by KC Enders
She reaches up to the exact spot, that curl sliding through her fingers. In a flash, Alex huffs and tucks it away, hiding it from me. “Rules sound good to me. This is business, and we’re going to treat it that way. We can figure out hourly rates for your time. I’ll pay you to play.”
“I don’t need your money, Alex.” I can’t hold back my laugh. “That’s not what this is about. But if we commit to this, we do it. We show up here on time, ready to work. Put everything we have into … whatever this is.” I fold my arms again. “I have this room reserved every afternoon. If we need to adjust the time, I can probably make that happen.”
“I’m committed here, Nate. This is it for me. I’ve hit my rock bottom or whatever is lower than that, and I seriously have to get over myself or give up. If I don’t figure this out, I don’t dance. And at this stage …” She shakes her head, and that damn curl bounces free of wherever she tucked it.
“Understood. You work hard; I play hard.”
Alex twists her lips in thought, the full peachy pout undeniably kissable. “We use each other.”
Memories slam into me, battling with the dirty detour my thoughts are running.
We use each other.
Oh, the things I’d like to do to her, with her.
“Sounds fucking delightful.”
6
RISE AGAINST
ALEXIS
My gut twists as my feet eat up the sidewalk. How the hell am I going to work with Nate?
Not a day has gone by without a thought of him marking me in some way. Leaving him almost broke me. Seeing him day in and day out, knowing that I hurt him, might just finish the job.
I stop in the small park by my apartment and settle on a sunny bench. I stare at my phone for a minute, thumb hovering over the contact for the voice of reason I need.
My back sags into the back of the bench as I commit to a full download of my emotions to the only person who knows just how hard walking away was for me.
“Hey, give me a second.” The faint sound of manufactured crashing waves filters through my sister’s hushed tone.
“You’re going to use that baby to get your beach house, aren’t you?” I say through a laugh.
“What? The noise machine?” Camille asks. “I’ll do what I have to if it means this guy will take a good nap. And to wake up to the ocean in my backyard every day. Don’t you judge me.”
The background noise fades, followed by the click of a door closing.
“Pray that this nap lasts more than twenty minutes. What’s going on? Are you back? You’re dancing?”
A rough laugh tumbles from me. “I wish.”
“Still? Have you given any thought to therapy? Talking to someone?”
“I have, not an actual therapist, but—”
“Charlie? God, how is he?” Camille asks, her voice wistful.
Charlie has a gift for making everyone he encounters love him.
“Yeah, he’s good. He actually set me up with one of his friends to try to work on my newfound phobia.” I pause, biting at my lip. “I don’t know if I can do it, Cam.”
“Pfft. Why not? Ooh, maybe you can land a date out of this! Have you met the friend? Is it a guy? I totally assume it’s a dude. Is he hot?”
I can practically see her shoulders shimmying excitedly.
“It is a guy, but there won’t be any dates,” I say with a sad laugh. “That, I can guarantee. We’re supposed to start tomorrow at the arts center. I’m seriously not sure I’ll go.”
Silence ticks through the miles.
“What is it? What’s holding you back?” At the change in Camille’s tone, I have to fight to swallow down my emotions.
“Who,” I whisper.
“Lex?”
“The problem is a who, not a what. It’s a who. Cam, I don’t know how it happened, how they know each other, but”—a sigh rushes from me—“it’s Nate.”
“The hell? How does that—your Nate? Nate Calloway?”
“Yep.”
“The Nate Calloway? The one whose heart you broke? The one who just finished a massive tour with The UnBroken? That Nate?” Camille demands, her voice rising with each question.
“Hush, or you’ll wake that baby,” I tease before turning serious. “Yeah, that Nate. Jesus, how am I supposed to spend hours a day in a confined space with him? I’m at my absolute lowest right now, like rock fucking bottom. How do I do this?”
