Freestyle

by Bea Paige

  “Good. Listen to me very carefully. You’re going to befriend the Breakers once more. You’re going to make them fall in love with you again, and you’re going to find out every last secret Jeb is keeping from me. Then when the time is right, we are going to destroy them once and for all. I will stick to my side of the deal, so long as you stick to yours.”

  If I could throw up again, I would, except there’s nothing left inside of me. “David, I don’t know how… They don’t…” They don’t even like me…

  “I don’t give a fuck how you do it. Just get me the information I want or pay the fucking price. I’ll be calling for regular updates.” With that, he clicks off the call and I’m left with the deafening sound of my heart breaking all over again.

  25

  “Nice of you to turn up,” Xeno growls as I step into the studio almost an hour late. Everyone’s eyes fix on me, but I avoid looking at any of them. Truth be known, I debated whether to turn up at all, but with David’s threat ringing in my ears and self-preservation kicking in, I cleaned up the mess in the studio as best I could with paper towels from the ladies room, then dried my eyes and hauled arse.

  “It won’t happen again,” I respond, gritting my teeth. I really don’t need Xeno’s attitude on top of everything else that’s happened today. He gives me a dark look, a frown pulling together his brows, but doesn’t grill me further.

  “Pen’s been feeling rubbish all week,” Clancy interjects, doing her best to stick up for me. I give her a half-hearted smile, grateful for her, but knowing it won’t make a difference. I’m fucking this up and she shouldn’t have to cover for me.

  “Urgh, what a piss poor excuse. Some of us take this seriously and don’t go out every night getting pissed.” Tiffany smirks, running her gaze over me like I’m a piece of shit on her shoe. I don’t even have the energy to argue or to defend myself. Screw her anyway. She’s insignificant when all is said and done.

  “We haven’t been getting pissed every night,” Clancy retorts, giving Tiffany a scathing look. “And even if we had, what the fuck has it got to do with you?”

  “Everything, actually. This show can make or break us as dancers. If you’re not willing to put the time and effort in, then it’s going to reflect badly on everyone, and I for one don’t need her to mess it up for the rest of us,” Tiffany responds, giving me a haughty glare.

  “Oh, shut up, Tiffany. You’ve been fucking a different guy every night this past week going by the sounds coming from your room. So don’t pretend you’ve not been burning the midnight oil getting your rocks off,” River accuses, flashing me a wink. Bless him.

  “That’s none of your business,” she fumbles, her cheeks flushing as she glances over at Zayn. Urgh, I don’t need to guess who one of her guests was.

  “I don’t know why you’re looking at me, Princess,” Zayn sneers, looking her up and down. “You really need to choose your fuck-buddies wisely, the guy who was brave enough to dip his dick in your pussy last night sounded like a rhino being shot.”

  Clancy barks out a laugh then covers her mouth with her hand. So Zayn hasn’t slept with her then? I glance at York who raises an eyebrow and shrugs. Fucking arsehole.

  “Fuck off, Zayn,” Tiffany retorts, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment as she grabs her bag and strides from the room.

  “Well, I’m outta here. See you bitches later,” Sophie says to us all before squeezing Zayn’s arm. “We did good today.”

  If she expects a compliment back, she doesn’t get one. Despite everything that’s gone down today, I allow myself a small smile at his indifference and ignore her glare as she strides past.

  “Well, I’m out too. Catch you later.” River strides across the studio, stopping to give my arm a squeeze.

  “Thanks,” I mutter. He stuck up for me when he didn’t have to, and I’m grateful. It’s been a long time since anyone’s had my back like him and Clancy.

  “Hey, I might have to dance with her, but I sure as fuck don’t have to listen to her bullshit. Hope you feel better soon, Pen.” With that he walks out of the studio leaving me with the Breakers and Clancy who immediately comes to my side. She’s about to say something when Xeno interrupts her.

  “We’re done here tonight. Good work, Clancy. You can go. Dax, I need you to stay behind. I want to talk to you and Pen.”

