“Music and Dramatic Arts?” One student walked past her, rocking to oversized Beats headphones. “Music and Dramatic Arts?” People swarmed around her. “Music and Dramatic Arts!” Eventually one person slowed down enough to point. Trouble was, he pointed in the opposite direction of where GPS said she should go. Three steps along, she asked another person, whose point coincided more with her phone’s directions. Breathless, Edy took off at a trot, knowing she looked like an idiotic freshman but unable to help it.
When she burst into the tiny classroom adjacent to a much larger theater it was like bursting into a bubble: sudden and shocking for the bubble itself. Every head turned, including that of the slight, smallish woman at the front, who froze mid-speech. Even so, she did manage to turn one hellish scowl on Edy. That alone would've made a lesser girl shrink back. Maybe one who had a normal mother, instead of the bulldog that was Rebecca Phelps.
“Get in, set your bag down, and come back for a syllabus.” She jutted a finger at her desk.
Edy frowned. Certainly she’d pass the teacher’s desk and the stack of syllabi atop it as she headed for a seat. Wouldn’t it make more sense to get whatever paperwork on her way to the seat?
“Well?” the woman barked.
“Sorry,” Edy muttered, but not loud enough for anyone to hear, before actually stepping into the room.
“Shut the door the way you found it!” The professor’s body rattled with each word.
Edy mumbled more apologies, closed the door as quietly as tense muscles would allow, and headed for the stack of paperwork up front.
“Learn to follow directions! Place your possessions down, then return for your syllabus!”
Edy’s jaw shut tight enough to snap. Her nerves rattled and zipped through her body. First day. First class. Now this.
Edy took a deep breath, turned away from her teacher’s desk, and tripped over her own shoelaces. Two stumbles in, both her arms flung out and the point of her chin slammed against an occupied desk.
The bang was deafening, right through her skull.
“Holy shit. You okay?” The sound of one male voice came in crisp, alongside a chittering of laughter and a few snorts.
“What an idiot,” a distant, female said.
“Let me help you,” said a male, mildly amused voice, before Edy felt a hand on the tender flesh of her arm. Tanned warm skin, a narrow face, crisp harsh brows, and cool gray eyes turned down to her.
They were laughing. Everyone. Instinctively, her cheeks heated. Edy had to remind herself that she was fine and yet another guy thought she needed rescuing or protecting.
“I’m fine,” Edy snapped and snatched from his grip.
His features turned cold, harsh, instantly forbidding.
“Then get off the floor,” he hissed, looming like a Titan.
Edy inhaled at the harshness in his voice, certain there’d been a temperature drop in the room. Then she remembered her awkward position on the floor of her first college class and began to carefully pick herself up. She’d lost a book and a few notebooks in the process of falling, she realized, and the other guy had stepped on them, leaving a massive imprint on her binder.
“Queen Elizabeth,” their professor said with false sweetness, “you are disrupting my class. Still.”
The other guy groaned, gave her a massive eye roll, then scooped up her possessions and dumped them on a desk. The laughter continued, unbidden.
Edy inhaled. She was a freaking idiot, but she would not apologize for falling. Hell, if this woman hadn’t been so rigid in her instructions, then she would not have fallen. Right? Except, she had been riled up by that conversation with Rani.
Edy managed to gather herself without further struggles and went for the seat her rude ass knight had picked out for her. She could practically feel the heat coming off him, the anger at her for Lord knew what, and she didn’t want to engage him any further. For one, she wasn’t even supposed to be talking to guys. For two, he was an asshole, obviously. Still, that was the only seat. So, she sauntered past the would-be-savior and dropped down behind him.
“Through making your entrance?” he said.
Edy snorted out a laugh, then couldn’t believe herself.
“And I thought they said all dancers had grace,” a girl at the back of the room said. Though she got a few laughs from the wisecrack, none laughed as loud and long as she did at her own joke.
Edy scowled Rebecca Phelps-style at her.
