I can’t drop out, I’ll get kicked out of the frat, and my life will subsequently unravel from there. There’s only one thing left to do.
I have to persuade the princess to dance with me.
Walking out of Olly’s office, I dodge a bunch of giggling sorority sister’s beelining it straight for me in the hallway. I swoop around a corner, narrowly avoiding whatever they wanted to talk about. What the hell is with everyone? So cheery. I can’t crack a smile these days without being four or five beers deep.
Pulling out my phone, I type out a text to the one person who’ll be able to tell me where Chloe is.
Miles: Where is your best friend right now?
It takes a few minutes, but she finally answers.
Minka: And why would I tell you that?
Always the sass with this one. I don’t know how Owen puts up with it. He seems to get off on it. I don’t need to go back and forth in text, so I just call her.
“I need to know. Can you just tell me?” I don’t even say hello.
“Well, hello to you too, Miles. I know what you did. Why do you think I’d ever help you?” Minka’s referring to probably everything I’ve done to Chloe. But it figures that princess would blab right away about what I said to her in the studio.
“Because you want to see your friend dance. And because neither she nor I have a choice. We have to partner for this stupid competition. So I need to persuade her to stay in it before we both suffer.”
This quiets her feistiness. “Fine. But I’m warning you, Farris, you yell at her again and I’ll wax your eyebrows off in your sleep. I know where you live.”
“Yeah, yeah, fine, whatever. Now tell me where she is.”
“Well, it’s Tuesday night. She is where she is every Tuesday night. In the studio.”
I finally locate the classroom Chloe has checked out for studio time tonight after asking a trio of girls dressed like meerkats. This building is so fucking whacked.
I push open the door, not even checking to see if she’s in the middle of something. An orchestra symphony blasts out of the speakers, and she’s in the middle of some complicated-looking jump thing, her legs split over her head.
Damn, that position in bed would be hot. Not that princess here will ever let any unworthy suitor try that with her.
She comes down from where she seems suspended in air, spots me in the mirror, and lets out the girliest yelp I’ve ever heard.
“Oh my God!” Her hand flies to her chest, the almond skin of her cheeks flush with color. I’m not sure what caused that, her dancing or my intrusion. It’s kind of hot.
See, I could get down with Chloe if she wasn’t so high and mighty. She’s slim, but has a great rack, if a little on the small side. Her long, long legs and round ass are toned from the years of dancing. She basically has the body of a Victoria’s Secret model, and that’s not lost on me.
Her face isn’t a problem either. Far from it. She has the thickest, fullest lips I’ve ever seen, with a button nose sitting between her lilac-colored eyes. I’ve never known someone to have purple eyes before, but on Chloe, it’s most definitely a turn-on. And that hair. Her shiny, straight black mane. I’d love to twist that around my arm as I buried my dick into her from behind.
Too bad I have no intentions to mess around with her, though.
“Do you ever stop dancing?” I told Minka I wouldn’t yell at her. Didn’t mean I have to be nice.
She gives me a small smile, clearly not thrown off by my tactic to ruffle her feathers. “If you love something, you never want to stop doing it. I think you’d have first-hand knowledge of that.”
I do, but I’m not about to tell Little Miss Sunshine that. Especially, since her family probably supports her dream one hundred percent. She probably has more support from her family in one day than I’ve had my whole life.
Ignoring her comment, I push forward. “We have to dance together for Dancing with the Greeks.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, an unreadable emotion flashing through her violet eyes. “No, we don’t. You clearly don’t want me as a partner. You’ve made your feelings clear. Crystal, actually. I’ll keep my distance.”
Chloe’s unwinding the silky pink ribbons that strap her pointe shoes to her feet, trying her damn fastest to sneak by me out of the room. “Nope, not this time, princess. You’re not sneaking out on me again.”
“Princess? That’s a new one.” Chloe chuckles as she pulls on leather flip-flops, throwing the light pink dance shoes in the bag now slung over her shoulder.
