Dream Chaser (Dream Team, #2)(92)

Another impossible endeavor Boone had taken on.

“Bottom line, I don’t know you all that well,” Axl continued. “But I do know you’re a straight talker and you’re tough, so I thought you loaded shit on him. He’s my boy and I was not down with that. But it wasn’t cool, me being a dick to you when it was none of my business. Then it was more not cool because you didn’t actually do that.”

“Axl, I got it then and just to say, as much as it wasn’t fun, I also liked it because I’m glad Boone’s friends are loyal to him.”

“Right.”

“And you weren’t a dick to me, as such. You were just not as friendly as you usually are.”

“Right.”

I turned to look at him as he drove. “Axl, let it go.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Is Boone up in your shit about it?” I asked.

“We had words.”

Fabulous.

He glanced at me. “We’ll get over it, Ryn.”

“Okay, so, even if, really, Boone is your business, I understand how you think we’re not your business when we hit a rocky patch. In the same vein, your friendship with Boone isn’t my business either, but still. Do you want me to talk to him?”

“We’ll get over it, Ryn,” he repeated, then his voice dipped. “Promise.”

“Are we good?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

He punctuated that by reaching out and giving me a brief knee squeeze.

Well…

Good.

The rest of the ride wasn’t long, but it thankfully also was no longer uncomfortable.

A lady in a pink dance leotard with a short filmy skirt who was hanging out at the front desk told us how to get to the space Hattie had rented, and she did this with this her eyes glued to Axl.

I wasn’t sure, but I thought I saw some drool forming at the side of her mouth.

Not a surprise.

Axl and I headed that way, Axl in the lead, the garment bag with my fur coat in it slung over his shoulder, me following holding my cowboy hat in one hand, the box with my gold sandals in it clutched to my chest.

But I nearly bumped into him when he stopped abruptly.

I was about to say something when I looked up at him and saw his head was turned to the right.

And he was statue-still.

Weird.

I looked to the right.

There was a little rectangular window there.

And in the studio beyond was Hattie.

Dancing.

I stood, staring, mesmerized.

I’d never seen her dance.

I’d seen her strip, yeah.

But dancing?

Oh…my…

God.

She was wearing some gray capri leggings with a design of laser cuts down the sides and a light pink crewneck tank with gathering along her ribs, her feet bare, her long, curly hair pulled back in a ponytail.

And she was leaping.

Again.

Again.

Again.

She’d land soft and bound up like she was on a trampoline, back leg straight, front leg bent before her, arms held to her sides.

Flying like an angel.

I was watching and holding my breath.

She was magnificent.

She did some pirouettes, then suddenly fell in the most graceful splash to the floor, on her side, bottom arm stretched out in front of her, before she found her feet in a miracle of motion and pirouetted again.

Thus commenced some moves where she used the room to its fullness with skill and poise and talent and imagination.

Her leaps were works of art.

The line of her arms should be captured by a sculptor.

My God, seriously.

I knew she’d trained, but I had no idea.

No freaking idea.

On this thought, in the midst of a sequence of moves, abruptly she stopped.

She went back.

She did them again.

But stopped.

Went back.

Did them again.

What on…?

She stopped, went back, did them again, but when she stopped that time, I tensed when I saw the way she tensed, every muscle in her body standing out in sharp relief.

This happened before she did a half squat, balled her fists and slammed them on the tops of her thighs in a way that had to cause pain.

“What on…?” I said out loud this time.

She did it again.

And again.

Shit.

This couldn’t go on.

When I was about to move, I felt Axl do it.

Straight to the door, he knocked hard twice, then walked right in.

“Yo,” he said like it was a casual greeting.

But Hattie whirled on us.

“Ha—”

That was all I got out before I was arrested by the look on her face.

She was staring at Axl and she knew.

She knew he saw her dancing, maybe.

But she knew he saw her hurting herself.

Definitely.

This was bad.

This was lockdown-and-never-open-up-again bad.

“Hattie,” I said carefully, making a move toward her.

She jerked away, walking swiftly, muttering, “Sorry. I’ve gotta go.”

“Hattie,” I repeated, walking swiftly too, toward her.

She’d grabbed up her shoes and workout bag by the time I got to her, and she skirted me, not surprisingly doing this gracefully.