A Terrible Love

by Eros, Marata

  His smile widens into a grin as he dips his head to look at a clipboard that just magically appears. Mitch runs a long tapered finger down the assembled names until he reaches midway. He taps it once and I jump slightly. He lifts his chin, a light dusting of dark stubble sprinkled on the slight cleft that bisects it. “There you are,” he says softly. “Mackey, Jess.”

  He sweeps his hand in front of me and I give a death glare to Carlie and my traitor friend winks at me.

  I can't not audition without looking like an ass.

  My feet are dragging like lead fills my shoes.

  My slippers!

  Carlie jogs to my side and hands me my ballet slippers. I seethe at her, she smiles sweetly, and whispers, “Break a leg.”

  I gaze at the stage like it's the fabled pirate's plank. My stomach clenches as I move to take my place in line and watch the girl on stage.

  She's perfect... breathtaking.

  The music ends softly and she moves off the stage. The judges whisper and I know immediately who they'll choose.

  It won't be me.

  I think of Faith and what she would have wanted. I think of how I love her still.

  Then an extraordinary thing happens. When it is my turn I float up the steps and onto the temporary stage as they put on Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven.

  It's from before.

  The notes breathe through the auditorium, making the fine hairs of my neck stand at attention. The music robs me of thought, forcing my body to execute moves I'd forgotten I knew. My arms sweep, I pirouette, spinning and snapping my head to find my corner. The soreness from earlier melts away as my body heats with familiarity. As I whip my leg up, my foot is parallel to my head for a fraction of time and then I land softly, only to immediately rise to the balls of my feet where I approach the judges with their riveted stares. The length of the song and its sad ending beg of my arms to undulate in a perfectly timed flutter of classic swan arms. I draw nearer still while keeping my elbows straight as my arms float in a wave like pattern and the balls of my feet propel me forward just as the final piano notes fall.

  Then once more their sorrowful notes swell and fill the auditorium in melancholy triumph.

  I stop, dipping into a graceful plié and assume first position.

  My hands are cupped slightly and I tilt my head, looking off to the right of my position.

  The utter lack of noise causes me to turn and look at the judges as I relax my shoulders and my hands drop gracefully to my sides.

  They have stood and every eye is on me. Including the gray gaze of a certain hunk named Mitch.

  When the applause breaks out I don't know whether to cry or run.

  In the end, I stay.

  My eyes scan the crowd and notice the one person who does not clap.

  A man leans against the back of the cavernous gym auditorium, his black eyes seeming to attack me and I take an involuntary step backwards from the burning intensity of his gaze.

  Carlie interrupts the moment, throwing herself at me.

  “I knew you could,” she whispers, strangling me in an epic hug that cuts off my airway.

  I gently push her away and look for that disconcerting male presence. Hostile.

  But he has gone.

  Just like he'd never been.

  2

  I'm staring off into space again, my pencil stuck into the knot of my messy bun as the lecture about genetics drones on. Too bad I haven't been able get out of Biology. I would love to miss it.

  No such luck.

  I haven't been worth anything since the surprise audition. I'm still kinda pissed at Carlie, not that it helps. She's convinced that my extra-curricular activities are the key to coming out of my shell. I sigh, doodling again. My scribbling noises are lost in the cavernous, theatre-style classroom, built to hold three hundred students. I always sit in the same seat, the most unidentifiable; upper, on the left side... no-mans land.

  I look up when the same guy that always sits by me heaves himself into the seat, three minutes late to class, and tosses his legs underneath the seat in front of him, bumping the person's backpack out from underneath the chair. “Nice,” I whisper.

  “Damn straight,” he says, then his hooded eyes take in the disgruntled glance that comes his way and he flips off the captain-of-the-team-type in front of him.

  “Had a weekend, I see,” I say and he winks, looking pretty rough.

  “Yeah, busted out a party that took no prisoners, it was tight.”

  As I look at Brad I wish I had his easy way. He just floats through life, no cares, parties on the weekend, plays guitar with some band when he can get a gig and plows through Biology effortlessly.

