Owen snaps out of his shocked state when I mention baseball. “Wait, so you’re not gonna go pro?”
“I don’t see how I can, dude. My dad only pays for me to play now because I agreed to get a business degree. After school, it’s off to work for the company, my responsibility to my bloodline, he likes to say. If I refuse, he stops paying my tuition. And I can all but kiss baseball goodbye if I can’t afford to play for Grover.”
My best friend looks incredulous now. “But … dude, there has to be something we can do! You’re too fucking good of a player to waste that talent building fucking airplanes.”
“Don’t I know it.” I hang my head, feeling empty but relieved at revealing the heavy cross that has become mine to bear. My family might suck, but I have some fucking great friends.
“We’ll figure something out. No way am I going into the draft alone. I need my shortstop.” Owen smiles and raises his beer at me, indicating his need for a cheers.
As I clink my glass to his, he pauses, both of our mugs in midair. “But, dude, if you don’t apologize to Chloe, I’m going to have to cut your nut sack off.”
“I know, dude.” We clink glasses, each sipping. “But, what do I do? I should have never done it in the first place. Chloe, she probably hates my fucking guts right about now.”
Owen chuckles. “Then you don’t know Chloe, man. She’s a great girl. And I love Minka to death, but my girl doesn’t have a ‘benefit-of-the-doubt’ bone in her whole body. Chloe is Minka and Kelsey’s voice of reason. She’s the calm, cool, and collected one. Explain it to her. I think she’ll surprise you, bro.”
I take another sip of my beer, mulling over what my best friend says. I know what I have to do.
12
Chloe
My big toe is bleeding, I can feel it. The blood matted the inside of my pointe shoe; the cut scraping against the rough side of the layers of fabric and glue. But that doesn’t slow me down. I feed the pain, going harder into turns and leaps than I should.
I’ve been in the studio since seven a.m., unable to sleep and feeling restless. So I came to my sanctuary. I have to be here to rehearse with Miles, anyway, why not add another two hours to my already thirty-hour practice week?
I haven’t been able to sleep for days. Between having vivid sex dreams about Miles and not getting any kind of calls or texts from him, my nerves are fried. We haven’t spoken or seen each other since Tuesday. And I haven’t been able to let it go yet. It doesn’t help that I have regularly scheduled events with him twice a week. If he could have only been some random guy that I’d never have to see again.
The soft, slow melody of the song I’ve been dancing to stops, and I glance at the clock. Miles will be here in twenty minutes. Grabbing my water bottle, I sit on the floor in a butterfly position and begin stretching my muscles out before unlacing the silk straps tied around my ankles. I’m sore, really sore. Missing two days of class and then pushing yourself way too hard to make up for it will do that to you.
But now that my dream is within my grasp, I have no time to spare. I need to push myself even if my bones ache, even if my feet bleed, even if I can’t stand to dance for one more hour. “That’s what makes a prima ballerina,” Madame V says. I visited her office, at her demand, after the Barre Techniques class she taught.
“How are you feeling?” She says this with brusque disinterest, as if she only needs this to open up the conversation.
“I’m okay, much better than—”
“Yes, yes, darling. Anyway, there has been some interest in you. I almost should not tell you after you missed my class for two days.” Madame’s thick French accent cuts the threatening words.
“Again, I’m deeply sorry.” Best to appear apologetic.
“Yes, well. The School of American Ballet is going through their application process for summer intensives. I know the director there, I may have put in a good word. Although now I may regret that.”
I think my jaw hits the floor. SAB? It is only one of the premiere schools in the entire country. It feeds right into the New York City Ballet. I could hardly contain my excitement.
“You recommended me? For SAB? Wow, Madame Vivienne, I don’t know what to say …”
“Say you will work harder. Prove me right that I was correct in mentioning your name to them.” She gives me her sternest look.
“I will. I promise, Madame. I will do whatever it takes.” I was shaking I had so much adrenaline pumping through my veins. SAB. Wow.
“I hope you do. I don’t often give out compliments, but you have the raw talent to really go far. Listen to your teachers here and you just might be the one in a million who achieves what every amateur ballerina dreams of. Now, you may go.” She dismisses me with a wave of her hand.
I float out of her office, high on this recent development.
I’m dreaming of SAB and the instructors there, some of the best in the world, when I pull my left pointe shoe off to assess the damage.
It’s sticky with blood and makes a suctioning noise as I pull it off. My big toe has a ragged cut down the side closest to my instep, and I grab a tissue to help clot it. I have two new blisters on my third and fourth toes, adding to the three I already have on them. And my pinky toe is bruised such a deep shade of indigo that I’m starting to get concerned about it.
My feet have never been pretty, being a dancer and all, but since I’ve come to college they’ve been through hell and back. It’s a good thing I don’t even feel much of the pain down there anymore.
I hear the sudden groan of the studio door and look up at Miles, who is, surprisingly, fifteen minutes early. Gosh, he looks delectable. His sunny ringlets still damp from the shower, the white T-shirt he wears clings to all the right places, allowing me to make out the grooves of his abs. I involuntarily blush as my gaze locks on his worn-in gray track pants. I know what’s under them now, and that’s not something I’ll ever forget. Miles is hung like the guys in pornos. And I only know that because Kelsey made me watch some freshman year of high school.