Camille’s the one I went to when I got my acceptance into the ballet company here. Hers is the shoulder I cried on when I thought about leaving. She’s the one who flat-out told me that love was forever, but opportunities like the one I had been offered were a once-in-a-lifetime thing.
Her pitch softened, Camille says, “Lexi, you have to. This is … it’s fate. It’s meant to be.”
I shake my head and roll my lips between my teeth. The leaves above my head are engaged in their own graceful dance, swaying in the wind.
“This is love finding a way,” she continues.
“It’s not. I promise you, it’s not. If you had seen him, Cam. Heard him. When I left home, I killed whatever was between us—”
“Bullshit.”
“Camille—”
“No, don’t. Just don’t. You were barely eighteen. Today is a brand-new day, and you’ve been gifted an opportunity—”
“That’s what you said last time,” I remind her.
“And it still applies. This is a new chance. You’re on the cusp of having everything, Lex. The career, the dream, the guy. When do you start?”
“Tomorrow.” I huff. “If I go.”
Camille laughs. “You’re going. You can’t not go. If nothing else, use this to get back on your feet—your toes. And maybe …” She leaves that thought hanging, unfinished—at least out loud. “Call me tomorrow and let me know how it went.”
After mumbling a good-bye, I walk the rest of the way to my apartment. The remainder of my evening is spent on the periphery of dance as my roommates stumble in, exhausted from rehearsals, rambling about choreography.
Only half-listening, I nod and smile, gasp and giggle at the appropriate times as they fill me in on company gossip. Until their words stutter to an awkward stop.
“They’re promoting a new principal?” I ask, snapping to attention.
Mia and Lauryl exchange glances before Mia nods, adding, “I’m sure it’s just time.”
I excuse myself to my tiny, coat closet–sized room and fall onto my bed. I slip into a fitful sleep, caught between my problems and what might be the only possible fix for them.
• • •
With fifteen minutes to spare, I climb the stairs to the arts center. A handful of steps in front of me is an ass that is nothing less than a work of art. Narrow hips, perfectly encased in a pair of jeans, lead up in a sharp V to broad shoulders. Looking might be the last thing I want to do, drinking in all the wonderful parts of Nate Calloway, but it’s all I’ve got. And I’ll enjoy this little ogle sesh to make up for the fact that, technically, he’s going to beat me to the studio. I really wanted the bragging rights of being here first.
“Hey,” he says over his shoulder, catching sight of me. Pushing the door open, Nate flattens himself against the scuffed wood, holding it for me.
No matter how tight he plasters himself to the door, there’s still no way for me to slide through without brushing up against him. And that tiny bit of contact lights a flash of fire under my skin. Even after all this time.
“Thanks.” I keep my back to him.
Once in the studio, I drop my bag so I can dig through it for my shoes and toe pads. As much as I need those things, I’m more concerned with hiding the effects that an unassuming touch had on me.
As Nate pulls his bass from the storage closet, I warm up and stretch. Psyching myself out for what this day holds.
Going through the motions, the near ritual of donning my pointe shoes, calms me ever so slightly.
I tighten my ribbons, knotting them and ne
atly tucking the ends away. When I glance up, Nate’s gaze is locked on me. Echoes of the past hang in the air between us. Warming me. Darkening his eyes.
Darting my eyes to the side, I break whatever connection this is. This spell.
I pull my small bag of hair ties and pins toward me, dumping them into a pile in the space between my legs.
Silence still hangs heavy as I pull my hair into a low knot, smoothing and twisting it. Trying to contain the wild spiral curls that I struggle so hard to tame for performances.
After the last pin is woven in, tightly securing my bun, I tuck each of my bags and containers into my dance bag. Stretching as I do so. Testing the feel of my pointe shoes for the first time in months. Smoothing my hand over the muscles I have no doubt will be sore tomorrow. Prolonging the moment when I have to trust my body and stand.