  I have to work to get a decent grade in the sciences. They were always a weak spot.

  I sigh again.

  “All tied up knitting this weekend?” Brad asks with a smirk, giving me a sidelong look.

  I shift in my seat, squelching an interior flutter. “Actually, I auditioned for the Seattle Pacific Ballet.” I don't mention that my friend shoved me through the door, a hot guy dazed me with his natural charm and they happened to play a song I'd already had a routine for burned into my brain since... forever.

  “Really,” Brad drawls, playing with a rubber band that snaps annoyingly as he twists it into shapes too complicated to follow.

  “Yeah,” I answer softly.

  “Well,” he looks at me with his deep chocolate eyes, “I bet you kicked everyone's ass, Jess.”

  I shake my head in the negative and the jock in front of Brad turns around and says, “Some of us are trying to learn here, Gunner.”

  I raise my eyebrows, surprised the guy in front of us knows Brad's last name. Hell, I didn't.

  “Yeah?” Brad asks, his eyebrows shooting to his hairline. “Fuck off, Brock.”

  The guy whose name is apparently Brock begins to rise and our Biology professor's glance shifts away from his lecture podium notes. “Is there a problem, gentlemen?”

  Brock and Brad square off and I'm surprised to notice the jock doesn't look that much bigger than Brad.

  Brad says nothing, just stares. “No problem, Professor Steuben,” Brock finally relents, settling back into his seat, but gives me a glare before he faces forward. Brad frowns at his notice of me.

  Guilty by association, I think. I slink down into my chair and hope that I can remain unnoticeable for the rest of the semester. God, it's only what? October?

  Brad throws himself in his seat again and blasts his biker's boots back underneath the jock's seat.

  I can't help it, a small giggle escapes me and Brock turns around and glares at me. My smile fades and Brad pats my arm, a funny gesture from a six feet two guy in all -leather, with tattoos and shitkickers a staple wardrobe look.

  “Don't worry, he's a pussy.” Brad shrugs and turns to face forward, actually giving his attention to the lecture.

  I keep a straight face somehow and nod. “Yeah, no worries here.” I giggle. And I see Brock tense.

  He knows we're laughing at him but I can't seem to help myself.

  *

  Brad walks me out of class and turns as we're leaving, “You need some help with this?” He points at the latest homework packet. It's so thick it's practically a novel.

  I look helplessly at the Punnett Square booklet for me to decipher later. I took this crap in high school but don't remember all the details of eye color and predictions of stuff any better now. It's a formula and I'm sort of a dreamer. Yeah, kind of a bad mix.

  Brad gives a smile full of snark, his dark eyes roaming my face for a second then he offers, “Here,” and before I can say no he grabs my cell and inputs his number. “Text me if you need help with this crap,” he says. “I got your back, dancer.”

  “You know!” I semi-wail when he winks.

  “Who doesn't?” he says innocently then does the shittiest pirouette I've ever seen as I laugh at how ridiculous this big guy looks attempting ballet. Brad tugs on the topknot of my hair and
swings his black mop behind his shoulder and smolders off, all black leather and attitude. He looks menacing but he doesn't fool me, Brad's a marshmallow on the inside.

  I look after him for a moment then stumble forward when a backpack makes hard contact between my shoulder blades. I look around for who nailed me and it's Brock the Jock.

  “Watch it, girlie,” he says slowly and smiles.

  The smile doesn't reach his eyes.

  I swallow hard and then another pair of eyes catch mine.

  Gray eyes like pale storm clouds.

  I glance back at Brock and he gives me a hard look and then is lost in the sea of students. It seems like I've been put on notice.

  I try to shake it off, but my uneasiness is slow to leave me.

  Mitch approaches me and I have the same jar of captured butterflies in my stomach I had when he pinned that number on my shirt.

  I still have the paper with the number.

  “Hey,” he says and I notice that sexy stubble remains on his chin as I try to wake myself up from my shyness.

  Mitch looks after the disappearing Brock and asks, “You know him?”

  I shake my head.

