by Jayne Frost
“Not if I keep up with my core training.”
I got the feeling she was speaking in half-truths. Or maybe it was wishful thinking.
She put some distance between us. “I think we’re done for today.”
I nodded, and she made a beeline for the steps. The way she moved, she didn’t look injured. Just the opposite. She was thin, no doubt, but every square inch of her was toned. And her ass. It was shaped like a perfect heart.
I joined her on the deck and she wrapped a towel around her waist, obstructing my view.
No fair, little mouse.
Plopping onto the chaise lounge, I reached for my pack of smokes. I was about to light up when I noticed Gelsey’s expression. It was somewhere between mild distaste and oh-my-God-you’re-fucking-disgusting. I used to feel the same way. When it mattered.
Tossing the cigarette on the table, I leaned back and tilted my face toward the sun. In my periphery, I caught sight of Gelsey pulling the band out of her hair. Golden locks spilled over her shoulders, landing just short of the towel cinched around her waist.
Since I didn’t like blondes, I closed my eyes. They popped open a minute later, seemingly of their own accord.
“I thought you were going to prove me wrong,” I said, rising on one elbow.
Gelsey continued to rifle through her bag. “You’ve already had a day. We’ll do it next time.”
I went back to gazing at the clouds. “Yeah, I get it. I wouldn’t challenge me either.”
Biting down a smile when wet feet padded against the deck, I settled deeper into the lounger.
“It wouldn’t be a challenge.”
I squinted up at her. “I guess we’ll never know.”
Deep blue eyes roamed over my face. “Scale of one to ten, what’s your pain level?”
“Three. And before you say anything, that’s as good as it gets.”
Chewing her lip, she contemplated for a couple beats. “Okay. Flat on your back.”
Any hope I had that the test would involve Gelsey climbing on top of me flew out the window when she moved to the end of the lounger. “Raise your legs to a ninety-degree angle and hold them there. Don’t let me push them down.”
Lifting my head to see if she was serious, I raised a brow. She countered with a dramatic eye roll.
“Fine,” I said, getting comfortable. “This shouldn’t take—”
Before I could finish the thought, my calves hit the back of the lounger with a thud.
What the actual fuck?
“I wasn’t ready,” I ground out.
Her hands flew up in mock surrender. “No problem. You want to try again?”
“You’re damned right.” This time when I lay back, I focused. And lasted all of two seconds.
Three more attempts and I jerked myself to sitting. “What was that? Some kind of trick.”
“Nope.” She eased down onto the lounger next to mine. “My turn.”
“Yeah, right.” I scoffed. “I outweigh you by a hundred pounds.”
“Yet you toppled like the Roman Empire under my mighty touch.” She wagged a finger at me. “No using your bodyweight, though. Just your arm. Lay it flat on my shins and push.”
This was more than confidence. Or a trick. And I knew then how it would turn out. Still, I dropped to my knees at the end of her lounger to take my medicine.
In the back of my head, I still expected it to be hard for her. And maybe it was. But she made it look easy.
“Well, that was embarrassing,” I said, dropping onto my butt on the deck when the demonstration was over.
“Don’t feel bad. Nobody ever uses those muscles unless they need to.” She patted her legs, then popped to her feet with a smile. “I’m going to get going.”
I skimmed her petite frame as she wandered over to the table. My dick twitched in protest when she shimmied into a pair of sweats and a faded tee.
After hoisting her bag onto her shoulder, she turned to me. “So…I’ll see you day after tomorrow.”
It wasn’t really a question, but still, she hesitated, like she was waiting for a response.
Reclaiming my spot on the lounger, I closed my eyes. “I’ll be here.”
Gelsey
I crashed to the ground, my ass meeting the floor with an unceremonious thump. Micha’s hands flew up, like it was my fault he’d dropped me.
“Pridurok,” I hissed as I rubbed the sting out of my hip.
Our first day of rehearsal, and I was already resorting to name calling.
