Freestyle

by Bea Paige

When he lands a perfect leap into the air and finishes with happy feet, a signature move in hip-hop and one we all used to love as a crew, I crumble. Dax knows where to slide the knife in and twist, and even though my face is empty of emotion, just like his is, we both know that he’s crossed the other invisible line we drew all those years ago.

  Without saying a goddamn word, Dax’s pretty much told everyone our story. The crowd might not be able to completely understand it, but I can, and it hurts that he’s revealed who we were so publicly to everyone here.

  Dax steps towards me, sweat beading on his shaved head and rolling down his temple. He jerks his chin, waiting for me to fight back. I back away, my chest heaving as I shake my head. Turning towards Little Dynamite, I slide my hand across my throat indicating that I’ve conceded the win. I’m in way too much of an emotional state to even consider continuing. Dax was a better dancer. Everyone knows it, including me.

  Tonight we battled, and I lost.

  “Yo, arseholes, we have a new winner of the singles battle! Teardrop Dax has torn up the dance floor, laid down the gauntlet, and handed Pen her tight little arse.”

  The crowd loses their shit, but I don’t care if I’ve been beaten. I just want to get the fuck out of here and as far away from the Breakers as possible. I move to walk away, but Dax grasps my elbow.

  “Not this time, Kid,” he growls as I snap my head around to look at him.

  For a fraction of a second his gaze meets mine and his eyes flare with pain, before he snatches his hand away and strides off across the dance floor towards Zayn, Xeno and York who’ve appeared from the shadows like spectres in the night. Zayn chucks Dax a t-shirt and he swiftly pulls it on before the four of them melt into the crowd, leaving a clear message to me and everyone in the club.

  I’m no longer part of their crew. I’m no longer their Pen.

  But I knew that anyway.

  11

  For the rest of the weekend I avoid Clancy.

  I’d remained tight lipped about what went down at Rocks Friday night despite all her questions in the cab on the way home. She was sweet, kind, and said she wouldn’t judge me no matter what I told her. In the end, when I refused to open up, she took a hint and backed off. At least until the following morning.

  The girl is nothing if not persistent.

  Admittedly, I feel sorry for her. She has knocked on my door religiously each morning, noon and night over the past two days and whilst I haven’t answered the door, I have sat with my back pressed up against it and listened to her chatting to me incessantly about all sorts of shit with the aim of getting me to open the door to my room and to my heart. I know she has unanswered questions about the Breakers and my relationship with them, but that’s not something I’m willing or able to discuss.

  Besides, it’s really not her fault that I’m a social pariah at the best of times, throw in four blasts from the past and I clam up. What can I say? I’ve got issues; issues in the form of the Breakers who are intent on hurting me even more than they already have. I even called into work sick on Saturday because I didn’t want to risk seeing the Breakers again. That’s something I never do because God knows I need the money. Cowardly, perhaps, but I don’t give a shit right now. I need time to recalibrate and to figure out what the hell I’m going to do. Besides, I’m used to surviving on thin air.

  One thing I do know for sure is that they should never have come back. They should’ve stuck to their promise and stayed the fuck away. At the time, that promise had hurt like a bitch, but now… God, I can’t deal with this.

  To make matters a thousand times worse, of course David found out what happened at Rocks and has been chasing my arse all weekend trying to get me to respond to his calls. Screw that. I can’t deal with him right now. Thank fuck he’s half-way around the world in Mexico.

  I don’t talk to my brother willingly. He’s just a psychotic arsehole that I need out of my life for good. Trouble is, we had an agreement and if he thinks I’m going to renege, he’ll make sure to follow through on the threat he made. I can’t risk that, so I will have to speak to him eventually. Nausea rises up my throat and I gag on the bile that spills from my mouth and hits the white pan of the toilet, colouring it a fluorescent yellow.

  “You’ll only get away from him when you’re dead… or he is,” I whisper to my reflection in the bathroom mirror after I rinse my mouth with water and spit it down the sink.