  Clancy pulls a face, her eyes asking a thousand questions that I’m not able to answer right now, or ever, actually. “Pen?” she questions.

  “It’s alright. I’ve got this,” I say.

  “Sure?”

  I plaster a reassuring smile on my face. “I’m sure.”

  York and Zayn make no attempt to follow Clancy, and when Dax steps behind me locking the studio door, I ready myself for the inevitable storm. This is the first time I’ve been alone with all four of them since they’ve returned. I’m not going to lie, there have been many occasions I’ve thought about this moment over the years, how I’d behave, what I’d say if confronted with them all again. I’ve held onto bitterness and anger for so long, using it to stop myself from feeling the guilt about the part I played in our demise. I resented them for joining the Skins and I held onto that fact when I obliterated our friendship, using it to assuage my own guilt over the years. When they left without a backward glance, it only made me believe that what we had was never real in the first place. Three years is a long time to hold onto that kind of disappointment and pain.

  Xeno parks his arse on the edge of the table he’s standing in front of and motions for me to enter the room. “Let’s see what we’re working with. Dance,” he orders, all business-like and emotionless.

  Zayn, York, and Dax make themselves comfortable as they all watch me walk into the centre of the studio upon shaky legs that I force to be steady. When I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, I’m shocked at just how appalling I look. Talking to David and carrying the weight of his threat has turned me into a person I don’t recognise. But instead of crumbling, I use that to fuel my fire, lighting the tinder of hate for my brother into a raging inferno. I need an outlet for it, and as usual it’s dance.

  “Music?” Xeno questions, cocking his head to the side as he watches me. His grass-green eyes fixed entirely on my face as though he’s trying to read me the same way York was always capable of doing so well.

  “She doesn’t need any music,” Zayn intercedes, watching me closely. There’s no malice in his words, just a deep understanding of who I am that makes me want to launch myself into his arms. It feels like an olive branch, and yet the scowl that follows tells me it’s just an observation, a fact, nothing more.

  Regardless, he's right. I don’t need any music. My soul just wants the outlet of dance. I can feel myself humming with restlessness, at my need to drive away the demons that chase me with something that has always soothed me whenever I’m overwhelmed with emotion. Both the good and the bad. I’m well aware that I’m about to open myself up in a very personal way but honestly, I’m past caring. I’ve walked the tightrope of my emotions so carefully these past three years that the Breakers return, and my brother’s and Jeb’s threats, have well and truly off-balanced me. I’m freefalling with no idea who to trust or what the fuck I should do.

  With my resolve waning, I look between each of my Breakers before finally resting my gaze on Xeno. “You wanted my truth. Well, here it is.”

  My anger reveals itself first as I launch into a tirade of steps, storming over the floor with heavy feet and angry jerks of my body. My fist punches the air as I twist and turn, jerking my body roughly to the slamming, staccato beat of my heart. I pop and lock, drop and spin, my rage flooding every inch of me as I push upwards onto the balls of my feet and flip forward, launching my body off the ground and landing with a violence that penetrates the air.

  Every ounce of anger bleeds from my soul and into my steps. I make impossible shapes with my body as rage implodes, detonating inside my chest and making me fearless. All those years I spent learning the
hardest hip-hop tricks and never quite coming up to scratch seems to fall in place now as I shred my fear with every head spin and flare of my legs. With every flip and thrust I own my anger, and lay bare my truth.

  Drawing in ragged breaths I turn and focus my gaze on Zayn, the boy who found me in the playground and decided I was worth knowing. Without uttering a word, he approaches me, jerking his chin. I take the bait, more than willing to battle. I watch him with sweat beading on my brow as he responds to my steps with a rage of his own, vaguely aware that Xeno has stepped forward to break this up, only to be prevented by Dax’s thick forearm holding him back.

  Zayn moves around me, jerking his body in movements that surpass any kind of hip-hop step I recognise. He rips off his t-shirt, shredding himself for no other reason than to take my fucking breath away. I’ve seen the tattoos on his arms, but across his chest is another kind of tattoo, except these are raised scars that cut horizontally across his pecs. Scars that weren’t there the last time I saw him with his top off three years ago.