Micha paused with the water bottle halfway to his lips. “What did you say?”
He’d spent as many years in this company as I had. How he’d never picked up a word of Russian, I’d never know.
Before I could reply, Ivan stepped between us and offered me his hand.
“She called you an idiot,” he said, hauling me to my feet. “And I tend to agree with her.”
Micha shifted his focus to our teacher. Which showed me where I rated in this conversation.
“It’s not my fault she has weak ankles. I never had this problem with Sydney.”
My gaze immediately fell to the floor. Because maybe he was right. My ankles were weak. Along with my knees and my back. He was a dick for pointing it out, though.
“Perhaps you should spend a day in her pointe shoes,” Ivan said mildly. “Or a month. Or years. And then we will see how your body holds up. Let us take it again from the top. And this time,” he looked right at Micha, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “try not to drop her like a sack of potatoes.”
Warmth bloomed in my chest, spreading to my sore muscles. In all my years of study, I’d never heard Ivan defend one of his ballerinas. He was old-school. More than a little sexist. And I wasn’t sure if he even realized the disparity between the male and female dancers. Sure, the men leaped higher and were just as graceful. But they didn’t have to balance on the tips of their toes. Or worry about being dropped from six feet in the air.
I didn’t dare to acknowledge the comment, for fear I’d be treated to an equally scathing remark. But when the music started up again, my spine straightened out of habit.
“So this is how it’s going to be?” Micha asked glaring holes in Ivan’s back. “You two against me.”
For the first time, I noted something besides utter confidence in his stance. And though I loved seeing him brought down a couple of pegs, I needed his head in the game, and not on Ivan. Less chance I’d end up on the floor that way.
“I’m not against you,” I said. “We’re in this together. Shake it off.”
He shimmied his shoulders, something he always did to loosen up. “I’m good.”
But he wasn’t. I caught him stealing glances at Ivan as we began our first side-by-side sequence. And the moment he hoisted me in the air, I knew something wasn’t right. The position of his hands was off. Not a lot. But enough to throw me out of balance. He lost his grip, and I went sailing to the ground for the third time.
Before another insult passed my lips, he caught my wrist and pulled me to my feet. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Are you all right?”
The fingers of his free hand trailed up my back before slowly gliding down to settle at the curve of my waist. A couple of years ago, the gesture would’ve melted me on the spot. Now I couldn’t get away quick enough.
Micha’s eyes flashed with anger at the rebuff. “I wouldn’t drop you if you’d just stay still.”
His tone was resolute, and I wondered if he’d always been able to bend the truth with such ease.
I love you, Gels.
Obviously so.
“I didn’t move,” I bit out. “Not a muscle.”
Micha dismissed me with an eye roll, his focus on Ivan. “She isn’t used to working with a partner anymore. Maybe she should improve her balance before we move on to choreography. I’m not going to take the blame if she gets hurt.”
Snatching his towel and his water bottle, Micha strode out of the studio.
“I held m
y position,” I said, as much for myself as the man watching me carefully from across the room.
Ivan shrugged as he eased to his feet. “We will make sure to tell the doctors that when they are stitching up your face.”
Despite the harsh words, his tone was as placid as I’d ever heard. Which gave me the courage to speak up. “How is this my fault, Ivan? I’m doing the best I can.”
He thought about it for a moment. “It is not your fault. But unfortunately, Micha has the power. He is the horse, and you are merely the rider.”
My shoulders sagged. “So what do I do?”
“Get better so you are not bucked off.”
Anger bubbled in my veins at the injustice of it all. “So I have to improve to make up for Micha’s shortfalls. That’s not fair.”
Ivan tossed a couple of mats on the floor next to the balance beam. “Life is not always fair, malysh.”
And I knew he wasn’t speaking about me.
Once upon a time, Ivan was set to become the next great Russian dancer. He had it all—grace, athleticism, and the rare ability to transcend the medium. But during a guest performance at the Bolshoi in Moscow, he ruptured his Achilles tendon, cutting short his career.