I’m taken aback. Nothing about my sour demeanor makes this girl mad. She’s nothing like Minka. She absorbs every insult I throw at her and merely smiles. “We have to dance together. There is no other way around it, I’ve already talked to Olly McKinney.”
She looks thoughtful for a few seconds. “Well, I mean we could just drop out. There is nothing holding us here. If it’s that big of a deal to you, I told you I’ll walk away.” She shrugs, but I can tell she really wants to do this.
A twinge of guilt hits me for being so nasty to her. She’s probably that really excited freshman pledge who wants to dance in this competition.
“No, I … we have to do this. I just, it’s not something I can drop. So we have to stay partners.”
Chloe fiddles with the black strap of her gym bag, which is, you guessed it, designer. “Okay. I’ll be cordial if you can.”
“Great. Awesome. And let’s try to win this thing, please? It’s bad enough we have to be partners, at least we could—”
Chloe cuts me off, her voice going very quiet. “None of that. I mean it. I can’t work with you if you’re going to bully and beat me down every other sentence.”
And that’s the first time I feel like absolute shit for being a dick to Chloe. It’s surprising, the feeling, because for the last year and a half, I haven’t given two fucks about being responsible or apologizing to anyone. It’s even more surprising that her highness is the one that evokes the new emotion.
I nod. “Deal.”
4
Chloe
Another night in the studio, nothing unfamiliar there. But the tiny gnats of anxiety buzzing around my stomach, those are new.
Usually, I am uninhibited in the studio. I’m even calm on stage. As long as I have my pointe shoes, the music, and a part to dance, the world all but vanishes. Five hundred people could be sitting out in the audience and I wouldn’t feel one butterfly.
But throw Miles into the mix and I am a nervous wreck.
After he found me in the studio Tuesday and made a plea for me to stay his partner in the competition, we agreed to meet for our makeup lesson, because of the Saturday fiasco, on Thursday.
Minka isn’t extremely pleased that I’ve capitulated to him. But I’m not like her, don’t think like her. I give everyone the benefit of the doubt, it’s my nature. I know Miles has gone through a rough time, that he’s a bit damaged after his breakup. He’s still a good person.
Low tan heels replace my pointe shoes today. After re-reading the email sent to all Dancing with the Greeks contestants, I learned we’ll be performing a tango for week one. Which is less than a week away. My tango is decent at best, and I don’t even want to start worrying about all the dance basics I still need to teach Miles.
And just thinking about my body wrapped around his in such an intimate dance sets my skin ablaze. I know you’ve been into me for a while. It’s the phrase of his from that night at the fair that I never can get out of my head. Sure, I’ve never tried to hide my interest in him, but I don’t think I’ve made any overly desperate moves.
He’s made it known that he in no way returns that interest or those feelings. So, I’ll try my damn hardest to be the best partner I can be. And, maybe somewhere in there, we can form a friendship.
Plugging my phone into the studio’s stereo system, I scroll through and find an upbeat, relaxing playlist. Stepping back into the middle of the room for some stretching, I note the time. Miles is two m
inutes late. My right arm bends at the elbow over my head, my hand reaching down for the small of my back. I hold it there for fifteen seconds, and then switch to my left arm.
Inspecting my outfit in the mirrored wall, I consider it proper for what we need to carry out today. It’s my usual uniform with a slight variation. Black leotard with my black hair pulled into a tight bun at the top of my head. Those are the staples. But today I’ve added a maroon dance skirt and the low heels. It mimics what I will most likely be wearing this week for the competition. The fashions are one of the most talked about aspects of the competition. I make a mental note, while sliding into a middle split, to talk to the design student who have been designated to make our costumes.
The door flings open hard behind me, hitting the back wall and causing the mirrored wall to shake. I don’t even look up. Like I said, tardiness peeves me like nothing else. “You’re late.”
