move much for the rest of the evening, but at eighty-six nobody expected her to. I stood and greeted her, my aunt and uncle, then Arjana before Ayo threw his arms around me.

  “Ma chouchoutte,” he gushed as usual before he let go of me and I took my seat with him next to me. “Without fail your mother has got you with the rice.”

  “Of course, she has,” I drawled to Ayo’s laughter.

  “In her hopes that it goes straight to those lean dancer hips of yours.”

  It was all true. Mom thought fattening me up was the key to achieving her end goal of me settling down again and this time producing a few grandchildren for her. “I swear. These women and their demands of us.”

  Like me, Ayo didn’t connect with our usual family goals, traditions, and dare I say it, values. I’d once walked down the path of doing what the family wanted, I gave up the life I wanted for what they saw as admirable. I’d bent to their will, but Ayo refused to be anyone but himself and though he was my younger cousin, I looked up to him for it.

  “Do you know my mother had the nerve to ask me when I planned to marry a nice girl?” His voice sounded with disgust as he crossed his legs.

  My poor aunt refused to see it even though Ayo had come out of the closet years ago. There would be no marrying of a nice girl for my fantastically gay cousin. I snickered in response to my cousin slapping my arm.

  For my family, they would rather pretend Ayo wasn’t who he adamantly said he was. They still loved him but didn’t exactly accept him. It was the same with me and therefore the two of us only had one another for that complete love and acceptance of every part of ourselves.

  “What’s new with you?” Ayo changed the subject of our family politics. He knew the subject was touchy with me after what I’d been through.

  I only supplied with him a small shrug. For the most part, everything was normal with me. I taught, went to rehearsals, and performed. It was all perfectly ordinary except for one thing, Marc. The man refused to leave my brain. I didn’t know what he wanted with me in the first place, I was just some damaged girl determined to live my dreams to their fullest. Yet, he’d taken this affinity to me. I couldn’t put my finger on it, nor the fact I liked it. For the first time, there was a man I’d taken a deep liking to. I craved his presence around me, I felt unnaturally safe and afraid at the same time.

  “Tell me about him,” my cousin demanded without me uttering a single word.

  I stared at him; eyes wide. “For you to be so nonchalant, it has to be a guy. Spill the tea, sister.”

  “Honestly, I really don’t know. The other night leaving my performance some asshole snatched my bag at Central Station. This guy comes out of nowhere and tackles the guy. He beats him up and gets my bag back for me. I was shaken up and he ended up riding with me and walking me home. Turns out he’s an MMA fighter and he invited me to his gym. We worked out together and we had lunch.” As I told the story to Ayo, he sat gripped on my every word as if this was the gossip of the week. I shrugged it off lightly. “He was just a nice guy who helped me out.”

  “But you like him?”

  “Likes who?” A voice shook us from our bubble. Dad had returned home and stood right over the two of us on the couch.

  “Rein,” I dismissed it easily and quickly stood to hug my dad who gripped me in a tight bear hug before kissing my forehead. “Comment ça va, Papa?”

  “Bien, ma petite,” Dad answered and I could hear Marc in my head and his little term of endearment for me, ma petite danseuse.

  I would accept I’d likely never see him again.

  * * *

  My eyes studied the girls who danced for me. All of them teenagers, but all very advanced in the art form. This type of study didn’t come cheap. I remembered my parents barely scraping together the funds to pay for my mediocre dance classes. The class I taught was much different and the parents of my students paid thousands to be taught by the best.

  “Get that leg higher, Adeline,” I instructed one of the girls who immediately took my instruction and positioned herself with her leg extended higher like a graceful gazelle, tall, lean, and elegant.

  Dance was one of the purest forms of art in my opinion. It was completely reliant upon the body in every single way. It drove away demons and invited in only the best feelings. There was some pain, but it was a pain which held a purpose. It wasn’t pain brought on by someone who wished harm but by oneself to strengthen the learned skills.

  I’d been through so much pain in my life, but the most welcomed pain was brought on by dance. The bruises and scars I obtained when I danced were my proud battle scars that showed
my commitment.

  I had other scars though, some physical like the ones Marc saw, and then the mental ones. My self-imposed physical scars were my attempt to silence the mental ones that haunted me daily.

  “That’s all for today, girls. I’ll see you soon.” I waved off my students as the music finished. I only had a short time to get from the conservatory to the opera where tonight’s performance was to take place.

  Day in and day out, I lived under my rigorous schedule. It kept me busy and out of my head where my mental scars tended to keep me company, and it kept me gainfully employed.

  I threw my bag over my shoulder, stepped out of the studio, and out into the chilly, drizzly air of Brussels. I grunted at the usual weather and hugged my coat around my body as I strolled the cobblestone streets toward the city’s renowned opera house, La Monnaie De Munt.

  Thankfully, the drizzle in the air had thinned the usual crowds of tourists that hogged the streets of the center of the city near The Grand Place and the Opera House. I arrived as usual and strolled quickly toward the backdoor of the old institution built in 1818, but was stopped in my tracks at the sight of the man I figured I’d never see again.

  “Bonjour, ma petite danseuse,” Marc greeted me with a sly smile and my stomach did somersaults. I had no words as my eyes studied him.

  Marc stood in a sleek black tuxedo. He cleaned up nicely and was more debonair than I remembered from when I’d last seen him over a week ago. I swallowed hard.

  “I thought I’d pick up a ticket to the ballet,” he gave a careless shrug.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a single ticket. It was to the night’s performance. My heart pulsated hard in a deep thumping I felt throughout my entire body. He was coming to the show to see me perform. I’d never been nervous for a single performance until that moment.

  Chapter Five

  Marc

  The curtains opened and a single spotlight illuminated a spot in the center of the stage where a single dancer stood on her toes. It was Nina and the light reflected gracefully off her rich, warm skin. I sat in pure awe at her poise before she began to skillfully and elegantly move across the stage, the single light following her.