  “What happened to you?” I mutter, stumbling back as he comes at me in a series of vicious steps before dropping into a corkscrew, only to rear back up, his nostrils flaring. Standing before me, our noses almost touching, all I can do is stare into his night-time eyes. They used to give me comfort, their black pools somewhere I could find peace. Not today. Today they’re a black hole ready to drag me under.

  “Zayn…”

  His lip curls up. “Don’t,” he warns, before dropping to the floor and performing an air-flare.

  I watch in awe as his legs windmill, his feet inches from my face. I have no choice to move away or get hit. The power and the strength to perform with such skill shouldn’t be underestimated. Zayn only makes it look easy because he’s an incredible dancer.

  Hip-hop is inherently aggressive, but what he’s sharing with me now is painful to watch because this isn’t about the dance, this is about us, about me. I’m not the only one telling my truth today. When he finally comes to a standstill, both of our chests heaving, I narrow my eyes and launch myself into a backflip, my feet only inches from his body as I slice through the air. Six feet apart and both of us glaring at the other, York steps in front of Zayn. He cocks his head to the side and for the first time since he’s been back he lets me see what he’s been holding inside.

  Anguish.

  “My turn…” he snarls.

  Those two words slash at my resolve to remain strong and I flinch as he begins to move. The sound of his feet slamming against the wooden floor, a percussive kind of anger that makes me want to cover my ears, close my eyes, and curl up in a ball. Instead, I stand tall, taking the beating with every last ounce of strength I have. York’s feet move with lightning speed as I try and absorb the tap steps that are so familiar and yet, so alien. I can barely keep up as he slams his feet onto the wooden floor so quickly that my eyes tear up from the sheer weight of his truth.

  He’s furious, so fucking mad, and I reel from the emotion he displays.

  The one person who was always so kind to me, who understood me even when I failed to understand myself, rips into me with every step. All I can do is watch and wait for him to tire himself out. On the surface tap appears to be such a cheerful dance, teamed with Jazz music and the light, fluffy black and white movies York so loved to watch as a kid, it often brings happiness and joy, but it’s origins come from something more tribal. Seeped in black history of repression and slavery, tap has a darker, more sinister edge. Today, his moves are percussive, well-timed, and varying in tempo, but every single one of them angry. Every time his feet hit the floor I flinch as though he’s struck me.

  Feeling raw with emotion at his pain. I try to match his movements, making my own feet light in an attempt to draw out the boy I knew with a wobbly smile and pain etched around my eyes. “York…” I plead.

  His feet suddenly still at the sound of my voice, and he lifts his eyes from my feet to meet mine. With a heaving chest, he speaks a thousand words without saying anything at all.

  My heart plummets.

  Twisting on his feet, he strides to the edge of the room and sits, clasping his head in his hands as he stares at the floor, refusing to meet my gaze.

  I mirror him.

  Gripping my head, I sway from side to side, my body rocking on my feet. Around me, the room is charged with a pungent kind of electricity that barbs the air with unspoken words. Three long years of distance separate who we were to who we are now, that and the terrible decisions of that one night. To each other they’re still the Breakers, I can sense their deep-seated loyalty to one another, but me? I’m someone to be wary of, to hold at arm’s length. Someone that’s separate from the cohesion they still share, an outsider looking in.

  Someone to hate.

  Shaking with adrenaline, I push on, the anger making way for hopelessness. Stretching my arm wide and lifting my right leg out whilst holding all my weight on my toes, I form my body into an arabesque. It’s not perfect, far from it, and my feet still throb from the recent torture I put them through, but I push through, wanting to express myself in the lighter more graceful movements of contemporary dance. Right now, I need the soothing fluidity.

  This is where I’m most comfortable. This is where healing comes from, at least for me.

