by Bea Paige
“Dax? I’m not sure.” My hands curl around my Styrofoam cup to stop them from shaking. Clancy notices and gives my arm a squeeze. “I swear to you Pen, you can trust me.”
I shake my head, blowing out a breath. “I’ve said too much already.”
“Okay, I get it. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil, right? So, what are you going to do now?”
I think of that night three years ago and the deal I made. Swallowing the nausea rising up my throat, I take another sip of my coffee. “Stay out of the Breakers way and hope to fuck they get bored of all the mind games and leave me the hell alone.”
“You think that’s going to work?” she asks.
“It has too.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll have to figure out something else.”
15
By the end of the afternoon, I’m exhausted. Physically and emotionally.
After the shock of coming face to face with the Breakers on Monday morning, I’d blocked them out by putting all my energy into my taster lessons. Like a sponge, I absorbed all the new steps and different techniques, all the while thinking how I can incorporate them into my own routines. I barely gave anyone my attention and didn’t cross paths with the Breakers again as I got settled in, though I hear about them often enough. Already they’re fast becoming the talk of the academy. Girls huddle together in the hallways chatting about the ‘tattooed hip-hop guy’ who dances with such aggression that it makes them weak-kneed or the ‘broody Bachata teacher’ who makes their knickers wet with his sultry moves. I even heard one girl say that York could tap with such lightning speed that the vibrations coming up through the floorboards made her come. Every time I hear their names on these thirsty bitches’ lips I want to throat punch someone, or run. Neither of which are helpful. Instead, I tune everything out. Most of the time anyway.
“That’s it, class. You’re dismissed,” Sebastian, my ballet teacher, says. My feet are sore from dancing barefoot. I don’t have any ballet slippers, and the blisters on the balls of my feet remind me that I’m ill-equipped for such a prestigious academy. Gathering up my stuff, I pull on my socks and trainers, and hobble towards the exit trying not to wince with every step. I need to lance them, have a bath, and wrap them up if I’ve got any hope of getting through my shift tonight, let alone my date with Clancy at the Pink Albatross.
“Wait,” Sebastian says, motioning for me to come over. Drawing on my last reserves of energy, I do as he asks and try not to make a fool of myself and faint. It’s been a long week of little food, none of which has contained enough sustenance to keep my energy levels up. Noodles, cereal, and copious cups of coffee don’t exactly provide a healthy balanced diet. I know I need to figure something out so that I can afford to buy better food, but the thought of working any more nights at Rocks, especially since the Breakers are back on the scene, is putting me off asking for more shifts.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“You haven’t trained in ballet before, have you?” He cocks his head to the side, narrowing his eyes at me.
“Not unless you count YouTube.”
“And yet, you’re better than half the dancers in this class…” There’s a faint smile around his lips at my very obvious shock.
“I am?”
“Yes, you are. Ever thought of a career in ballet, Pen?”
“No!” I blurt out. He winces. “Sorry, that was rude. I mean, it’s not really my kind of dance. I prefer contemporary…”
“The foundation of which is based in ballet.”
“Yes, but…”
“But?” he cocks his head to the side.
“I’m not really that type.”
“I didn’t realise that ballet had a type.” He laughs to show me that he isn’t offended, when honestly, he probably should be. I wasn’t being complimentary.
“I guess I feel more comfortable dancing what I know.”
“With whom you know, don’t you mean?” he cocks a brow, and his hip.
I look around the room, at the perfect dancers with their perfect hair and perfect clothes. All of them, both male and female are poised and graceful. Beside them I feel inadequate, no matter how well I can dance. The divide between the rich and the poor isn’t so obvious to me in the other disciplines at the academy like it is with ballet. It makes me feel uncomfortable.
“Yes, I suppose so,” I admit.
“You’re quite judgmental, aren’t you?”
“I don’t mean to be. Comes with the territory.”
“The territory?”
