‘I’m going to do it,’ Jasmine whispered.
Elise grabbed her hand and squeezed. ‘I knew you would.’
* * *
Intermission came and Jasmine changed into Missy’s costume. She was relieved that life after ballet hadn’t meant her putting on a huge amount of weight, as she’d predicted, though Missy’s costume was still pinching her in areas. The arms and legs were too short, exposing several inches above her ankles and wrists. But it zipped up, and she could move around enough to accommodate the choreography.
If she was being honest it wasn’t an ill-fitting costume that would be holding her back...
Making her way through the crowded change room, she weaved through the throng of ballet students up to the side of the stage where the teachers were waiting for her. A quick run-through of the steps would cement her decision to dance or send her into a downwards spiral of self-doubt. Either of those options was better than the purgatory of indecision that had been her life the last few months.
Elise grabbed her hand as she walked up to the wings and led her onto the stage, where the teachers were waiting. The steps came easily to her, since she’d created them, but her feet weren’t as responsive as they’d used to be. A droplet of sweat ran from her hairline down the back of her neck and between her shoulderblades. She was working harder than ever before to keep up with the music. Doubt pooled in her stomach as she toiled over the repetitive pas de chat steps that dominated the routine.
‘Stop stressing.’ Elise smiled at Jasmine as she made her way off stage so the opening act of the second half could assemble. ‘You created this. The rest will come naturally once you get out there.’
‘I hope so.’ A quiver ran through her voice. Fear was spiking her heartbeat. She rubbed the slickness of her palms down her thighs; the moisture collected a fine layer of glitter that stuck to her hands.
As the first scene of the second half played out on stage Jasmine watched with her heart in her throat. The desire to run flooded her, making her head pound and her palms itch, but she stood rooted to the ground. She wouldn’t let Elise down—it was now or never.
The teachers took their place in the wings, hands interlocked across one another’s bodies. Elise’s hand squeezed hers as they waited. Jasmine’s throat clenched as her lungs screamed for air. The dancers on stage took their finishing poses and there was silence for a brief moment before music boomed from the speakers above. She was sure everyone in the audience could hear the shaking of her breath in those few seconds.
Before she knew it she was on stage, her feet gliding in time with the music. The glare of the stage lights overwhelmed her, blinding her momentarily, until the audience came into focus. Then there was nothing but the gentle thumping of their steps as they unfolded the story. Her feet flexed and pointed, aching under the movements they were no longer used to, but she was free. With each movement a sense of abandon filled her body, running at high-speed through her veins.
As she turned the stage was a blur of shimmering particles. She had to remember to mark her spot, so she wouldn’t get dizzy, but the world tilted around her in a haze of glorious fragmented light. It was unlike anything she’d felt in a long time.
They built to the climax of their performance, stepping forwards into a line of identical arabesques. Then the ground rushed up far too quickly. Someone gasped as Jasmine’s foot released from demi-pointe and she fell hard into the final position. The audience applauded and the curtain dropped, but Jasmine could barely see or hear for the blinding white pain that rocketed through her.
Her ankle was on fire.
Elise lifted Jasmine’s other arm over her shoulder and they carried her off stage. She put some of her weight onto her right foot and bit down on her lip, her eyes clamped shut.
‘Girls, we have to keep going.’ Elise shooed a startled group of dancers onto the stage in preparation for the next scene. ‘Come on—we have a show to deliver.’
Jasmine limped to a chair, supported by her friends. Her ankle was already swelling and her skin had taken on a bluish hue. Her chest felt as though someone had stomped on it with a stiletto.
‘Something snapped...’ Her voice wavered and she swore under her breath. No, no, no, no, no.
‘It’s OK, it’s probably a sprain.’ Elise soothed her, her voice the epitome of cool, calm and collected. ‘We need to get it elevated. Someone bring the first-aid kit.’
Jasmine clamped her eyes down in an effort to quell the pain. The commotion of the performance was a dull roar around her. Only when she heard a familiar deep baritone did she open her eyes.
‘What happened?’ Grant peered down at her, his brow furrowed.
‘What does it look like?’ she said, wincing as she tried to move her ankle. ‘I proved my point.’
A group of young dancers walked past, concern for their teacher momentarily forgotten in the presence of a footballer. Wide-eyed, they tittered behind their hands and were promptly shushed by one of the older dancers.
‘What point?’
‘The point where I said I couldn’t dance anymore.’ She sighed, closing her eyes again. ‘Please go.’
‘Forget it.’ He crossed his arms.
She’d rather have been left alone. It was embarrassing enough that she’d injured herself on stage. She could only hope the audience hadn’t noticed how hard she’d landed into the final position—perhaps they hadn’t known any different. But having him see her at what was possibly her most vulnerable moment... Ugh, that made it a hundred times worse.
‘I’m fine. Go and watch the show.’ Jasmine accepted an ice pack from Elise and tried to ignore the raised eyebrows her friend was giving her. ‘Honestly, I don’t need any help.’
