Brutal Obsession (115)

I raise my eyebrows. Shock echoes through me—chased by excitement. Do I know him? Sort of. Do I want to dance his choreography? Abso-fucking-lutely. “I had the pleasure of meeting him once. My mom wrangled me an introduction when we went to see one of his ballets. I was in high school. Pretty sure I made a fool of myself and gave him a tape of me dancing. How did you know that?”

She chuckles. “Believe it or not, there was a time when you wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“That makes sense.” Especially around the other girls. There’s a competitive edge amongst dancers. We’re friends, but we also all want to come out on top. Bragging is normal.

“We’re hosting a summer intensive,” she adds. “Which I think you’d excel at. Get your stamina back. And then we’ve got a home season and jump into national touring from there.”

I nod along. I don’t bother to tell her that I already know this. I toured with the company as part of the ensemble and later a soloist. My chance at principal prima ballerina—the coveted spot—was ripped away before our season started. Before I had danced in front of one audience.

“Anyway, I just wanted to give you a heads-up about Shawn and the open audition. I’m looking forward to seeing you bring your A game.”

Because I’m competitive. That’s why she really told me. Letting me know I’m not just up against Crown Point Ballet for the lead spot—while that’s not easy, I know most of the girls. I’ll be up against anyone. Everyone.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

She nods and leaves me standing in the empty room. We never even turned on the lights.

“Interesting meeting.” Grey leans against the doorframe, his hands in his pockets.

“Mia,” I say faintly. “Yeah, she’s an interesting person.”

“Seems like she’s looking out for you, yeah?”

I shrug it off. “Is she? Or does she just want someone…” Familiar? Safe? I don’t want to be either of those options. I want to be the one who everyone gravitates toward. The one all the choreographers want to work with. “Either way, I guess it’s a good thing.”

He shrugs, then straightens up. “Are you hungry? I’m going to go grab something to eat. I can bring you back whatever you want.”

I perk up. “A turkey wrap from that place on the corner? And fries. And a Gatorade.” I stop right in front of him, reaching out to play with the bottom of his shirt. “You remember this room?”

The cuts he gave me were barely deep enough to scab over—they probably won’t even scar. And it’ll be sad to see them go.

He cups my jaw, tilting my face up to kiss me. I lean into him. Each kiss goes through me like electricity, and I don’t know how he does that. How he makes every touch important. His tongue dips between my parted lips, tasting me, and he hums when he leans back.

“I’ll be right back,” he promises. “Once you’re done dancing, we can come back to this room…”

I smile.

We go in separate directions—him to the exit, me to the studio I rented. I cross to the speaker and hit play on my music, but it isn’t the piece I’ve been rehearsing to that comes out. It’s the faint notes of a solo from a different ballet.

I read the words on the screen, the title of the piece, but my mind is stuttering. It’s familiar in a dream-like way. My body knows what to do—and I’m certain I’ve never performed this. I don’t know that I’ve even seen more than snippets of this ballet. Giselle. It’s tragic in a way. The orchestra pulls at my heart.

Without really knowing why, I rise from my position next to the speaker. I restart the song and move to the middle of the room, staring at myself in the mirror for a moment. Then I close my eyes and let muscle memory take over. I move through choreography I don’t remember learning.

The tempo picks up, and I fly across the room. For a moment, I feel the weight of my future lift off my shoulders. But my pointe shoe catches on something—or perhaps it’s my leg that fails—and I stumble.

Suddenly Grey is there, catching me before I crash.

“Oh,” I gasp, clutching at his arms. “Sorry.”

He tilts his head. “That’s not the piece you’ve been working on all day.”

“No, it isn’t.” I straighten and step back. “I’m not sure where that came from.”

“Interesting.” His arms fall back to his sides.

“It was queued up on my phone,” I explain. “Must’ve been on shuffle after the Sleeping Beauty one. In a playlist for ballet music.”

“Right.” He watches me, his expression curious.

I have the distinct impression that I’m fumbling my way through this. That I should feel flustered by what I just did. And I am flustered, because I don’t remember learning that choreography. Maybe I made it up. An imaginary dance to go along with moving music.

“What ballet is it from?”

I glance over his shoulder. “What happened to food?”

“Decided to just get it delivered,” he says. “I called the place. Someone’s bringing it over soon.”

I grunt.

“Vi. The ballet?”

“Giselle,” I say. I venture in closer to him. “A romantic tragedy.”