Somehow, doing that, just the simple act of standing in the stiff-toed satin shoes, scares me to inaction. The thought of pushing up, balancing on the toe block, on that square inch of space, keeps my ass firmly rooted to the wood floor.
I close my eyes and go through the speeches my physical therapist gave me.
While putting me through the physically grueling task of rehabbing my injury, he didn’t miss an opportunity to work on my psyche as well. Positive self-talk. Mental affirmations. A lot of stupid bullshit when it comes down to this moment of do or die.
Maybe I’m being dramatic—overly dramatic—but at least it’s all in my head. For the moment anyway.
As I sit in my emotional misery, quiet, near-silent footsteps move toward me. I feel his approach through the change in the air more than I hear him. And when I raise my head, my gaze rakes over charcoal-gray Chucks, the once-white toes scuffed and worn, bearing the mark of miles of walking through the city. Hovering in the space in front of me, is Nate’s hand. The massive palm, his long fingers curved loosely. Offering assistance, encouragement. Slamming me with memories of the things they could do, how they felt, the pleasure they gave.
“I’m good,” I say, waving him away. A deep, bracing breath fills my lungs, steeling my spine, fortifying me for what I need to do.
With far less grace than I’m used to possessing, I push up to standing and wait. No pain. No pull. No strain. Just the familiar discomfort of a brand-new pair of shoes.
If I had thought about it or maybe not been so worried about actually showing up today, I might have brought an older, slightly broken-in pair. And that realization just piles on more nerves. More anxiety.
“You okay?” The soft rumble of Nate’s voice is close, too close for all the emotions running wild through my body, leaving me frazzled and off-balance.
It’s dangerous in its comfort, familiarity. I could fall into him far too easily and share this moment, this huge milestone that I thought I’d never see happen.
So, I nod and take a step toward the barre. Two. And then a third. Concentrating on my balance, my foot placement, making sure everything is perfect and nothing—nothing—is off base.
That little bit of distance is enough to clear my head of any dangerous thoughts or ideas. This is business. Strictly business.
As quiet as his approach was just moments ago, his sigh, the breath that pushes from his chest, is loud, filling the studio. “Stunning,” is all he says as he crosses the room to his bass.
I don’t know how to respond, so with precise movements and years and years of muscle memory, I push up, over my toes, balanced and ready. My left toes because my right foot is still firmly planted.
Just a stretch.
Just a test.
I drop down and lift my right foot in front of me, my extension perfect.
The reflection shows a flawless line. Leg straight, muscles taut, toes pointed and barely kissing the floor under the barre.
I can do this.
My knee bends as I slide my foot, tucking it into first position. Hands clutching the barre—seeking support, stability, the promise of catching me if I fall—I brace myself.
And push.
Slowly. Deliberately.
With every ounce of control I possess, I push myself up. Resting my full weight on the left, I squeeze, guiding my right foot closer to the left, closing the inverted V of my legs, until …
The deep, rich tones of Nate’s bass swirl around me, rising into a crescendo in a flourish. Almost a celebration of sound.
I drop down, the line of my shoes accentuating the flat of my feet.
Not even realizing he stopped playing, I meet Nate’s gaze in the mirror, as the music stills in the air. The proud look of wonder lifts his brows, blowing his eyes wide, his smile even wider.
Time falls away for the briefest moment, for the blink of an eye.
“Good girl,” he says softly. “Now, do it again.”
7
I PREVAIL
NATE
After two full hours of watching her dance in front of me, moving and swaying to the music I created, I have no choice but to sit my ass here for a little bit longer.
I kill time, fucking with my bass. Tuning the strings, plucking random notes and riffs, until she has all her shit stuffed away in her bag.
I stay seated, nodding tightly as she finally leaves the small practice studio, her hair swaying with each step she takes, bouncing around her head in a halo of … Jesus, I don’t even know.