‘Actually,’ Elise replied, ‘you probably could use Grant’s help getting home. You need to keep that ankle elevated and we can’t have you sitting on a rickety chair the whole night.’
Oh, no, she didn’t.
‘Of course,’ Grant said, reaching out to Jasmine. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’
‘No.’ Jasmine swatted his hand away, mortification seeping through her as the young dancers watched the exchange. She lowered her voice. ‘You’ve paid for your ticket; enjoy the show. Elise will take me home afterwards.’
She shot Elise a warning glance. However, she knew that once the seed of a devious idea had been planted in her best friend’s mind there would be no getting away from it.
Grant knelt down in front of her and reached for the ribbons on her borrowed ballet shoe, his large hands holding her ankle as though it were a newborn duckling. His fingertips seared her skin, each delicate brush causing sensation to bloom within her.
‘What are you doing?’
‘There’s some swelling.’ He looked up at her, his cool blue eyes locked onto hers, and her stomach fluttered. He gently moved the foot, inspecting the joint for signs of a break. ‘I think you’ll live.’
‘Of course I’ll live.’ She rolled her eyes and bit the words out through the pain. ‘Like I said, I’m fine.’
‘Jazz, you’re distracting the dancers,’ Elise said in a stage whisper. ‘It would be best if you let Grant take you home.’
‘But—’
‘Go home.’ Elise handed Jasmine her handbag and shooed them both, barely containing a grin. ‘I’ll bring your dance kit and your other bits and pieces with me later.’
A cheeky smile pulled up the edges of Grant’s lips, but he kept his mouth shut. He tucked his shoulder under Jasmine’s arm and helped her to her feet.
She tested pressure on her ankle and dots of white light flashed in front of her eyes.
‘Ow!’ A strained cry escaped her. She bit down on the fleshy part of her lower lip as pain pulsed in her ankle. The joint was on fire. Queasiness swelled in her stomach until she slumped against him, unsteady.
Jasmine hobbled out of the backstage area with Grant walking slowly beside her. Even through the pain the closeness of his body distracted her. Each slow step caused their bodies to bump against one another.
Once they were out in the hallway, and they could talk more freely, she tried to release herself from his grip. ‘I can do this on my own.’
‘Let me help you.’
He held her tight, but she tugged her arm from his grip. Hopping on one foot, she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. The effect was ruined by the fact that she could only hop on her good foot.
‘No.’
Letting out an exasperated sigh, he swooped down and scooped her up in his arms.
With a surprised squeak she twisted and writhed. ‘Let me go!’
‘Don’t wriggle.’
Her face was pushed up against the hard muscle of his shoulder, her legs dangled over one of his arms and her back was cradled in the other. Every nerve-ending in her body fired warning signals. Her blood was thick and hot in her veins.
‘This is absolutely ridiculous,’ she muttered.
He pushed open the backstage exit with one hand and easily held her with the other. Kicking the door wide, he stepped through, making sure she didn’t bump her shoulders as they exited. She’d have been impressed if she weren’t so mortified.
His booming laughter filled the air, causing a few of the dance students to poke their heads out of the change room and watch as he carried her out of the building. She clutched her handbag to her chest, debating how much it would hurt if he dropped her when she brained him with it.
‘This is so not funny.’
‘No, the situation is not funny.’ He made his way across the car park. ‘But your cheeks are as red as tomatoes right now.’
‘Way to take advantage of my predicament...’
‘Trust me, if I were taking advantage of this situation you would know about it.’
If she’d been red before then what was she now? Crimson, perhaps? Her skin sizzled where it touched him, which in her current position was pretty much everywhere.
‘Put me down. I can walk on my own.’
‘Why can’t you accept a little help?’
‘Can’t I be independent?’ she argued. ‘I don’t need anyone to look after me.’
‘I’d say your current situation begs to differ.’
She was losing the argument, but avoiding the question was a whole lot easier than explaining why accepting help was so painful. The moment she’d realised how much her ballet tuition was costing her parents she’d worked her ass off trying to ease their burden. But even then she’d had to do it by getting a scholarship to study at the Australian Ballet School...which was just another form of help, really.
She’d vowed as a fourteen-year-old that she would earn everything in life through her own blood, sweat and tears. She’d never be a burden on anyone ever again. But how could you say that to a guy who wanted to play big, strong rescuer?
‘How far is this going to go?’ she said, changing tactic.
‘Don’t argue with me,’ he said. ‘I’m taking you home.’
He didn’t mean it like that, but the words sent a roaring heat to her centre all the same. Being tucked up against his broad chest with her face tilted to his neck, her lips inches from him, was oh, so tempting. She could lean in and press against the soft skin there, run her tongue along its length to see what the reaction was. To see how he tasted.
No. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening.
* * *
It had been the wrong thing to say. I’m taking you home.
As soon as he’d uttered the words it had been as if the floodgates had opened and in had poured all the images he’d suppressed since kissing her. Jasmine naked on top of him, under him, against the wall of the studio, laid out on the back seat of his Mercedes...