  Sighing heavily, I rake a hand through my hair and stare at myself. I look tired. Dark circles rim my eyes, and my skin is paler than usual. I’ve not slept well worrying about everything. My past has haunted my dreams and my present doesn’t seem so hopeful anymore. I can’t even think about the future because whatever path I come up with, they all lead to the same destination.

  Forcing all those thoughts away and needing to somehow wash away my past, I turn on the shower and wait a minute for it to heat up before stepping under the spray. The hot water scolds my skin, turning it a dusky pink all over. I’ve always enjoyed the heat, it helps to ease the tenseness in my muscles after hours of dancing, or in this case, hours of avoiding my new friend. That’s if she’s still a friend.

  I’ve probably fucked that up now too.

  Right now, it’s seven am. My first official day at the academy starts in just under an hour. On Saturday, Madame Tuillard’s personal assistant sent an email asking that her most promising dancers meet her in Studio Two on the first floor at eight am sharp. Attached to the email was my timetable packed with back-to-back dance classes that will start officially next week. This week students will have some taster sessions, but it will be more like a Freshers week at university designed to help everyone bond, make friends and let off steam before the real work starts.

  Because I chose contemporary as my specialism, just under fifty percent of the lessons are centred around my chosen dance, but I also have other lessons covering most forms of dance, including tap, ballet, street and latin. I’d wanted to feel excited when I received the email, but instead of feeling happy that I’ve finally got to start this next chapter in my life, something I’ve been working towards for years now, I’m feeling anxious.

  Fucking Breakers.

  Why come back now?

  That’s a question I’m not sure I’ll ever get a straight answer to.

  Drying quickly, I pull on my black dance pants, green tank-top and matching muscle-vest, and shove on my trainers. I’m not a showy dancer. I don’t dress up to impress, besides, I don’t have the money to afford top of the range dance gear, so what I’m wearing will have to do. Combing through my wet hair, I put it up in a French plait, fold up a bandana and wrap it around my head then go and make myself a cup of coffee. It’s the cheap, bitter kind, and without any milk or sugar to sweeten it up, pretty disgusting, actually. I drink it anyway because this is my breakfast.

  Making a mental note to head out at some point to grab some supplies, I ignore the rumble of my stomach and snatch up my gym bag, heading out. Apart from the muffled sound of someone talking on a phone in one of the studio flats and a shower turning on in another, the hallway is quiet. Thank God. I’ll be better prepared to face Clancy and the other students who’ll be my neighbours for the next year once I’ve let off some steam and danced my stress away.

  A couple minutes later, I’m pushing open the door to Studio Two, grateful to find that it’s empty. In fact the whole academy is peaceful and quiet.

  Sunlight pours through the windows situated above the length of mirrors that run along the wall opposite. Dust motes float in the air, dancing away when I step further into the room and shut the door behind me. This studio is slightly smaller than the one I auditioned in, but other than that, much the same. It has oak wooden floors that are covered in scuff marks from the many students that have danced in this room before me. At one end of the studio is a table that has a sound system with speakers sitting on top of it and at the other, a wall of hooks to hang bags and clothing out of the way.

  Placing my
gym bag on the floor, and kicking off my trainers, I start to warm up using Pilates and yoga moves. Ten minutes later my muscles are sufficiently stretched, and I feel loose enough to dance. Snatching up my mobile from my bag, I flick through until I find Work Song by Hozier, then head over to the speakers, plug it in using the leads left out for that purpose, and press repeat so the song plays on a loop.

  Moving to the centre of the room, I look at my reflection in the mirror and nod, giving myself a mental slap before pulling my bandana over my eyes and securing it tightly.

  Taking away one of my senses allows me to emerge myself wholly in the dance. I have to concentrate on the music and my movement. If I make a mistake I could crash into the wall and injure myself, knowing that allows me to hone my skills.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I wait for Hozier’s haunting voice to filter out across the room. The moment his voice sounds, I let all the stress go and focus on moving my body instead. There’s an honesty in his words, that and the beat that underpins this song matches my mood this morning. Holding my right arm out to my side, I snap my fingers to the beat, bending my right knee inward before twisting around and ducking low, sweeping my hand across the wooden floor. I feel the gritty dust particles on my fingertips, and draw in the scent of polished wood and lemon air-freshener.