And when she’s finally gone, I stand and adjust my cock from where it’s straining against my zipper. There’s nothing better for hiding a boner than a huge double bass. Ain’t no one gonna see anything behind that. And thank God for that. Because playing music—the classics—with a hard-on is bad. But standing up, walking the girl who made it happen to the door, when this is supposed to be nothing but a business transaction, would have been infinitely worse.
So, I stall.
I wait a good long time until I am fucking positive that she’s gone and I’m not going to pop wood again like a fucking teenager.
After tucking my instrument away and locking it in the storage closet, I dim the lights and close the studio door behind me.
Down the hall, in a seating area off to the right, sits Charles with a discreet grin tipping his lips.
“Charles,” I say quietly, settling into the chair across from him.
The grin pulls a little sharper as he dips his head in a subtle nod. “Nathaniel. How was your session with the lovely Miss Thompson?”
A huff of a laugh breaks free from my tight chest. Years of hurt and heartbreak constricting everything in me.
“What is it, dear boy? Did you not find”—he pulls his glasses off, polishing the lenses on his handkerchief—“inspiration?”
I stare at him incredulously.
“Surely, you were able to find something to ignite your passion,” he states.
“Do you know who she is, Charles?”
“I do.” He plucks at the cuffs of his shirt before folding his hands and settling them on his lap. “That lovely girl is my dear friend Alexis. She is a dancer, as I told you—ballet—and she needs your help. What more could you possibly need to know? In what way might any of that be an issue?” His words are enunciated crisply. His assessment simple enough.
But I can’t help wondering if there’s something more behind what he’s saying.
It bothers me that Alex could have been in such a small, intimate space with someone she didn’t know. It bothers the fuck out of me that some creep could have been the one watching her today while she was stripped down, her soul bared.
The long, lean lines of her body. Graceful and beautiful. So vulnerable. So exposed. Some strange fucker appreciating those curves, filing them away for his spank bank. I’d have had a fucking issue with that.
“And did you?”
It takes a moment for me to realize that Charles has been talking to me for far longer than I’ve been paying attention to him. That my train of thought might have derailed. I have no idea where our conversation wandered after I checked out of it.
“Did
I what?”
Charles assesses me for a moment, eyes narrowed, a hint of disappointment furrowing his brow. “Did you file the mental images away for … later?”
Fuck my life. I must have rambled that stream of consciousness out loud.
I lift my ball cap, shove my hair back, and situate my hat again, tucking in as many stray hairs as I can. “I know her, Charles. I grew up with Alex.”
“And? You would consider treating her as such?”
I huff out a laugh. “No. Though she did rip my heart from my chest and dance all over it as she walked away. So, there’s that.” I twirl my right hand, two fingers extended before dropping it to the arm of my chair.
“Dear boy, she is the girl,” Charles states calmly.
“What?”
“You, Nathaniel, have a lot of passion in you. An abundance of worry and emotion, a plethora of history driving you to succeed. Pushing you to fix the things in life that perhaps you’re struggling to reconcile. And Alexis is the launching point. She is the catalyst that set you on this trajectory—this mission you find yourself a part of. She is the fair maiden in your story.” He settles back, looking completely pleased with his little speech.
“I guaran-fucking-tee that Alex doesn’t need to be saved from the dragon or the castle or whatever fucking thing you’ve dreamed up in your story. She’s never needed to be rescued.” I push myself up from the low chair and nod to Charles before stalking out of what has become my new hell.
I need a drink.
I step out into the late afternoon light and pull my cap low over my eyes. I almost never run into any issues with being recognized in this little corner of Brooklyn, but it would be just my luck for it to happen today—now—when my mind is spinning and my heart is fucking betraying me. And I just don’t have the capacity to be on.
It’s exhausting to wear my public persona. To be in rock star mode. So, I slide my sunglasses on and roll my shoulders forward, hiding as much as I can in plain sight.
I tap out a text to Ian, letting him know I’m done and on my way home. He’s the only one, aside from Charles, who knows what I’m doing. And who I’m doing it with.