‘How do you think you’re going to get me home?’ She interrupted his thoughts, her confidence belied by the tiniest tremor in her voice.
‘I’m going to drive.’ He held her tight as she wriggled in his grip once more. Though she wasn’t exactly a short woman she was light as a feather, and easy to bundle up in his arms. ‘Obviously. How else would I take you home?’
‘You don’t know where I live.’
‘You’re going to tell me.’
‘How do I know you’re not going to take advantage of my vulnerable position?’ She was stalling, the provocative question designed to make him focus on it rather than the task at hand.
However, he knew his intentions were good, and all he cared about was getting her home safely. There was nothing wrong in indulging in a little fantasy so long as he didn’t act it out. The thought surprised him. It had been a long time since he’d ignored his attraction to someone. It had been longer still since he’d felt attracted enough to worry about what the other party might think.
‘I’m going to set you down now.’
He stopped, lowering her gently to the ground, keeping one arm around her back so that she could lean on him and keep her weight off the injured ankle. He unlocked the car and opened the passenger-side door for her, brushing off the glitter that had transferred from her costume to his T-shirt.
She balanced on one foot, hopping away from him. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘You’re in safe hands, Bun-head.’ He grinned at her. ‘Promise.’
‘I don’t know...’
She folded her arms across her chest. Her costume sparkled like a beacon under the lamps of the parking lot. She wore a funny construction in her hair that tinkled as she shook her head back and forth.
‘I’m not sure I can trust you.’
He reached out and brushed his fingers through the dangling beads on her headpiece. ‘Let me take you home. You have my word that I won’t try to do anything untoward.’
‘OK, but no judgement on my place.’ She looked from the building to him and back again. ‘I’m sure it’s not anywhere near as fancy as yours.’
He frowned and opened his mouth to protest her lack of faith in him, but she was already hobbling towards the car. He helped her into the low bucket seat and she gave him her address to programme into his GPS.
The drive was short—a straight run down the main road from the theatre—but it was the longest fifteen minutes of his life. Being cooped up next to Jasmine and having to concentrate on the road was no mean feat. She was wound tighter than a spring by the time they pulled to a stop. Yet she’d said nothing—not even looked his way.
The trip had passed in silence. He stole a glance at her profile, illuminated in flickers by the passing street lights, but her eyes remained fixed on the road ahead.
Outside her unit, the street was quiet. No cars driving past, not a soul outside. Jasmine pushed open the door and stepped out onto the nature strip. She steadied herself on the rain-slicked ground. Grant came around the front of the car and wrapped his arms around her, hoisting her into the air as though she weighed no more than a bag of marshmallows.
‘Hey, what about our deal?’
‘I said I’d get you home.’
He spoke as though he had some kind of responsibility for her, provoking a sensation that felt foreign and not entirely bad.
‘I am home.’
They made their way to her front door while she protested about how she could take care of herself. She wriggled in his grip.
‘OK, OK. I’m putting you down.’ He set her on the porch and she reached into her bag.
Unlocking the door, she balanced on one foot. The door swung open and she limped inside, flicking on a light. He followed her without waiting for an invitation and closed the door behind him.
‘Yes, please do come in.’
Her voice held a hint of sarcasm that he chose to ignore. She
hopped into the lounge room, her hand smoothing along the wall as she went.
‘You need to get that leg up.’ He followed her, making no move to leave her alone. Her face had the don’t-mess-with-me look down pat, eyes narrowed.
‘I’m fine,’ she protested.
‘Don’t make me pick you up again.’
The threat hung between them, sizzling with underlying intention. Part of him was tempted to push her buttons, to see how far she would let him go. The other part—the part that smelled trouble—won over.
‘Now, dinner...’
‘I’m not hungry.’ She hovered by the couch, running a hand over her costume to see how much glitter would transfer if she were to sit down. When her palm sparkled she remained standing. ‘What I need is to get changed.’
‘You need to eat. I’ll order takeaway.’ Pulling his mobile from the pocket of his jeans, he brought it to his ear.
She tested the back of her costume, her hands reaching behind her. Grant pretended to search for a pizza joint on his phone while watching her struggle from the corner of his eye. She switched hands and tried again.
Huffing, she conceded. ‘Can you help me with this zip?’
Putting the phone down, he walked to her and she spun around, balancing on one foot. There was a long zip that ran the length of her back; she’d managed to get it down to just above where her shoulderblades were. He took the tiny puller in his hands and slowly slid it down, revealing inch after inch of flawless porcelain skin.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
A powerful urge to touch his fingertips to the subtle jut of her spine overwhelmed him. He wanted to see if she felt as silken as she looked.
Clearing his throat, he stepped back. ‘No problem.’
* * *
She could hear Grant on the phone, ordering their dinner, as she hobbled to her bedroom. She felt about a million degrees in her costume, with the Lycra clinging to her body like a second, oppressive skin.
When he’d undone her zipper she’d barely been able to breathe. Her skin had cried out to have his hands brush over her, but he’d performed only his gentlemanly duties.
Only the Brave Try Ballet Page 9