  On the next beat, I clasp my hands behind my head then sweep them down over my chest and kick my leg out behind me in a position similar to an arabesque. I may not know all the steps to ballet, but I’ve picked up enough over the years from YouTube videos and tutorials to get a good measure of it. Much of what I’ve learnt is self-taught and the rest, just instinct. My steps are free-flowing but measured, and a direct representation of what I’m feeling this morning. Being here at the academy is freeing, and yet my past is like a prison I can’t escape.

  I’m trapped.

  Dipping and twirling, I float across the wooden boards and let the emotion take over, drawing on every last drop. Still blindfolded and engrossed in what I’m doing, I don’t notice another presence in the studio until firm hands grasp my upper arms from behind.

  I still, my chest heaving. Sweat slides down my back, and I know from the heat I feel rising off my body that I’ve been dancing for a lot longer than I’d planned.

  “Fuck, sorry,” I mumble, trying to lift my hand up to remove my blindfold.

  Whoever it is prevents me by sliding their hands down my arms and pressing my wrists against my hip. I can feel their body flat against mine, all hard muscle and height. Definitely a guy then. Cool minty breath flutters over my cheek as I turn my head to the side, tipping my head back slightly. The top of my head, brushes something hard… his chin perhaps?

  “You should let me go,” I warn, because this is creepy as fuck and I’m not unskilled in fighting off predators. I might be small, but I’m scrappy. I’ve learnt the hard way.

  He releases my left hand, cupping it briefly before using his finger to write the word no across my palm. I snatch my hand away, reaching for my bandana, but he grabs my forearm, lets my other hand go and flips me around to face him. Grasping both my wrists with one hand, he presses the other into my lower back and pulls me flush against him.

  “You think I won’t fight back?” I growl, shaking with anger. It’s my first fucking day and already some arsehole is trying to molest me.

  “Dance,” the stranger grunts, his fingers flexing on my lower back. My skin pricks, but not in the way I expect. It’s as though my body recognises the person before I’m even able to figure out who it is.

  The voice is muffled, hoarse but there’s something in it that makes me pause. It’s familiar, and yet it isn’t. I don’t knee him in the balls. I remain still, my heart a caged animal in my chest. Willing myself to calm down, I realise that whoever this is, they won’t have much time to do any harm given how long I’ve been dancing. The other students will be here soon anyway.

  “I’m not a puppet. I don’t dance on command.”

  “Dance with me!” he growls. There’s something in his tone that has an edge of desperation to it. Like whoever the fuck this is needs this moment more than oxygen.

  Desperate to touch me, hold me, dance with me.

  Me.

  My stomach churns because deep down I know that it must be one of the Breakers, there’s no other explanation. I should push him away, but I don’t. Curiosity and a desperate need to feel wanted again overrides every other emotion. “Okay,” I whisper in agreement, needing to know who it is.

  If I could feel with my hands, I’d be able to get a better mental image, but it’s difficult to tell just by his body pressed against mine. From his height and width it could be any one of them. His voice is different too, purposely so and the peppermint smell from his mint is overpowering any scent that might be familiar. The only way to know for sure is to do as he asks, and dance.

  Work Song is still playing on a loop and I tip my head back slightly, waiting for him to take the lead. Still grasping both my wrists in one large hand, I’m lowered slowly backwards, my torso bending in an arch as his other hand supports my lower back. For a beat, I’m held in his arms. He could let me go, and I’d fall flat on my arse. He doesn’t. I lean into the hold, dropping my head back and arching my neck, trusting him in the moment. I’m rewarded when he frees my hands as he folds over me, supporting my back. His breath is warm against the slick skin of my upper chest. As he guides me back up, I automatically reach out, grasping hold of his shoulders to steady myself, my heart hiccups at the touch, at the prickle of my skin and that very real need to fall into his hold.

