Pointe of No Return: Giving You All I Got Read Online Free
Author: Nako
Tags: United States, Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction, Women's Fiction, Urban, African American
to come on and they went out the side door and around the house.
“You think I’m getting on a bike?” she asked.
You hungry, ain’t ya?” Papa spat.
Demi shook her head. Her mother would die a thousand deaths if she knew Demi was riding around with a man whose entire body was covered in tattoos, on the back of a motorcycle.
Papa handed Demi his motorcycle helmet and told her to hop on. Demi clung to his waist tight and whispered in his ear, “Please keep me safe.”
Papa smirked at the worry in her voice.
Little did Demi know today was the first of many “experiences” she would go through with Papa. She had reached the pivotal point of no return and like a moth to a flame, Papa wanted Demi and he planned on capturing her mind, body, and soul. Demi was what he needed and he didn’t consider their encounter by chance, it was meant to be. Demi would become his.
2
“Demi, what’s going on today?” her mother asked, after Demi’s third failed attempt at mastering a jump that seemed almost impossible. For Demi it should have been a piece of cake. Demi ignored her mother and told the pianist to start again. She closed her eyes and placed her feet in second position to begin again.
“Shit,” she mumbled.
Her mother was shocked. “Demi, was that a curse word?”
Demi was frustrated and not really focused today. On top of her mother getting on her nerves, she was cramping and trying to push through the pain.
“Mom, please get out. I can’t concentrate,” she asked kindly.
Demi was one of those humans that would politely curse you out, or be rude in such a professional manner you weren’t sure if you should be offended or not.
Her mother closed her kimono and picked up her chai latte and left her daughter alone with the pianist that they paid fifty dollars an hour.
Demi wiped the sweat from her forehead before dropping to her knees to stretch and take a few breaths.
She took her craft serious, very serious. While other people were headed out to run Saturday errands or shopping, Demi had been in her dance studio since seven that morning perfecting her craft, and tirelessly trying to master the art of dance. She knew that once she started Julliard she would have to work extra hard to prove that she was more than Doreen’s daughter. She had a style of her own and was prepared to prove herself.
After getting her mind back in the game and her eyes back on the prize, she stood to her feet and prepared to go again and again and again if she had too. Demi wasn’t a quitter and didn’t like failure, so she always tried her hardest to aim for success.
Hours later after the pianist packed up and said he had other sessions to get to, Demi lay on the floor tired as hell and quite sore and sleepy. Her back ached and her legs gave out minutes ago. She slithered her way to the mirrored wall so she could sit up, hoping to stand up and take a shower and a much-needed nap.
Demi turned around and sat Indian-style in front of the mirror. She stared at her face and hands and her crossed legs. She resembled the R & B artist, Ciara, with her defined muscles and toned body. Demi was tall like her father, but she possessed her mother’s competitive spirit. After years of braces and plenty trips to the dermatologist, Demi was like a butterfly that had finally come out of her cocoon. Her shoulder-length hair with honey blonde highlights graced her shoulders and her skin was free from tattoos and piercings. She was delicate in her own way. Demi didn’t knock anyone with those things, but she didn’t need them to be defined.
It was almost as if she had VIRGIN written in cursive across her forehead. Demi possessed an innocence so sweet that most people thought she was fragile, but she really wasn’t. She was strong, mighty, and confident. Demi Nichole Westbrook, future Prima Ballerina.
Demi limped back to the main house on the estate where her and her family resided. Her father was just coming in from playing golf and
“You think I’m getting on a bike?” she asked.
You hungry, ain’t ya?” Papa spat.
Demi shook her head. Her mother would die a thousand deaths if she knew Demi was riding around with a man whose entire body was covered in tattoos, on the back of a motorcycle.
Papa handed Demi his motorcycle helmet and told her to hop on. Demi clung to his waist tight and whispered in his ear, “Please keep me safe.”
Papa smirked at the worry in her voice.
Little did Demi know today was the first of many “experiences” she would go through with Papa. She had reached the pivotal point of no return and like a moth to a flame, Papa wanted Demi and he planned on capturing her mind, body, and soul. Demi was what he needed and he didn’t consider their encounter by chance, it was meant to be. Demi would become his.
2
“Demi, what’s going on today?” her mother asked, after Demi’s third failed attempt at mastering a jump that seemed almost impossible. For Demi it should have been a piece of cake. Demi ignored her mother and told the pianist to start again. She closed her eyes and placed her feet in second position to begin again.
“Shit,” she mumbled.
Her mother was shocked. “Demi, was that a curse word?”
Demi was frustrated and not really focused today. On top of her mother getting on her nerves, she was cramping and trying to push through the pain.
“Mom, please get out. I can’t concentrate,” she asked kindly.
Demi was one of those humans that would politely curse you out, or be rude in such a professional manner you weren’t sure if you should be offended or not.
Her mother closed her kimono and picked up her chai latte and left her daughter alone with the pianist that they paid fifty dollars an hour.
Demi wiped the sweat from her forehead before dropping to her knees to stretch and take a few breaths.
She took her craft serious, very serious. While other people were headed out to run Saturday errands or shopping, Demi had been in her dance studio since seven that morning perfecting her craft, and tirelessly trying to master the art of dance. She knew that once she started Julliard she would have to work extra hard to prove that she was more than Doreen’s daughter. She had a style of her own and was prepared to prove herself.
After getting her mind back in the game and her eyes back on the prize, she stood to her feet and prepared to go again and again and again if she had too. Demi wasn’t a quitter and didn’t like failure, so she always tried her hardest to aim for success.
Hours later after the pianist packed up and said he had other sessions to get to, Demi lay on the floor tired as hell and quite sore and sleepy. Her back ached and her legs gave out minutes ago. She slithered her way to the mirrored wall so she could sit up, hoping to stand up and take a shower and a much-needed nap.
Demi turned around and sat Indian-style in front of the mirror. She stared at her face and hands and her crossed legs. She resembled the R & B artist, Ciara, with her defined muscles and toned body. Demi was tall like her father, but she possessed her mother’s competitive spirit. After years of braces and plenty trips to the dermatologist, Demi was like a butterfly that had finally come out of her cocoon. Her shoulder-length hair with honey blonde highlights graced her shoulders and her skin was free from tattoos and piercings. She was delicate in her own way. Demi didn’t knock anyone with those things, but she didn’t need them to be defined.
It was almost as if she had VIRGIN written in cursive across her forehead. Demi possessed an innocence so sweet that most people thought she was fragile, but she really wasn’t. She was strong, mighty, and confident. Demi Nichole Westbrook, future Prima Ballerina.
Demi limped back to the main house on the estate where her and her family resided. Her father was just coming in from playing golf and
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