“Hi.” Miles gives me a small smile, his eyes genuine. Contrite. That’s not what I was expecting. I don’t really know what I expected. I have tried to play this scenario out in my head for the last four days, and could never decide on which way it was going to go.
“Hi,” I answer as I unwrap my right pointe shoe, peeling it off the shredded skin on my foot.
“Jesus! That’s nasty.” Miles squirms as he gets a closer look at my feet. So much for being nice to me.
“Hazards of being a dancer,” I utter, harsher than I mean it to sound.
“You may look like a princess, but you must be tough as nails to endure that shit.” His compliment both surprises and pleases me. Crap. We’re supposed to be forgiving but not forgetting here.
“Thanks.” I turn, reaching for my water bottle.
“Um … so, about the other night …” I peek through my lashes to watch Miles in the mirror. He’s rubbing one big hand behind his neck, trying to figure out what to say next. He looks completely uncomfortable. “I … are you okay? I never, um, do that by the way. I’m clean. I didn’t want you to worry.”
Like I haven’t been worrying the entire week. Like I hadn’t cried myself to sleep Wednesday and Thursday night over how stupid I’d been, and how inconsiderate he was. “Thanks for letting me know. Don’t worry, I’m fine now.”
“Now? Did I … um, hurt you?” He looks worried but isn’t coming any closer to me. He stands in the middle of the room while I sit by the mirror. This discussion couldn’t be any more awkward.
“No. You didn’t hurt me. But I did get the morning-after pill to be safe.” My lips feel tight as I admit this to him. I can feel the tears pool in the back of my eyes just remembering taking that trip alone.
Miles exhales and curses under his breath. “Shit. I’m really sorry. I should have taken you, or something.”
There are a few beats of silence. I really don’t know what to say. What I want to sa
y is, “Yes, you should have manned up. You should have called me over the last four days. You shouldn’t have even had sex with me in the first place if you don’t think that highly of me.” But I don’t. I hold my tongue, my niceness overcoming any rudeness. It always does.
“I’m really sorry about everything. I’ve been through hell and back the past year and a half, and it’s not just because of my gold-digging ex-girlfriend. I’ve had some stuff going on. And the anger, I took it out on you because … well, I don’t really have a good reason. You were there? You’re so nice and understanding? I apologize, for all of it. You’re a good person, Chloe. I never meant to take advantage of you the other night. So … I’m sorry.”
Before I can think, the words are out of my mouth. “You’re a nice person too.” I imagine that little boy with the unruly curls, standing up for me. “Just because you got lost in the dark there for a while doesn’t erase that. And Miles … you didn’t take advantage of me. I wanted that just as much as you did.”
Lust consumes his distinctive eyes like a tidal wave, and we just sit there, looking at each other for what seems like hours. Finally, he breaks the silence. “Well, I am really sorry. And nothing like that will happen again. I won’t hurt you like that.”
I shouldn’t feel disappointment at his words that it won’t happen again, but I do.
“So, we’re jiving this week, huh?” I don’t miss his double entendre.
“Yes, we are performing a jive.” I smile, hoping he likes my idea. “I was thinking we go like, 1940s wartime costumes. You in a Marines uniform, I can wear an Army nurse’s outfit. That’s always what I think when I think jive.”
Miles nods, his eyes lighting up. “Sick. I’ve always wanted to be a soldier. I’m in.”
For the first time in weeks, our practice goes swimmingly. We don’t just jive, we jibe. Our ideas are in sync, we get the choreography put together in record time, and Miles even cracks a few jokes. By three o’clock, I’m pleasantly surprised we have performed the final result four times without any missteps.
“I think we’re done for the day.” I smile cheerily, glad to be getting out of the studio at a decent hour.
“Great.” Miles pauses, not running out of the studio like he usually does. “Do you want to maybe … I don’t know … grab a slice from Angelo’s? Early dinner?”
My heart shouldn’t leap the way it does at his question, but it’s such a reflex after all these years of wanting him. I shouldn’t go. I said I wouldn’t. And I can’t even eat pizza.
“That depends, are you going to make me pay for it all by myself?”
I flinch, and so does he, at my words. I don’t know where that came from.
Miles looks guilty when he meets my eyes. “I know it won’t make up for it, but maybe it’s a start? Let me take you out for a slice.”
“Sure, I’d love to.”
Idiot.
13
Miles
The week flies by in a blur of baseball practices, dance competitions, class, and parties. I thank God every night my head hits the pillow, I’m that tired. Thankfully, baseball is over after this week. We go into hibernation for the winter before spring training starts in February.
Chloe and I did all right on our jive in Tuesday’s performance, but I had a few missteps. Something about playing a Marine just got me overly excited, and I accidentally earned us two eights and a nine. Not bad, we’re still on top of the leader board and haven’t been voted off, but it wasn’t perfect tens. Not that Chloe was mad. She was her usual polite, nice self.