“Uh … hi.” Glancing up, I see Miles unabashedly checking out my ass, which is prominently displayed in the air as I stretch out.
“I take two things very seriously. Dancing and punctuality. Please try to remember that while we’re working together.” I slide my legs forward, coming into a sitting pike position and folding the upper half of my body over my lower half.
“Yes, princess,” I hear Miles grumble. He comes to take a seat next to me and mimics my movements.
As we silently stretch out, I take the time to sneakily stare at him. I know I’m working toward friendship, but I can’t help it if this blond giant makes my insides feel like melted chocolate. He’s just so dreamy looking that my heart turns into goop whenever I lay eyes on him.
We’re sitting kind of close to each on the floor, and I can smell the woodsy, peppery fragrance wafting off of him as I stretch my calves and ankles. I almost sigh as the undertone of spiciness from his, no doubt, expensive body wash reaches my nose. Miles is, after all, a Farriston. He’ll only have the best of the best products.
His blond curls are damp, haphazardly springing this way or that as they dry. He’s donned a simple blue T-shirt and black basketball shorts for our practice, and he’s added plain white sneakers to finish the look.
“Okay, so today, we are going to learn some basic steps and techniques. You’ll learn to lead, we can try a box step, and then we can sit and discuss some music selections for our tango. Sound good?” I stand, going to hit another song on my playlist, make my way back to the middle of the room, and smooth my skirt. We have to make quick work of catching up since we’re already behind, and I have absolutely no idea what, if any, dance experience Miles has.
Something tells me I am not going to like having to teach him. His ego is big enough for two people. Or maybe four.
“Whatever you say, boss.”
The beat starts up, and I set my arms into position as if I have a partner.
“Okay, let’s practice alone first, facing the mirror. With your left foot, step forward, and then bring your right up to meet it. Then, step your right foot to the side, have your left join it. After that, bring your right foot back, have your left join it, and then move the left foot to the side, bringing your right to meet it. There you have, the box step!” I demonstrate as I talk, keeping my eye on Miles. He completes the easy step with no problem, and after both syncing up with the beat, alone, for a couple more boxy go-rounds, I think we are ready to try it as partners.
“All right, let’s try it together.” I face him, my heart giving a weird bu-bump at my body’s proximity to his. I swallow, more nervous than I was a second ago. I take his arms, which he loosens begrudgingly for me to position, and place them in the correct spots on my body. I feel slightly dizzy.
I try my best not to sound breathy when I count us down. “Hold these arm positions, and box step in two, four, six, eight …” And we’re dancing.
Miles is fluidly box stepping us, his thick, brawny arms controlling my body’s movements expertly, gently. Wait a minute …
As we move into our next side-step, his arms guide me into a graceful turn. Well, it was graceful. Until the utter shock of it causes me to trample over my own feet. I go crashing to the floor, a move I haven’t made in quite some time. When you dance as much as I do, you hone your skill and technique to prevent such things.
My butt makes contact with the floor in a loud thump that echoes off the studio walls.
I stare incredulously up at Miles, who is now towering over me, his lip curled up on one side in a smug sneer.
“Wha … how come you didn’t catch me?” My tailbone is starting to tingle. Great, I know that will be sore tomorrow.
“You’re so prissy, you know that? Acting the part of the little dance teacher. You didn’t want to ask if I had any experience?” Miles regards me with distaste, as if I’m something sour he needs to spit out.
But I had just assumed he had no experience. That was wrong of me.
“I’m sorry. It was wrong to be so presumptuous, and for that I apologize.” He clearly isn’t offering me a hand, so I gingerly try to pry myself off the floor. My lower back protests in pain.
Finally, he gives an angry huff, pulling me to my feet when he sees me struggling. “I’m a Farriston, not that I would think you’d forget that. Ballroom dancing is as ingrained in my blood as which fork you use when in a place setting.”