  “That was a pretty hard blow,” he says, his gaze darkening at the empty spot in the hall where Brock had just been.

  Is that worry in his voice? I wonder.

  “No, I don't know him... he sits in front of me in Biology.” I can't help but say the class name with disdain and he laughs softly, his voice a deep vibration that feels like it moves through my chest in a purr.

  I laugh and we stand awkwardly for a few moments. “Ah,” I begin, “I need to go, Physics is way across campus...”

  “Oh wow, okay... you're a...”

  “Sophomore,” I respond neutrally, my body starting to tense like it always does beyond question one. That's why I get along with Brad so well: he doesn't ask personal questions.

  “You must be a masochist then?” he asks.

  I pause, a tingling beginning to creep up on my skin. “What?” I ask, sort of horrified but mildly titillated by the unexpected word.

  “Y'know, Biology then Physics... in a row.” He smiles and I know he's joking. He'd almost had me there.

  Then I see him, like a dark shadow out of the corner of my eye as he stalks toward us. I can't believe I ever thought Brad's eyes were brown when I see this guy.

  Or that Brad smoldered at all.

  This guy makes Brad look like an ember; a banked fire compared to a roaring inferno.

  I stand there on fire, burning up as I look at him.

  I had promised to live in obscurity, cross my heart.

  Hope to die.

  Instead I stand there on broil in instant lust with a man that was so scary there were no words.

  Thank God Mitch spoke first. Oh right, Mitch, I remember in my dazed state.

  “Castile,” Mitch greeted him tersely, his stormy eyes darkening.

  “Maverick,” the stranger named Castile drawls in return.

  Holy shit, they were like peeing in corners or something. It was the perfect time for me to check out Mr. Friendly. I do, giving him a once over and noticing that he certainly is built well, but that is not all. He has a presence, an indefinable quality.

  I am the moth and he is the flame, his black eyes track me with quiet intensity.

  I back up a step and Mitch frowns. “This is Jess Mackey,” he introduces me reluctantly, and the dark stranger moves forward with a graceful stride that brings him uncomfortably close to me.

  “Jess Mackey?” He cocks his head as if my name strikes some cord of recognition.

  Of course, I know this is impossible. It doesn't matter, the breath of the suggestion causes my palms to dampen and his nostrils flare like he can scent my nervousness. Danger up ahead, my instincts scream.

  I ignore those. “Yes,” I mumble, “I'm Jess.” I stick out the hand I'd just wiped on my jeans for him to shake and he looks at it curiously and then wraps his around mine.

  It feels like a shock, a tingle from the instant his skin touches mine as it threads through me and lights my core with heat. His eyes widen minutely and Mitch clears his throat.

  “Devin Castile,” he says in a gravely baritone.

  I thought animal magnetism was bullshit. Apparently not.

  I nod stupidly and he removes his hand that had but moments before engulfed mine. His index finger trails for a split second over the delicate skin of the underside of my wrist and I shiver. His eyes darken with something I hope I don't see as he takes in my reaction.

  The interchange takes seconds and I feel like it has undone me for all time.

  Mitch looks between the two of us, licking his suddenly dry lips and after an awkward pause he says, “Devin's a senior.”

  “A transfer, right Mitch?” Devin asks in a tight voice.

  “Yeah,” Mitch says. “You know everyone, don't you Castile?”

  Devin Castile's gaze narrows on Mitch. “Pretty much, I like to know the headcount... and besides, I wanted to meet your girlfriend,” Devin says, adding, “she looks a little lost, if you ask me.”

  “No one did,” Mitch says, his brows dropping like a brick above his eyes.

  I know then I'll be late for my class.

  I turn to him and interject, “I'm not anyone's girlfriend.”

  Devin doesn't turn to me when I state that. Instead he says to Mitch, “Just being friendly, Maverick, settle down.”

  Friendly my ass, I think.

  Mitch's eyes narrow on Devin.

  I back away, it's too much. Two hot guys in the hall, sucking the available oxygen from my universe.

  I'm having trouble breathing and about to be a gasping fish out of water at any moment.