It ended where it began. In Russia. And I have no regrets. It was my privilege to dance for you.
That’s what he’d said in the last interview he’d ever given before he retired. But sometimes, like now, I wondered if he believed it.
Music vibrated from the speakers, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Come,” Ivan called, tapping the beam. “Let us see if we can find a way to keep Micha from dropping you on your head.”
On my way home from rehearsal, I picked up some equipment from Shannon to use in my session with Miles the next day. Along with some samples of prescription strength anti-inflammatories, and a gluten-free tuna casserole she’d made especially for me.
Everything ached, and I couldn’t wait to crawl into bed and let the pain relievers and the ice work their magic.
As I pulled into the carport, my heart sank a little when I noticed my dad’s rig wasn’t parked anywhere around. He’d sent me a text with a promise to swing by after picking up a load in New Mexico. And foolish me, I’d believed him.
With a sigh, I grabbed my tuna casserole and trudged up the concrete steps, inwardly cursing Micha for the pain radiating from the baseball-sized bruise on my leg.
He had one job—don’t drop your partner—and he couldn’t even get that right.
The thought floated away when I stepped onto the landing and spied the red notice pinned to my door. Clutching the Pyrex dish a little closer to my chest, I scanned the document.
Three Day Notice to Vacate
My heart stalled when I shoved the key into the lock and it wouldn’t turn.
“Please.”
I tried again, ramming the flimsy wood with my shoulder. Daphne, my neighbor, popped her head out.
“Gelsey. What’s the matter, love-bug?”
The smile slid off her face when I turned with what I could imagine was panic in my eyes. “I can’t get into my apartment! They said I had three days!”
Her gaze shifted to the notice in my hand, and her features softened. “It’s okay.” She approached slowly, like one might a skittish cat. “May I?”
When I didn’t answer, she slid the paper out of my hand. After scanning the document, she grabbed the doorknob and turned the key.
“These old locks are a little tricky,” she said, like I hadn’t lived here for almost five years. “Sometimes you gotta give ’em what for.”
“Th-Thank you,” I said, as she pressed the eviction notice into my hand.
“No problem.” She gave my fingers a squeeze. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Pulling myself together, I jerked a nod. And then I stepped inside my apartment so I could figure out what the hell I was going to do next.
Miles
Shifting in the uncomfortable-as-fuck folding chair, I sipped my coffee and stared out the window at the gunmetal gray clouds.
The storm had rolled in sometime after midnight, electric fingers stretching across the inky sky and lighting my bedroom from corner to corner. Then came the thunder. So loud it shook the walls. After that, there was no sleeping. Just hours of tossing and turning and fighting the urge to hide out in the basement.
At the first hint of daylight, I’d hauled myself out of bed and headed here—to Millwood. Not that I was in the mood to pour my heart out. But the hospital, with its schedule of meetings that started at the ass crack of dawn and took place hourly, was the perfect place to blend in. Here, I wouldn’t have to deal with Emily’s looks of concern. Or her questions over my bloodshot eyes. I could tuck into a corner, drink my coffee, and thumb through the ancient copy of Rolling Stone I’d found without arousing suspicion.
The air punched from my lungs when I came across a large photo of Paige, number nineteen on their list of the greatest guitarists of all time. Words jumped out, full of praise for her insurmountable talent, and sorrow for a life cut short.
When I couldn’t take it anymore, I tore the article from the binding and quickly folded the paper into the shape of a bird. It was a sad little ritual. Crazy, really. But I didn’t want pieces of Paige in the world floating around aimlessly. So I collected any I found.
“Miles?”
Tucking the bird into my pocket, I shifted my attention to Dr. Sheppard, both brows raised. He’d seen the look before. But instead of heeding my silent warning, he propped his ass against the side of the desk, folding his hands in front of him. “Do you have anything you’d like to share with the group?”
In the few times I’d been here, I’d never spoken. He knew that. But by addressing me, he gave everyone in the room an invitation into my neurosis. Sometimes I wondered if that was the point.
