by KC Enders
So, I do. Over the next hour, I unpack everything that went down on tour. Most of it centering around Kane and his complete disregard for everyone but himself. Though, to be fair, he seems to get off on digging at me more than he does Gavin or Ian.
“I don’t know, Charles. I get that I’m probably the most replaceable member of the band. Maybe I need to step away.” This is the first time I’ve spoken the thought aloud, and honestly, it hurts.
I didn’t see the rock scene as my musical career, but I can’t deny that it’s been good to me. Fucking amazing actually.
“I do not believe that is what your heart desires, not in the least.” Charles sits forward on the edge of his seat, planting his charcoal-gray suede brogues precisely in front of him.
“Please, hit me with your wisdom. I’m truly at a loss with this.” I lift my ball cap and push my hair back before resettling it on my head.
“I think you need to fall in love.”
Fucking genius right there.
“Yeah. That’d be great and all, but I don’t see how that’s going to smooth things over. Kane’s had a thing for Gavin since we were in school, not me. And Gav falling hard for Gracyn has made things with Kane a thousand times worse, so—”
He arches an eyebrow. “With music, dear boy. You need to fall in love with music. Your play has become angry, violent if you will. I want you to try playing with love as opposed to hate. Passion is a wonderful thing, but passion backed by anger is an entirely different thing than when it’s wrapped in love.”
Whether it’s his intensity or simply the meaning behind his words, they strike a chord with me.
Acquiescence must show on my face because a Cheshire cat grin pulls at Charles’s mouth.
“I have a favor to ask of you. A bit of a passion project, if you will.”
4
A DAY TO REMEMBER
ALEXIS
Room number three.
Three o’clock in the afternoon.
And yet Charlie’s distinct instructions were to simply follow the music.
I laugh under my breath as I pass each small studio. It looks like most of them are occupied, and all are pushing out music. Filling the hallway with bits and pieces of scales and classics. Contemporary and jazz.
What I’ve come to think of as my room, the one I’ve been summoned to, is on the left. The door cracked.
Across the hall, drifting softly from room number four, the plaintive sounds of a violin float out into the hallway. I pause for a moment, catching a glimpse of Charlie, and enjoy a rare peek at his art. He hasn’t ever played for me outright, so I’ll take this. Enjoy the gift of his talent.
The pull of his bow across the string stills, the final notes fading into a silence that resonates through the cacophony of after-school lessons.
I steel myself and turn, pushing into the room I’ve been assigned, drawn in as if I had no control. My heart stutters to a stop and then kicks back into motion, nearly exploding behind my ribs. Because while the man in front of me looks nothing like the boy I left in Virginia, I know those hands. I know the music they’re capable of creating, but the way they curl around the neck of his bass throws me back to the last time I walked in on him practicing. It feels like a lifetime ago.
Nate was wrapped around his double bass, the body of the instrument safe in the circle of his arms. His light brown curls tumbled over his forehead. His eyes closed in concentration.
“Hey,” I said softly as I closed the door behind me and watched as Nate poured himself into the piece he was working on.
At the sound of my voice, he straightened, lips pulled into a wide smile.
“Hey yourself,” he responded, eyes shining and bright.
“You can finish. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
I loved watching him play. The look of peace on his face as he lost himself in the music. The way his body moved. His hands. Dear God, I loved the grace and strength in his hands as his fingers splayed and stretched, coaxing each note. Made each piece, no matter how traditional, his own.
He picked up that huge instrument and set it in its case. It was heavy, the effort caused his forearms to strain. When he turned to face me, he rolled his bottom lip between his teeth, trapping it there until his smile pulled it free.
“What’s going on? You done with rehearsal?” He tucked his hands on either side of my face, his big palms cupping my cheeks as he leaned in to brush his lips across mine. He took my bag from my shoulder and set it on the floor as if the contents were fragile before he wrapped those arms around me.