“Well, then, you do know, as a ballroom expert, that it’s important never to drop your partner?” I don’t know if he realizes my hand is still trapped in his, but my pulse is skittering like crazy at my neck from his touch.
“I had to get one in there. Just to make sure you know where I stand. You might play the queen outside that door, but in here, we’re equals. Partners, if you can call us that yet.”
I wonder if I’ll ever get to the point where my heart is numb to his insults. I hope so. For right now, they sting my chest, as if his words are laced with tiny pieces of shrapnel.
“I understand. So, let me ask. Do you know how to tango?”
“Of course. What kind of ballroom student do you think I am?” He crosses his arms in front of his chest.
“Okay, great. Well, since we have more time than I thought we would, maybe we should start working on our theme and steps for this dance?” If he sulks through this entire six-week competition, it might be enough to push me over the edge. I may be the sweet one, but push me hard enough and I’ll go all Minka on your butt, pronto.
“Fine. Let’s just work with Argentine tango so we can add a lift. We want to go balls to the wall, right? Come out as the favorite? We’ll add a swivel or a turn here or there, and we’re good.”
I’m stunned into silence. The fact that he even knows how to dance the tango is mind-boggling. But that he knows the difference between the three forms? I’m gobsmacked.
He must have noticed my unhinged jaw. “What, you’re the only one who can know about dance, princess?”
The princess thing is irritating me. Note the being pushed too far sentiment. “Why do you keep calling me that?”
“Because you are. You carry yourself like you’re higher than everyone, so nice and cheery. And you’ve clearly gotten everything you’ve ever wanted. Your parents probably kneel at your feet.” He scoffs, giving me that sour look again.
I just smile. “So I’m a princess because I’m nice to people? That seems silly. And as for your other point, I have been handed a lot. But it doesn’t mean I don’t work hard. Can’t the same be said about you?”
“You don’t know me, you don’t know about my life.” Miles practically bites the words out. “Can we just practice? Christ.”
I oblige, giving him a minute to cool down by going to select a dramatic, rhythmic beat off my playlist. Moving back toward him, I get into position.
I can almost hear my veins pulsing with blood as my heart rate picks up. The first position in tango is the embrace. He’s going to embrace me. Miles is going to embrace me.
And then he does. Our bodies press against each other, nothing separating us
but the thin material of my leotard and his flimsy T-shirt. I can feel my nipples harden. There is nothing I can do to quiet that response. I slowly bring my head up. It’s supposed to be up. But I know the minute I gaze into his eyes, I’ll lose my breath, and I don’t want him to see that.
I do it anyway, bring my eyes level with his heterochromatic stare, dismissing all the air in my lungs. We stand, pressed against each other, as the song fills the air around us. Neither of us breaks the connection, and it feels like I’ve been struck by lightning. My nerve endings are out of whack, fried, sending signals to the wrong places in my body and making me feel loopy.
I can’t read the expression marking Miles’s face, but I hope to God he’s feeling this too. Bad enough I have to sit here with you.
The thought wrenches me from the moment, and I can’t help it that my voice comes out in a throaty whisper when I begin to count. “And two, four, six, eight …”
We glide across the studio floor in a basic eight-step tango. At first, our moves are a little disjointed, each of us getting used to the other’s physique, the way the other’s figure moves. Even though Miles is the size of mammoth, he’s surprisingly light on his feet. I’ll even go so far as to say graceful, but never to his face.
We cross the floor several times before coming to a stop when the music ends, Miles holding us in position for five seconds as if practicing an ending pose. Then he drops my arms completely, bringing his back to the safety of his own body.
My heart is beating too fast, and it has nothing to do with the way we performed those steps. I put all my hope into the prayer that my cheeks are a normal color.
“That wasn’t bad…” Miles claps his hands once, looking, if I must say, a bit pleased.
“Is that an almost-compliment?” I smile, laughing.
“Don’t get used to it, princess.” His usual glower returns to his face. “All right so, practice Saturday?”
Over the Fence Box Set Page 23