“Here,” the professor said, after returning from her desk. She slammed the syllabus in front of Edy and went to the front of the room. “Because I don’t plan to spend half the class getting you settled in.”
Despite her best efforts, Edy flushed all over and slumped down in her seat. What a way to start college. If only she hadn’t answered the phone when Rani called.
“Back to introductions,” the professor prompted. “Sierra from London went last, right?” she said and gestured to a girl at the back of the room.
“Yes,” the girl said. Edy recognized her as the one commenting on her grace. But she didn’t sound very British. Instead, she strong-armed that southern accent as much as anyone.
“Well, wow, London,” Edy whispered, thinking of The Royal Ballet and all the opportunities a girl like that must have had.
“Calm down. It’s London, Texas,” said the rescuer.
Edy shot him a look. What was with this guy?
The professor prompted the next person to speak up. It turned out to be him.
“I’m Silas,” he said. “Silas Swain from… Baton Rouge, by way of New Orleans.”
“Dance background?” their professor prompted.
Edy wanted to dig out her schedule to find the woman’s name, but she dared not make too much motion and draw her attention yet again.
“Lots of stuff,” Silas said. “I’m into all-purpose performance.”
Edy rolled her eyes. What the hell did that even mean? Certainly, their professor wouldn’t stand for it. Not when she’d lost her shit over Edy’s entrance into the classroom. But the corners of the instructor’s mouth twitched as if unsure whether to laugh or scowl.
“Schools of instruction?” she said finally.
Silas sighed. “Nederlands Dans and, uh, the School of American Ballet.”
Ballet? Really? “Wow,” Edy whispered, leaning forward. “In New York?”
“No, in Chattanooga,” Silas snapped.
Edy’s features wrenched into a scowl.
“Aspirations?” the professor prompted.
“I don’t know,” he said sullenly. “Whatever.”
“Then why are you here?” their teacher snapped. “Why not go and join a company? School is expensive. You have competitive credentials. Or is it that you have no talent to match?”
Silas lifted his head. “I’d like a degree. It was important to my parents… It’s… important to me.” An awkward silence followed.
“Was?” the teacher probed harshly.
“They’re dead,” he said. “Nothing’s important to them now, obviously.”
Edy cringed. She could feel the stares on him, could feel the gaping maw of morbid curiosity, and wanted to erect a wall of protection. She blurted her next words so as to divert attention to her. She was next anyway.
“I’m Edy—Edith Phelps—from Boston, Massachusetts,” she said too loudly. “I’m a dance major and a Lady Tiger. I began classical ballet around my fifth birthday so I have twelve years of training, mostly at Boston Ballet. I had intensives there and at the School of American Ballet. I’ve also competed competitively a number of times and placed every time—local, regional, even national. Ballet aside, I’m interested in contemporary and modern dance. I love street dancing and improvisation.” She blushed, realizing she’d said more than she’d been asked and talked more than anyone so far. Now she didn’t know how to end it. Edy dropped her gaze. “I don’t know what’s in my future. That’s why I’m here.”
“They say that’s not the on
ly reason she’s here,” Sierra from London said and snickered.
Edy flushed hot, then cold. Did she mean Hassan? She must’ve meant Hassan. But how could she possibly know that? Wait. She vaguely remembered Hassan being interviewed for puff pieces and blogs after he’d made his college selection known. He hadn’t made Edy a secret then; in fact, he’d said that she had been part of his decision process. But had people actually read those things? She guessed so. And if they had, had they somehow discredited the minor footnote about her helping to select their college? She supposed the fact that she and Hassan had wound up at a major football college meant to some people that whatever input Edy purported to have was minor at best. She was seen as following Hassan like a lapdog. She was seen as tethering her future to his. The implication was that dance came second to football and that she’d dance anywhere just to be near him. Edy resisted the weak urge to turn on Sierra and blurt out how LSU had been just as much her choice as Hassan’s. But why bother? No one would believe her. Her parents did. Maybe, deep down, Edy didn’t believe herself either.