“I am. We finished up early, so I came straight over.” I glanced at my bag, making sure it was still zipped closed. And it was, thankfully. “What time do your parents get home today? Your mom has a late class, right?” I wanted some time alone with him. I needed it.
Nate backed up until the edge of his bed hit his legs. When he sat, he pulled me between his knees, and rested his hands on my butt. He squeezed lightly and then ran his palms down the backs of my thighs.
“Mmhmm. Won’t be home until nine, I think. And my dad’s at the symphony until ten-ish.” With his strong hands, he tugged at one leg and then the other until I was straddling his thighs. “Whatcha got in mind?” he asked knowingly.
Oh, the things I had running through my head. The envelope in my bag practically screamed that it was there, but I shoved that away and ran my fingers through Nate’s silky curls.
“I want … I, um … I need you,” I whispered as I peppered his jaw and neck with kisses. Unsure of what this brazen me was all about, I scooted forward on his lap, as close as I could get to him. Pushed against his chest until he settled on his back. I shifted on my knees until I was where I needed to be. Where I could feel him, hard, so hard beneath me.
Nate smiled, sweet and a little dirty. He latched on to his bottom lip again and then rolled us over, pushing me to the center of his mattress. “You wanna …” His long fingers slid under my sweatshirt and curled around the waistband of my leggings.
All it took was a quick nod of consent, and Nate’s worship began. His lips, his teeth, his strong hands with long, agile fingers touched and caressed every inch of me. Pulled pleasure from me. Promised me a lifetime of more. All I needed to do was stay.
Nate’s perched on the edge of a stool. Light-brown hair, longer than I’ve ever seen it, frames his face. Soft green eyes. A shading of scruff, highlighting the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.
And those hands. Hands that knew every part of me once upon a time. Hands that I knew intimately. Hands I can still feel on me, around me—in me—when I close my eyes late at night.
As ungracefully as possible, I trip over nothing and falter. Panic surges through me as all my weight lands on my right foot, causing me to twist and stumble.
No, no, no.
I wince and tighten every muscle, bracing for impact. It’s exactly the wrong thing to do, but fear is a powerful bitch.
My dance bag thuds to the floor, and I fully expect to follow. Instead, those warm, strong hands catch me, saving me from a fall.
In the blink of an eye, Nate’s wrapped me up, pulled me tight to his broad chest. His simple white t-shirt is soft against my forehead, and I melt into him. Just a little bit before tensing once again.
I slowly tilt my head back, waiting until the last possible moment to lift my eyes to his. Surprise battles with concern, drawing his brows low.
“Alex.” Just my name and the solid feeling of his fingers pressing into my back.
“What … what are you doing here?” I ask breathlessly.
After I walked away from him all those years ago, I was certain I’d never see him again—at least, not in person—never feel his touch.
He releases me, putting a respectable amount of space between us. Space I don’t want. He shoves his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans, forearms rippling in the way a musician’s do.
“A friend and I are working on a project. He’s helping me—” Nate takes
a step backward, putting even more space and a steel wall between us.
“I must be in the wrong place, then. Charlie told me to be here at three. Said he had a way for me to find my—”
“Passion.” Nate’s voice dips low, shivering down my spine.
“Passion,” I whisper.
The silence in the room is broken only by the measured tick of the second hand on the ancient black clock above the door.
Nate lowers himself onto a battered stool, bringing us eye to eye. “He told me I’d be working with a dancer who was injured.” His gaze rakes over my body, pausing on my hips on the way down and my chest on the trip up before looking me square in the eyes. He folds his arms over his broad chest, biceps popping, pecs defined. “You look fine.” Ice and caution coat his words.
I can’t say that I blame him. I took off, practically stealing away in secret without telling him I was leaving. I couldn’t. As much as the opportunity to come to New York meant to me, actually saying good-bye—having to look Nate in the eye and break things off, turning my back and walking away—would have killed me. In fact, I’m not sure I could have done it then.