Recognize that guy in the corner? Yep—it’s Miles Cooper. And he’s as fucked up as you are. Feel better about yourselves now?
I couldn’t even call him on it. Doing so would only add paranoid narcissist to whatever notes he kept on me in his file.
Ignoring the stares from the group, I glared at the doc. “I’m good.”
We continued our standoff until a snort from a kid slumped in his chair in the front row broke the stalemate. Early twenties, if I had to guess. Long, stringy hair. Mad at the world.
“You too good to talk to us?” The kid sneered. “Or maybe you know you ain’t got any real problems. Unless your supermodel girlfriend left you.”
The dig sank in deep, hitting some buried target, and Paige’s image peeked from the corner of my mind. Red hair. Bright smile. Petal soft skin that tasted like vanilla pudding.
My silence only spurred the little fucker on.
“Is that it?” he taunted. “No more morning blowies for the rock star?”
I didn’t realize I was on my feet until Dr. Sheppard stepped in front of me. “Miles,” he warned, both hands on my chest now. “Sit down, please.”
Given the doc’s stature—five nine or so to my six five—I could easily look right over his head and into the kid’s spiteful brown gaze.
“You don’t know me, son,” I growled. “So you better shut your mouth. Unless you’d like me to shut it for you.”
Sheppard tensed, his fingers digging into my pecs. But I didn’t spare him a glance. I was too busy watching junior’s eyes light up like I’d just made his fucking day.
Shoving the sleeves of his hoodie up to his elbows, he took a step back. But not to retreat. More like an invitation. “Come on and get some then,” he spat.
I smiled, more than willing to take him up on his offer. Until I noticed his arms. Scars marred his pale skin. Some faded. Others so fresh, the scabs had barely healed. But it was the wound that ran from his wrist to the crook of his elbow that made my stomach flip.
The kid was no poser. He was all in with the pain. And that’s why he was taunting me. He couldn’t exactly pull out a blade and carve a ni
ce little notch into his skin right here in front of everyone. No. He wanted me to bring the relief. A fist to his face. Or a blow to his ribs. Anything to mute the voices inside his head. And I got it. I really did.
“Come on!” he hollered, his face contorting with rage.
My anger slid away, pooling on the ground at my feet like thick sludge. “Some other time.”
I dropped into my seat, and his smile faded, leaving nothing but anguish. The kid was an open wound.
“Chickenshit,” he spat before stomping for the door.
Sheppard made a valiant attempt to regain control of the group. But it was no use, and he dismissed everyone a moment later.
Instead of heading for the exit, I sank back in my chair.
“That was Blake,” the doc said with a sigh as he removed his glasses. “He’s a good kid.”
“I can tell.” I scoffed, immediately regretting the comment when I thought of the kid’s arms. “What’s his problem, anyway?”
I wasn’t sure why I asked. It’s not like I didn’t have enough trouble of my own. Or else I wouldn’t have come here in the first place. To a psych hospital. Because I couldn’t handle a fucking rainstorm.
“He was in a boating accident a couple of years ago. He was going too fast and took a turn too sharply. His younger brother fell over the side. He didn’t notice right away and, Tanner—that was the kid’s name—he drowned.”
My gut loosened enough to send bile racing to the back of my throat. “How? I mean…”
“He hit his head.” The doc rubbed his eyes and sighed again. “He was a strong swimmer, so he didn’t have a life jacket on. But he was only nine, and the wake pulled him under. Terrible tragedy.”
Taking a sip of lukewarm coffee, I dug my fingers into my thigh. My own little exercise in self-harm. Because I knew how the kid felt.
I blamed myself every day for Paige’s death. I didn’t admit to it. Mostly because I couldn’t stand it when people tried to absolve me of the burden. It was mine. All I had left of her.
“You know,” Sheppard mused. “Blake is a musician too. At least he was before all this happened. Maybe you could talk to him?”