“Thank you, Edith from Boston,” the professor said disapprovingly. As she did so, she raised a brow in much the same way Edy’s dad did before consulting the Internet for which drug he thought she might be abusing.
A girl with a narrow hammer of a face introduced herself next. She was Bridgette from Biloxi, in to modern dance.
The introductions continued. Edy’s instructor finally revealed herself as Anya Martin, daughter of the somewhat celebrated French choreographer, Michel Martin. Though she talked her dad up quite a bit, Edy ignored it mostly because she’d heard of her father, the elder Bouche, and his reputation preceded him. Back in Boston, she’d met another dancer claiming to be the daughter of Martin. Then another. It turned out that Martin was a serial philanderer known to favor his current love interest when casting—irrespective of talent or lack thereof. As a result, Martin left a string of disgruntled talent in his rear-view mirror. Still, his choreography transformed classical ballet into the breathtakingly modern, and for that he was remembered.
Class began with an open discussion about dance and when it might have started. The slender redhead to the left of Edy, with a great burst of freckles on both her cheeks, had quite a bit of speculation to offer up.
“I’ll bet dance was, like, the first thing ever,” she said. “Because sound makes you wanna move, you know?” If Edy hadn’t been in Louisiana, she would have guessed that the girl exaggerated her broad southern accent as a joke. It seemed to swell with every word. “Also my mom, who would have liked to have been a dancer back in her day, says the same thing. She has a dancer’s body, you know. It’s what my daddy first noticed about her. Anyway, she says that dancing is the one art that don’t have to be taught. But whenever she says that, her and daddy get in a big argument about how much my lessons cost and whether he ought to try and get his money back. But you know what I think?”
Edy resisted the urge to slam her head on the desk. Lord, this girl could talk. She could practically see Hassan’s vacant stare if he had happened to be subjected to this, followed by the single sidestep of a man planning his getaway. The way this girl carried on, Edy hardly thought she’d notice anyone escaping.
More people threw in their opinions as to when people began to dance. Silas said nothing, as did Edy. They spent the hour discussing dance in its various functions, including celebratory, funerary, communicative, and educational, before the professor held up the class textbook, The Evolution of Dance, and gave them a massive reading assignment to be done before the next meeting.
Damn. As if time wasn’t already a thin commodity.
After class, Edy could feel eyes on her as she packed up her belongings.
“So, you were at SAB,” Silas said appraisingly, blocking the aisle and her exit. “I never saw you.”
The halls were filling. The door was opened. Edy couldn’t take the risk that Tamela or one of the other dancers might pass and see this guy talking to her. It wouldn’t matter that she hadn’t opened her mouth at all or that she only opened it to pass by. She’d be made to swallow the blame for this interaction and every other. Edy had to get rid of this guy.
“I didn’t know you took attendance for the school,” she muttered as the last of her possessions were packed up. She didn’t bother to lift her head just in case one of the girls did pass by. Maybe they wouldn’t recognize her. Or maybe they wouldn’t see her talking to a guy.
Silas snorted. “Fucking Lady Tigers. Don’t expect everyone to scrape and bow. You’re a joke, after all.”
Edy snapped up at that, body tense, hands flexing without her permission. She worked hard for that team and already sacrificed so much. What did he know about it, anyway?
“Get out my way,” she said instead. “I have class.”
He laughed and stepped aside. “Of course, Your Highness. Anything you say, Your Highness.”
Edy mimicked his laugh in a bout of pettiness, unhappy with her need to do so, but feeling immature in the moment. With a sneer she stormed from the classroom, as unhappy with Silas Swain as with herself.
Chapter Eleven
Silas Swain swept onto his motorcycle, pulled the clutch lever, and flipped the kill switch. His mouth pulled down in what had to be a characteristic scowl before he pulled out and nearly collided with a pickup.
“Watch it, pretty boy,” shouted Caiden Cash from the window of a grimy pickup. The doors flew open and that freshman running back, whose name Silas made a point of not remembering, jumped out and fed him a scowl.