I always get the urge to tousle her when she’s like that. I think it’s why I had been so nasty to her at first. Being in a bad place only perpetuated how badly I wanted to see her untamed. But this time, I held back, opting to play pong with her at the Dancing with the Greeks after-party instead.
It’s weird how well we’ve been getting along. Our pizza dinner on Saturday had been a little awkward, but not overly so. She gave me a complex lesson about how to actually make pizza, something she did all the time when she helped out her parents at their restaurants. Her family’s food is to die for. It’s the only place my father makes reservations for clients that come in from out of town, and sometimes he would drag me along.
I told her about baseball, and she mentioned she used to go to some of my high school games. It’s weird, how much we knew about each other’s lives without ever having really talked. I didn’t know how to feel about the fact that she had always had a massive thing for me. I guess now I feel stupid, because I wasted a lot of time not trying to get to know a genuinely great girl.
Her forgiveness astounds me, although I still catch the looks she throws me when she doesn’t think I’m watching. The ones where her purple orbs drain of all color, leaving her looking so sad and forlorn that it feels like a tornado is ripping around my gut. But she quickly covers it up, throwing on her signature smile and suggesting we try this step or that.
And dancing with her this week wasn’t been easy, only for the fact that my dick spasmed anytime she got within two feet of me. I had to spend our lessons and performance thinking about dead horses and being covered in snakes to get my raging hard-on down.
Now that I’ve been with her, I want a second taste. A second try. I’d been so angry the first time that I’d been solely focused on one goal. I hadn’t taken the time to feel every inch of her perfect, slim body. I ignored her full, luscious lips in favor of pounding her into kingdom come. I hadn’t even properly laid her down on a bed.
But I’m not going there. I’ve put this girl through enough, and I can’t promise her a thing. I am still messed up despite my epiphany and have to focus on finding a way to ensure my future. The future that I want, anyway.
No one’s around except for Parker, which is weird for a Friday night. Owen had taken Minka to the movies—he was so whipped—and Clint had opted for staying in after pushing himself to the breaking point at the gym.
I found Parker in the living room, sipping a glass of something amber. “Dude, you’re such a gentleman right now. Look at you. Is that whiskey?”
“Some of us drink like real men, not girls … with your piss for beer.”
Surly motherfucker. “Okay, James Bond. Whatever you say. What’s up for tonight?”
The ice clinks against his highball, and I chuckle to myself. He really is one weird dude, but we like him. “I think Travers is having a party. Want to head over?”
Mick Travers is one of the seniors on the baseball team, who also happens to live two houses down from our average college shithole. While he doesn’t play too much, he isn’t all that great, he does know how to throw a party. I don’t exactly feel in the mood for one of his all-out ragers, but I also don’t want to sit at home thinking about all of the shitty situations I am currently in. “Sure.”
I change my shirt to something that doesn’t smell like stale sweat, pull on a pair of jeans, and meet Parker on our front porch. I can hear the rap music and drunken screams already, and it only gets louder as we walk down the street.
Guys and girls spill out into the road and litter the front lawn. The smell of beer, sweat, and smoke fills the air, and I’m so tempted to find someone with a joint on them that I have to ball my hands into fists until my nails leave indents in my palms. I’m trying to clean my act up, and weed is the opposite of what I need to be doing.
I bump fists with Travers as we walk up the lawn. He’s trying to convince a girl to funnel what looks like jungle juice. Inside the house, people are grinding heavily in the living room to a hip-hop beat that’s all but blowing out my eardrums. It’s only eleven o’clock, and this party has already hit the too-drunk-to-see stage.
I wander into the kitchen on a search for the keg. I’ll have two or three tonight. Nothing to get me drunk, but enough to take the edge off this whirlwind of a week. And to get the nerves out of my system about seeing Chloe tomorrow morning. I’m oddly looking forward to it, and my stomach has been in knots all day.
I feel like a twelve-year-old girl.
I locate the keg right outside the alcove in the kitchen and pour myself a beer. Giggles from within the next room cause me to pause, and when I peek around the archway blocking my view, I see Chloe, sitting on the counter in a very short skirt, surrounded by three guys. What the fuck?
I top off the foamy beer, probably some shit I drank as a freshman, Travers never splurges on halfway-decent beer, and enter the kitchen.
“Well, what’s going on here?” I take a long swallow of my beer, which, of course, tastes like piss, to keep myself from going off on her or the guys. What is she doing in here, alone? And why is she falling all over herself? Can’t these guys see she’s definitely had too much to drink?
“Woah-ho-ho, look who it is! My partner extraordinaire! Get over here, Mr. Tango Baseball, we’re playing Who Can Chug The Fastest.”
Well, that explains the glazed over look in her eyes. Jesus, she’s hammered. I study the jackasses who are letting her pound beer after beer and know I can take them with one arm behind my back. The way they’re leering at her, trying to peek under her skirt, which is pulled tight across her spread open thighs … I am definitely going to have to throw a punch soon.
I step in, breaking up their circle, and pluck the beer out of her hand. “Okay, princess, I think you’ve had about enough.” I wink at her, hooking my arm around her waist and guiding her off the counter and to the floor, where she teeters on wobbly legs. At least she’s covered up now.
Over the Fence Box Set Page 28