  “Why?” I ask. How can a single word have so many layers, and so many answers?

  Of course he doesn’t reply, instead he steps into me, his left leg moving to the outside of my right. His inner thigh brushing against my outer thigh. The air vibrates with tension, mine, his. He’s not relaxed any more than I am. It’s like we’re both holding our breaths. One false move and this tentative truce is over. All I know is that this kind of dance rules out York and Zayn. Neither were interested in dancing intimately like this, not that they weren’t intimate, because they were, just in different ways.

  This has to be either Xeno or Dax, but that doesn’t make sense. Why would either of them be here? I could reach up and remove my bandana to know for sure, but something stops me. Perhaps it’s the way his other leg slides between mine, the thickness of his thigh pressing against my core and taking my breath away, or perhaps it’s my need to reconnect with a memory of my past. Either way, I remain blind.

  Gently, achingly slowly, he bends his knees and locks my thigh between his, swaying his hips from side to side, encouraging me to do the same. The movement is sensual, sexual, and full of promises I don’t understand. I can’t help but follow his lead, the dancer in me catching on before I can even comprehend what’s happening. Something inside begins to uncurl as strong hands smooth up the sides of my torso, the top of his arms lifting up mine so that they’re locked in place, horizontal to my shoulders, my fingers still gripping onto him. When the flat of his hand slides around my back, a single thumb pressing into my spine possessively, I know immediately who I’m dancing with.

  This is bachata.

  “Xeno?” I whisper.

  12

  The second his name leaves my lips, his steps falter.

  “Xeno?” I repeat.

  He lets me go as cold air rushes in, cooling my heated skin. Ripping off my bandana, I watch as Xeno walks away from me all taut shoulders and curled fists. He switches off Hozier and unhooks my mobile from the speaker system. For a moment, he stands still, drawing in deep breaths, then walks back towards me and drops the offending item in my hand as if it’s scolded him.

  “That never happened,” he growls.

  Yet again, words evade me. It’s been three years and there are many, many things I want to say, to ask, but the chasm between us prevents me from saying anything at all. I look up at him, caught in the power of his gaze. Emotion sits in t
he hard line of his lips, the frown darkening his eyes with heavy brows and the muscle ticking like a timebomb in his jaw.

  Thump, thump, thump goes my stupid heart. It took me years to rebuild it and now it’s about to self-detonate because of one stupid dance. Xeno never asked me to partner him in bachata when we were kids. It was a sore point that hurt every time he chose another girl. Not that I ever told him that.

  “That never happened. Got it?!” He towers over me, trying to intimidate me.

  Tell that to my body, my soul, I want to respond because both have been set alight from his touch. Goddamn it. “Xeno, why are you back? Why are you here?” is what I asked instead.

  His gaze scrapes over every inch of me until I’m raw from his scrutiny. I force myself to breathe, to straighten my spine, to not let him get to me like I know he wants to. Burrowing deep, I force my body to obey. He can’t know how affected I am by him.

  “Tell me…” I repeat.

  Beyond the studio I can hear voices, cutting our one-sided conversation short.

  Xeno gives me one last glare before stepping past me and ripping the door open. He comes face to face with Madame Tuillard who smiles broadly at him.

  “Ah, Mr Tyson, I see you’ve introduced yourself to Pen, one of our most promising students this year,” she says, flicking her gaze to me.

  Mr Tyson? If he’s a student here, why is she referring to him so formally? The confusion must be clear on my face because Madame Tuillard steps into the room and explains.

  “Mr Tyson is a new dance teacher here at the academy, he’ll be teaching bachata, a dance that you may or may not be familiar with. If you’ve picked Latin, then he’ll be teaching you too.”

  “He’s a teacher?” My mouth drops open. I can’t help but gape at Xeno who meets my gaze with a blank look, as though we’re no more than strangers and he hasn’t just pressed his body intimately against mine or stolen a kiss Friday night at Rocks in front of a whole club full of people. Behind Madame Tuillard, Clancy, Tiffany, a petite girl with long, black hair and a guy I don’t recognise, step into the studio.