“Fuck both of you,” Silas said and eyed them for good measure. The football team may run the school, but they didn’t run him. He refused to look up to a bunch of D minus assholes who took a pummeling for a living. They were probably suffering from concussions now. The sunlight probably tortured them.
The quarterback, then the freshman, came over and stood in front of his bike. Both looked him over as if he was supposed to be intimidated.
“Don’t you have some dancing to do? Or maybe you’ve decided to save that for the girls?” Cash said.
For some reason, the running back looked over at him with a look of dismay.
Silas rolled his eyes. His kid brother, Levi, had dreams of professional football. But why? The boy was smart enough to do and be anything.
“I wonder how that second-string option is looking, Cash. He’ll need to be strong since I’m about to run you over.” And your asshole sidekick, he almost said. Who had time for people who followed blindly, anyway?
Cash glared at him another minute, tall, strong, and solid enough to blot a bit of sun from where Silas sat.
“You don’t want to go making enemies you can’t unmake,” Cash said.
“Ditto goes for you. Now as much as I’m enjoying that battered mug of yours, some of us have got to earn a living. It would please me if you got the fuck outta my way.”
The freshman stepped back first. He’d looked uncomfortable since the moment Cash had said Silas danced. Maybe his little brain had been shattered by that. Maybe he thought only cheerleaders danced. Ugh.
Cash moved and Silas peeled off. He’d been pissed since the moment in class that he’d mentioned his parents. He didn’t talk about them. He didn’t think about them, if he could help it. These days, it was Silas and Levi. That was the beginning and end of his family.
As Silas turned onto Dalrymple and followed the winding drive alongside the lake and off campus, his thoughts turned to the twit who’d stumbled in class and rambled on and on about herself. Typical that she’d be a Lady Tiger. She’d probably been one of those self-centered airheads who had an entire high school of admirers just last year. He could picture Edith Phelps looking down that pert little nose at everyone she passed. No doubt she dated some football player who was equal parts asshole.
If she was looking for a coalition of devotees, she wouldn’t find a taker in him. No, as a matter of fact, he was willing to bet she was shallow and disgus
ting.
Silas couldn’t be bothered with that.
Chapter Twelve
The guy was a friggin dancer. Why did that unnerve Hassan so? He had the look of an athlete. And Jesus—wasn’t dance where he and Edy had always diverged? He used to drag his feet to her recitals, complain about time served at her practice sessions, and zone out when she got technical on him. But this guy, this Silas, could connect, could understand her. They’d share passions. They’d click. Hell, just how many Silases were there at LSU?
Hassan pushed back at the queasiness that snaked through him and reminded himself how firmly his girl loved him and how inseparable they were. Hadn’t that been what the fuss was all about between their families? Hassan stood up a little straighter at the thought. Really, why was he even wasting his time on this asshole? He was being stupid.
And he had a class to get to.
The second he took off for English class, Hassan’s thoughts turned from the asshole on the bike to the last time he’d seen Edy.
“It’s just the dance team, pageant queen. Gorgeous, but crazy as hell. Better to admire them from afar.” That had been what Freight said to Hassan on the practice field on the lone occasion Hassan had seen Edy since their arrival at LSU. Since then, Hassan had gone through weigh-ins and measurements, followed by meetings, early morning practices and evening ones too, all with the same demanding tempo. After their night at the club, she had early morning jogs with her team. Freight said that it was purposely done as a way to torment the girls after drinking. Edy, who definitely was getting tormented, had stopped in a nearby bush to vomit with two girls hovering and rubbing her back. She’d broken her promise to come to him if she drank too much or otherwise felt sick. Hassan watched her, perplexed about why she hadn’t reached out to him, and unsure of what to do next. His last glimpse of Edy had included glancing in his direction before she wiped her mouth with the short towel tucked at her waist, smiled weakly, and took off.
Wrecked (Love Edy Book Three) Page 9