He seems genuinely interested in my response, but I wait until the last student leaves before explaining. “I grew up on a council estate…”
“And?”
“And we were judged all the time. I guess it’s hard not to do that back.”
“Can I let you in on a little secret?”
“Sure,” I shrug, ignoring the rumble of my stomach and the pain on the balls of my feet.
“I’m gay, mixed race, and grew up in a poor working-class family in the Midlands. My dad was a Jamaican immigrant, my mother a hardworking cleaner. We had nothing when I grew up and believe me, I was called all the names under the sun. I didn’t fit in with any group, until I found dance. Ballet, specifically. I won a scholarship to the Royal Ballet School in Richmond Park when I was thirteen.”
“Good for you,” I mutter.
“Don’t get me wrong. It was hard at first, I had to prove myself over and over…”
“Because you were poor, and they were rich?”
He shakes his head. “No, because they were better dancers than me. At least in the beginning.”
“And your point is?”
“My point is, that you should never close the door on a gift just because you don’t think you fit the mould. Don’t ever define yourself by what you believe people see. Open yourself up to possibilities because you’re talented enough to do anything. Okay?”
I frown, mulling over his words. That’s easier said than done when you’re so used to being ridiculed for your passion by the people who are supposed to love and support you the most.
“But I don’t have rich parents who pay twenty thousand a year to secure my place here.”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“It means that I’m already judged.”
“Does it?
“Of course it does,” I respond. “I’m a scholarship student.”
Sebastian sighs. “Maybe you’re right, maybe it does. Then again, isn’t that the point because you’ve already judged half the students here because they’re rich,” he says, finger quoting the word. “You’ve not bothered to look past that to see what really counts. Rich or poor, every student is here because they love to dance. It really is as simple as that.”
“I wish it was,” I mutter, knowing that isn’t the case for all the students. Some are just here to fuck with me. Speaking of which… I swallow a groan.
“Seb, I need to borrow your studio. Tuillard has a cleaning crew in mine. She’s obsessed with polishing these damn wooden floors,” Xeno says, as he strolls into the room. He doesn’t acknowledge me, choosing to concentrate his attention on my ballet teacher who is currently flushing pink beneath his tan skin. Is there no one immune to Xeno’s good looks?
“Sure thing, Xeno. You’re always welcome to get sweaty in my studio. I’ll see you next week, Pen,” he says, giving me a squeeze on the arm before winking at Xeno. The flirty bastard. I make my move to leave, trying not to wince with every painful step. How the hell I’m going to get through tonight is beyond me, but right now that’s the least of my worries. I need out.
“You. Stay.” Xeno orders, pulling me up sharp.
If Sebastian heard, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He simply leaves, closing the door to the studio behind him.
“I need to go,” I respond, hobbling as quickly as I can to the door. Xeno gets there before me and flips the lock, leaning against the door for goo
d measure.
“Where were you yesterday? You didn’t turn up for your introduction to my class,” he asks, fixing his gaze on me.
“You have no right to ask me anything, Xeno. Why the hell are you here, huh?”
“I asked first.”
“I’m going to ask for a transfer to another discipline. I don’t want you to teach me a damn thing.”
He nods, scoffing. “Running again. You’re good at that.”
“I don’t have time for this. Are you going to let me pass or do I need to kick you in the balls?”
“You could try,” he grins, challenge in his eyes. “Is the feisty Tiny still in there, or did she fuck off as well? When the going gets tough, the tough gets going? Ain’t that how the lyrics go?”
“I didn’t run. It wasn’t me who fucking left,” I shout back, shaking. Xeno makes a snorting noise, disgust making him ugly. Still, he blocks the damn way out. If he hates me so much, why does he insist on standing in my way?
“Xeno.” I grit my teeth, forcing my anger down. Forcing every emotion rising up within me away. I need to leave. I need to go. I can’t do this. I can’t. The longer I’m in his company the harder it is for me to convince myself I hate him. I’ve missed him so fucking much. So, so much.