  With featherlight movements, arched feet, and soft hands, I glide around the studio, twisting, turning, soaring with long-held emotion. After a while, the Breakers here in this room with me now fall away, and the boys I loved return, their ghosts dancing alongside me. Over the years, my loneliness has conjured them up like this. It’s the only way I’ve got through their absence.

  When I feel warm hands at my waist and I’m lifted into the air, I know it’s the real-life Dax and not some figment of my imagination dancing with me now. Dax lowers me to my feet, his arm encircling my waist, his fingers digging into my side as he takes my free hand and pushes my body away from him. I twist outwards, only to be pulled back and lifted again. It’s instinctual, how we dance together, and when he holds me against his chest, his heart beating into the smouldering heat of my back, tears finally prick my eyes.

  “You destroyed us. That ain’t something we can let go,” he grinds out before folding himself over my body, not giving me a chance to defend myself. Smoothing his palm down my thigh and encouraging my leg to slide out beneath his extended leg, I feel the hot rash of heat and the familiar shiver run up my spine at being close to him again. He mirrors me, movement for movement, not once letting me go until all I am is an extension of him.

  The physical contact has me quaking, my heart racing and my core clenching with an ache I don’t think I’ll ever be able to soothe. We move fluidly, and to an unsuspecting audience it would look as though we were two people in love, dancing for enjoyment, but I know different. The tightness of his grip, the harshness of his breath and the trembling of his body, not to mention his harsh words, tell me his anger is just a whisper away. Dax has never once hurt me, not physically anyway, but he wants me to feel his pain, to hurt me the way he believes I’ve hurt him. When he lets me go abruptly and storms away with clenched fists, I know I’m right.

  Panting and with sweat sliding over every inch of my skin, I remain standing in the centre of the room, my emotions all over the place. For three years I’ve tried to forget about the Breakers. I’ve blamed them so I didn’t have to blame myself. I’ve tried to hate them, so I didn’t miss them, but when all is said and done, the only person I truly hate is myself.

  I loved them.

  I still love them, and if I do what David asks, I’m going to destroy them once and for all. Can I really be that person? Can I make the Breakers love me again only to betray that love so cruelly? Can I survive hurting them all over again? The truth is, it doesn’t matter either way because the consequences of not doing as David asks are too horrific to even contemplate.

  Drawing on the remains of my strength, I look at each of my Breakers in turn trying to decide how to wad
e through this volatile situation. In the end, I opt for a version of the truth, the only version I’m able to share right now.

  “I didn’t play you. I made a choice,” I say, trying to explain, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.

  “You made the wrong fucking choice, Pen,” Xeno spits, his self-righteousness getting my hackles up. How dare he? Has he forgotten the choice he’d forced upon me? At least I had a valid reason for doing what I did, unlike him.

  “Are you fucking kidding me, Xeno? You were the one who wanted me to choose, who gave me a fucking ultimatum because I was stupid enough to fall in love with you all. It was an impossible decision,” I yell back, my fists clenching and unclenching at my side.

  “I was trying to do the right thing!” he booms, his fist slamming onto the studio wall. Zayn, York, and Dax all snatch their heads around, looking at Xeno in shock. His outburst was clearly something they hadn’t expected. Not that I give a shit. I laugh hysterically in the face of his reasoning.

  “The right thing! What, you mean like joining the Skins was?”

  When he doesn’t answer, when he won’t answer, I just shake my head. Grief claws at me, threatening to shred me open until I’m nothing but a mess of skin, bone, and muscle.

  I’m trembling all over as they watch me unravel before them. I’ve never felt so fucking open, so raw. It doesn’t matter how much I ache, how far I need to swim through the river of pain separating us, because it’s too late. It’s too fucking late.

  Remembering what David had said and what I’m supposed to do now, my shoulders drop, my energy and self-righteousness dissolving, leaving me boneless. I look at each of my Breakers in turn because they’re still mine even though I’m not theirs.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it.

  I’m sorry for the past, I’m sorry for the present and the gulf between us all and I’m sorry for what’s to come. I’m sorry for that most of all.

  My apology is met with stony silence.