  They swivel to look at me at the same moment as a strangled noise escapes my tightly squeezed windpipe. I turn tail and briskly walk away.

  I heard one of them call my name and one laugh.

  I can bet which one was laughing at my cowardice.

  I'm going to steer clear of him. Devin Castile is all sex-and-hotness wrapped up in a dangerous package.

  I've worked hard to leave danger behind.

  *

  A few of the other students look up from their uninspired cafeteria meals when I stroll in but I ignore everyone, searching for Carlie. If I can't get this off my chest I think I'll die.

  There she is, her dark curly hair doing a bob in the lunch line, her iPod buds shoved in her ears.

  I move up behind her and tap her shoulder, she turns with a smile, popping one of the buds out. “Hey toots,” she says, scooting the tray with the worst food in the world along on the metal stiles, the ear bud dangling dangerously above the jiggling jello.

  “So...,” I look to my right and left and she smirks. “Remember that guy from the audition you forced me into?”

  “I forced you into the guy?” she laughs.

  I want to throttle her but restrain myself. “Y'know, the number guy,” I hiss, slapping a carton of milk on my bright orange tray. “And you did force me into auditioning.”

  We move forward in the line and Carlie pops a straw for the milk in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully on it, picking up the tray with her other hand and sauntering off to our usual table.

  I look around before the rest of our small group shows up. Carlie sits down and leisurely opens her milk and pushes the straw through the hole as I sit and fume. She sips. “Yeah, I remember him.” She smirks again then recites by memory: “Six feet two of pure love, dark hair, yummy, sky blue eyes....

  Actually, they're gray, I think.

  “And he groped your ta-ta, too,” she says with snark.

  “He didn't grope my tit, he was... positioning the number,” I clarify.

  Carlie puts her carrot into her mouth in an obscene way and takes a loud chunk off the end with her perfect white teeth. I flinch a little at the crack as the carrot breaks.

  “Jumpy,” she says, sipping more milk.

  “You're slaying me!” I sa
y. “Can you listen?”

  “No,” Carlie preens. “You must first admit that you should have auditioned and how great of a friend I was to make you do so!” She holds up the amputated carrot and I burst out laughing.

  Amber slaps her tray on the table, looks at me laughing and the carrot in the air and asks, “What did I miss?”

  Carlie and I crack up. She can hardly keep the carrot in her mouth.

  Carlie let's the cat out of the bag, “Jess here is having big time sexual frustration in her tutu...”

  Gawd. “No. That is so not it, Carlie... ya bitch!” I squeal, giving her a light smack on the arm.

  “Anyway, she wants to do Number Boy,” she recounts haughtily.

  Amber gives Carlie a look and Carlie misses it.

  Mitch is standing there and I have ten kinds of cows on the spot. I am sure, with my hidden redhead's complexion, my skin is an attractive stop sign red about now.

  “Is this seat taken?” Mitch asks.

  I am so sure he heard all that. “No,” I stumble over the one word.

  “No,” Carlie drawls, finally waking up, “take a seat, lover.” She pats the seat next to her and Mitch slides in, putting his tray there for our inspection and gives Carlie a curious look.

  I've never been so happy for the distraction of food in my life.

  Amber, God love her, says, “So I hear you were in charge of the dancing hopefuls.” She shamelessly bats her eyes at Mitch.

  “Yeah,” he says, taking a hand to the nape of his neck and rubbing like it's sore. Then he smiles showing his dazzling white teeth. “You survived Physics?” he aims a carefully neutral question my way.

  I nod and Amber kicks my ankle. I give a small yelp and Mitch frowns. “Yes,” I respond.

  “Good,” Mitch says, hiking his dripping pizza up to his mouth and taking an inhumanly large bite.

  “Hungry, Mitch?” Carlie asks, winking at me.

  He nods, missing her innuendo. “Yeah, I've got lacrosse later, got to fuel up.”

  Lacrosse, no wonder he's built like that, lean but broad of shoulder. I realize I'm staring and try to look away, pushing the lunch I no longer want to eat around on my plate.