“You owe me a truth, Pen.”
“I don’t owe you jack shit.” Please, please, just let me go, I want to beg but I don’t. He can’t know how scared I am that he’s here, that the Breakers are back. So I turn to the one emotion I can rely on, anger. I dig deep, funnelling it. “Just get the fuck out of my way. I don’t want to speak to you, see you, fucking dance with you. Any of you. I will not let you ruin this for me. I’ve worked too damn hard.”
Xeno barks out a laugh and pushes off the door, crowding me until we’re chin to chest. He opens his mouth to say something, but a knock at the door prevents him. He steps back and twists on his feet, unlocking the door then yanking it open. On the other side is Tiffany, of all fucking people.
“What’s she doing here?” she has the cheek to ask, her lip curling back over her pretty, white teeth.
“I was just leaving,” I retort, trying to muscle past Xeno who grabs my upper arm, forcing me to remain. Tiffany looks between his grip on my arm and my face, her eyes narrowing. I can see the jealousy flare in her eyes.
“No, you’re staying. Take a seat, Pen,” Xeno says calmly, letting my arm go. He turns to Tiffany and gives her his best megawatt saved-for-sex-only smile. She melts, for fuck’s sake. Any minute now she’ll strip naked and offer herself up as tribute with me still in the goddamn room.
“Tiffany, put the music on. Track seventeen,” Xeno orders, handing her his mobile and ignoring her lascivious gaze.
“Of course.” She takes it from him, her fingertips lingering on his skin for a lot longer than is comfortable or necessary. Does she not let up?
“Staying for what, exactly?” I hiss the second she’s moved away.
“You missed my introductory class. You need to catch up. Tiffany here has volunteered to help me out.”
Yeah, I bet she has. “I told you, I’m taking a different class.” I fold my arms across my chest, trying not to let him rile me up further.
“And I’m telling you, you’re not. Not if you want to remain at this academy, Pen.” He spits my name out like it’s poison. I flinch.
“You can’t do that…” I mutter, my throat drying.
Xeno steps close, and leans down to whisper in my ear so that Tiffany can’t hear what’s being said. “Yes. I can. D-Neath owes me a few favours. How do you think I got this job, Pen? You might have impressed Tuillard, but he’s the money man here, and despite what she thinks, what he says, goes.”
“So Zayn and York got in here on the back of a dirty favour… figures,” I respond unkindly. The fact is, I know both of them are talented enough to get a scholarship on their own merits, but this makes more sense. Especially given what Madame Tuillard intimated Monday morning when she introduced us all to each other.
“Always so self-righteous…” he glares at me, his nostrils flaring.
“You chose that life. Not me.”
“We chose it? You really are fucking dense.”
“I wouldn’t get too close, Xeno, you might catch something from the dirty little street rat,” Tiffany pipes up. Her jealous words don’t hurt me, but Xeno’s lack of response does. Once upon a time he would’ve jumped to my defence. So much for leaving baggage at the door. He pulls back, not giving anything away. So I take my frustration out on Tiffany who is clearly using this time to perfect her nasty barbs.
“Fuck you, Tiffany-I’ve-Got-A-Silver-Spoon-Stuck-Up-My-Arse. You walk around like you own the damn place but like me you got into the academy on a scholarship. You’re no better off than I am. So that silver spoon ain’t so shiny from where I’m standing. In fact it’s covered in shit.”
She snorts, making sure to look me up and down. “Maybe so, but some of us have class and that can’t be bought. You’re nothing but a skank. I’ve no idea what Clancy sees in you, then again she’s not much better.”
“Refer to me like that again, bitch, and I’ll knock you out!”
Tiffany laughs. “Go ahead. I’ll be more than happy to watch your scrawny arse kicked out of this school.”
“ENOUGH!” Xeno shouts, making Tiffany jump.