I’m not sure I can do this now.
“I’m not.”
His only response is a perfectly derisive scoff and a narrowing of his eyes.
I push my shoulders down and back, squaring them, centering my stance for the dismissal I totally deserve. “I am, but I’m not. The doctor says I’m healed, that there’s nothing else for him to do, but I can’t dance,” I tell him, reaching for the strap of my bag.
“Bullshit. You couldn’t not dance if you tried.” His arms unfold, and he rests his hands on his thighs, those long fingers curling casually around his solid-looking muscle.
My lips press into a line, my head bouncing in time to whatever tune is filtering in from the hall. “And yet, here we are. I had principal—the lead—in my sights. Within my grasp. I could feel the lifeblood of a dream come true pulsing in my palm.” At his barely perceptible snort, I look up, meeting his stare. “And then, with a shitty landing, the bubble burst, and that lifeblood spilled through my fingers. Surgery. Rehab. Physical therapy. I’ve done it all. And it all comes down to the simple fact that I’m too scared.”
Our staring contest lasts for far longer than is comfortable.
“No.”
A bitter laugh tumbles out of me. “What do you mean, no?”
“You’re fearless, Alex. Driven. Nothing can stop you when you’ve made up your mind to do something, not a damn thing.”
Tears burn, gathering, unbidden. “I tried, Nate. I fucking tried, and I can’t do it.”
“Bullshit,” he says on a laugh. “Fear might be in you, but no matter how big it is, it’s still smaller than you. And I’ve seen you, Alex. Seen you show your ass to whatever’s holding you back. Strut right out the door and take what you want. Fear is nothing but an excuse, and you know it.”
Well, if that doesn’t knock some bitch into me. “Wow. Really? And how’s the rock star thing working for you? Damn shame you have to suffer through that falling in your lap,” I spit back, a touch of venom lacing my words. “You poor thing.”
“Yeah. Speaking of watching dreams go up in smoke.” He laughs. “This isn’t at all what I wanted, but it’s pretty fucking hard to complain when I’m pulling bank.”
Anger and resentment thicken the air in the room. Hurt and hate fight for space with love lost. And at the end of the day, when everything is all tallied up, he’s right.
I walked away from him, from us.
I’m too scared of failure, of pain, to try and push myself past this injury.
I run. I hide.
“Sorry. This was obviously a mistake. I’ll let Charlie know that whatever he had in mind isn’t going to work out.” My heart aches as I turn to walk out the door. Again.
Whatever hopes I had, even before seeing Nate, skitter away. I honestly don’t know what I’ll do. How I’ll fight past this roadblock. Or if I even can.
“Alex, stop,” he says softly.
5
TWO STEPS FROM HELL
NATE
Jesus fucking Christ. How am I here?
Charles said he had a project he needed my help with. Yeah, he told me it was with an injured dancer. Told me that at this point, full recovery was up against more of a mental barrier.
And now, I’m sitting here, staring at Alex’s back as she walks out of my life. Again.
She literally snuck out of my house—out of my bed—and left. Eighteen-year-old me had passed out, wrapped around his girlfriend, and then woke up alone, her scent lingering in my bed, her taste on my fingers. And she didn’t just sneak out to get home before her curfew. Hell no. She left the fucking state.
Yep. Drifted off with a handful of her breast and woke clutching a white envelope instead.
I didn’t blame her for taking the opportunity to study in New York.
She left to pursue her dream.
The fact that she couldn’t face me—to tell me to my face—was the problem.
I would never have tried to hold her back. Never asked her to take a pass or to wait for me—because God knew I wanted nothing more than to study music in the city. And had my audition to Juilliard gone differently a few years before that, I’d have jumped at that opportunity without a second thought, knowing that Alex would have supported me one hundred percent.
I would have done the same. If only she’d told me.
But like she said, here we are.
“Alex, stop.” My voice is low enough. I’m not sure she heard me until she stops just shy of the door. “Let’s try. Let me help you.”
She looks over her shoulder, her bag of crap swinging low by her thigh. Her hair wildly framing her heart-shaped face. Goddamn, she has grown into the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Her hazel eyes go wide, one perfectly arched brow disappearing beneath the riot of curls.
“You want to help me?”
It’s still there. The vulnerability that Alex could never truly hide. The hint of wondering if she’s good enough. I saw it all through high school—with every audition, every time there was a chance for her to succeed. I didn’t lie earlier. She’s never failed. Never.
“I do. And maybe you’re going to help me too.”
Her brows jump even higher as she turns to fully face me. I haven’t missed the fact that each time she turns, Alex has all her weight fully on her left foot. Nope. Haven’t missed that at all.
I push up from where I’m seated and approach her. It’s been almost a decade—eight years, nearly to the day—since I last saw Alex in person. She’s different, transformed. I stalk toward her, taking in every single thing that’s changed since then. And more importantly, everything that’s stayed the same.
This girl broke me in a way I thought I’d never recover from.
But I’ve changed too.
“Why would I do that?”
Yep. She still pops her hip, hand firmly planted on the lean muscle, when she’s feeling saucy.
I close the distance, erasing the space between us. Jesus, her scent. Light floral. Crisp and clean. Happy and peaceful. That scent will forever take me straight home to Virginia and back to a time when all there was in my world was my friends, a realm of possibilities, and Alexis Thompson. The scent that’s been teasing me, torturing me, lingering in this practice space each and every fucking day.
“You owe me,” I say simply, holding my ground.
At best, two steps separate us. Two steps, eight years, and a pile of unresolved shit.
“Owe you?”
I nod.
Her head shakes in tiny, almost imperceptible jerks. Her gaze darts to the open door, to the hallway.
“Go ahead. Running is what you do best.”
She freezes, one hand on the strap of her bag, the other on the frame of the door.
“Want me to close my eyes? Turn around, so you can take off behind my back?”
I know I’m being a dick, but
this is a lot. With all I have on my plate right now, seeing her like this, I’m at my limit.
Instead, I pin her in place with a look, brow up, jaw muscle ticcing. Without a doubt, I expect her to turn and walk out the door. That’s what she does.
So, when Alex’s shoulders rise and then fall as the breath she pushes out sends her curls flying all over, I’m surprised. Shocked maybe.
“Okay.” Her body sags.
“What now?”
She squares her shoulders, steels her spine. “You’re right. I need this. I need help. I have to get back in shape, get back to work, and get back en pointe. I … I need you … your help, I mean. I need your help. Shit.” Her head falls back, her face glowing under the bright ceiling lights. “Nate, will you help me?”
It hurt her to say those words. Actually pained her to expel them from her mouth. I would love to fold my arms across my chest and give her a simple no. But I can’t because I need this too.
“If we do this, there needs to be rules, expectations,” I say because God knows I can’t go into this with no control.
We have too much history. Too much hurt.
Her bag slides from her shoulder, dragging the edge of her loose sweater with it, revealing ivory skin and a smattering of freckles. I knew every one of them once. The way they tasted, the constellations they made.
A laugh huffs through her nose. “What kind of rules? We’re not keeping score; this isn’t a game for me.” Alex runs her hand through her hair, pushing it back from her face as she gathers it, twisting it into a knot low on the back of her head.
“You still have it; it hasn’t changed,” I whisper, focus shifted completely.
Alex tilts her head. “Have what?”
“My curl. It’s still right there.” My gaze falls to the wild spiral curl, coiled tighter than all the others, that springs free.
All through school, for as long as I knew her, that curl could never be tamed. I’d sit behind her in class and stare at it. When I kissed her for the very first time, my fingers sought it out. I spent hours upon hours with that curl, winding it around my finger, pulling it and watching it spring back as tight as it had been before. After every performance, freeing it was the first thing I did.