A little bit of fear flashes in her gaze followed by a whole dose of lust. I’ve got her cards marked. Girls like her love the notoriety of fucking with a gangster. They don’t really give a shit about the person beneath the outer shell so long as they look good hanging off their arm and reap the benefits such a position affords. It was never like that for me.
Never.
They were always my Breakers first before they became well-known for that name for an entirely different reason. I hated what they became. The moment our dance crew turned into a gang it was the beginning of the end. My heart aches for the loss of what we had. Some days it hurts so much I can barely breathe. But they became everything we’d once hated, and as a result they broke my heart. I won’t let them do that again. Whatever they’re here for, I want no part of it. None.
“I’m going,” I mutter. One last attempt at asserting my defiance.
“Sit down, Pen. Watch!” Xeno demands, nodding to Tiffany who flips a switch on the surround sound system, turning on the music. She’s smiling like a cat that’s got the cream as he strides towards her.
Knowing I really have no choice given his threat, I hobble over to the row of seats lined up against the wall, and sit. In the middle of the dance studio, Xeno places Tiffany’s hands on his shoulder, positioning her arms so that they’re locked into place, then holds onto her ribcage, his thumbs resting just below the curve of her non-existent tits. She grins at him, but he just nods, before sliding his legs between her graceful ones.
“You are staying in my class, Pen, and when this is over, you’re giving up that truth you owe me. Understand?” he says, locking eyes with me over Tiffany’s shoulder.
I’m not sure whether he means when this specific kind of torment is over, or something else entirely, either way I catch his meaning as he dances with Tiffany in a way that has my blood boiling and my heart aching. Reminding me, once again, of that time when I finally spilled my feelings in the basement of number fifteen Jackson Street. That was one truth I wished I could take back because it was the beginning of the end for us. Less than six months after I admitted my feelings to the Breakers, they left me for good.
16
Four years ago
Folding my hands in my lap, I wait for my Breakers to settle down around me. My head is still pounding from earlier, but at least I’m conscious now. York is sitting next to Xeno on the sofa opposite and Zayn is on the floor, his knees pulled up to his chest. Over the other side of the room Dax is leaning against the wall, separate from us all. I don’t like it.
“Dax, come here,” I say, my cheeks heating, feeling shy all of a sudden. God, this is going to b
e hard.
“Sit down, Dax. I ain’t gonna throw another punch,” Xeno mutters.
“You wouldn’t get another chance,” Dax grumbles back, and for a moment I worry it’s all going to blow up again. Xeno might be the leader of this crew, but everyone knows Dax is the best fighter. Whenever we’ve got into scraps with other dance crews, it’s always Dax who heads up the fight. Over the past year, he’s gotten a bit of a name for himself. He’s known as Teardrop Dax because fighting him will only end with his opponent in tears. Dax never cries, no matter how hurt he gets. Never. He’s tough.
And yet, I know the truth. He’s a kid beaten down by his abusive home life. Of all the Breakers, I worry for him the most. He holds everything inside. The only time he ever expresses himself is when he dances, living up to his name in a different way. There have been plenty of times where I’ve had to hold back the tears when watching him dance. Sometimes it’s impossible and I cry for him when he can’t do the same for himself, though I hold it in until I get home so no one can see.
“Please, don’t fight anymore…” I reach for the sore spot on my head absentmindedly, but it’s enough to remind them all what happened earlier and they both fall silent. Dax sits down, but he doesn’t reach for me. The distance between us feels significant. I hate it.
Sighing, I worry my lip, pulling at a piece of loose skin with my teeth. The metallic taste of blood makes me reach up and wipe my mouth with the sleeve of my jumper.
“You had something you wanted to say?” York gently prompts me. He gives me an encouraging smile and my heart flutters.
Swallowing hard, I nod, keeping my gaze fixed on him. “I don’t know how.”
“Just say it, Pen. Whatever it is, just say it,” Zayn says, frowning now.