First Position (Dirty Dancing #1)

by Melody Grace

  I’m walking to join the others inside the great cathedral when I hear a faint burst of music, drifting down from one of the side streets.

  I pause. The sound is faint, but I can make out a deep bass beat, and some classical strings playing. The odd blend of old and new styles catches me by surprise, a wild, staccato rhythm, and I find myself wandering closer before I even realize where my feet are taking me. I glance back to my group, but they’re already inside, out of sight. We just arrived, I reason with myself. I’ve got a little time. As long as I make it back before the bus leaves, nobody will even notice I’m gone.

  Besides, a rebellious voice adds. Karla was right: you’re not on some school trip. You’re nineteen, almost an adult. Break the rules for once in your life.

  Carefully checking the name of the street, carved up on a stone placard, I duck down the narrow, winding passageway and head in the direction of the music. It gets louder as I follow the cobblestone street, until I emerge in another beautiful, old piazza square. This one is long, oblong-shaped, edged with quaint curbside cafes and flowers trailing from the window boxes above. It’s so charming, like a picture postcard come to life, bustling with a hum of activity under the cloudless autumn skies. The music is louder here, and I see a crowd of people circled around something, so I make my way over, and edge my way through the crowd to see what’s going on.

  They’re dancing.

  It’s a group of street performers, putting on a show. They’ve marked out an area in the midst of the crowd, rigged speakers from someone’s iPod, and now, as I watch, three guys finish a hip-hop style routine, turning backflips to the applause of the crowd.

  I laugh, surprised. It seems weird, watching them dance such modern steps in the shadow of a half-century-old classical fountain, but I can’t help being swept up in their enthusiasm. They’re good, too; I’m no expert on this kind of dance, but I can see the crisp movements in their routine, how the flashy tricks are grounded in real technique and skill. Choreography like this could be in a music video, or some movie, not just out here on the street busking for a few Euros.

  The song ends and I burst into applause, cheering along with the rest of the crowd. The three guys take a bow, and then clear the makeshift dance floor for the next routine. I check my watch, wondering if I have time to stay for another dance. Maybe I should be getting back ...

  Then a new burst of music sounds, pulsating and wild, and suddenly, my thoughts fade clear away, blotted out as completely as the sun during an eclipse.

  I see him.

  Standing, poised, waiting for his intro, his body proud and arched, arms raised. There’s a girl waiting beside him, his partner, but I only have eyes for him.

  God, he’s gorgeous. Dark curly hair, tanned skin, and piercing blue eyes that seem to shimmer against the gold of his skin. He’s dressed in a starched white shirt and tuxedo pants that fit him like a glove. The breath is sucked from my lungs, and I feel a thrill ripple through me, a sensation I’ve never known before: anticipation, as if I know something important is about to happen. Something life-changing.

  And then he starts to dance.

  Dear Lord ...

  I swear, time stops as I watch him move. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen: part Latin ballroom, part street, part modern contemporary. And all of it totally devastating.

  I stare, awestruck, as he plays out a wicked game with his partner: bringing her in, sending her away, lifting her as effortlessly as if she was made of air. His movements are bold, dominating.

  Sexy as hell.

  There’s no cheap grinding, or tacky thrusts, but somehow, every step oozes sensuality. It’s so intimate, I blush, feeling my body respond to the scene playing out in front of me. His hands slide over her body, and I imagine them on me instead; gripping tight at my waist, then softly brushing along my arm as I spin away.

  My breath gets shallow. I shiver, feeling my nipples tighten. My thighs clench in my jeans.

  I can’t believe it, but I’m getting turned on: watching them dance in the middle of a crowded square.

  What are you doing? I scold myself, trying to snap out of it. But I can’t look away. I stay, watching, caught up in the story of love and betrayal they’re telling with their bodies until at last, he whirls her out one more time and then pulls her back; dipping her so low her hair grazes the ground.

  They freeze there, holding the pose. There’s silence, so pure you could hear a pin drop, and in that moment, he lifts his head and looks out across the square.

  Our eyes lock.

  It’s only a split second, those piercing blue eyes on mine, but I feel the moment stretch for an eternity. His gaze crashes through me, setting every nerve and sense alight, as if I’m touchpaper and he’s a molten spark, dancing through my bloodstream.

  Desire flares, so strong I lose my breath.

  And then the thunder of applause breaks the spell, and I realize I’m digging my nails into my palms, gasping for air.

  Who is this man?

  Four.

  I snap back to reality and realize the crowd is dispersing. Some of the dancers are collecting coins, so I find a ten-Euro note and press it into the hat as it passes me by: it’s a lot, but they deserve it.

  I’m tucking my wallet back into my purse when I hear the sound of church bells ring out across the square. Crap! I’ve been here twenty minutes. Everyone will back at the bus—if they haven’t left already!

  Suddenly someone jostles me hard. I nearly lose my balance, and as I struggle to recover, I feel a sharp tug on my purse strap. Then it’s gone.

  “Wait!” I yell, looking wildly around. There, I see him: a guy in a baseball cap, sprinting through the crowd clutching my purse.

  “My bag!” I cry. “He stole my purse!”

  Dread crashes through me. Everything is in that purse: my money, credit cards, passport.

  Oh God, my passport!

  I start after him, trying to duck through the throngs of people, but he’s racing away from me too fast. “Thief!” I cry angrily, “Stop, thief!”

  Then there’s a flash of motion: someone else racing through the crowd. As the thief reaches the edge of the piazza, his new pursuer tackles him hard, down to the ground.

  I catch up with them, breathless, just as my savior drags the guy over and snatches my bag back.

  “I believe this is yours.” The voice is low, edged with an Italian accent. Then he turns, and I find a pair of familiar devastating blue eyes blazing into mine.

  It’s him.

  The dancer from before, the man who took my breath away. He’s the one who came to my rescue.

  I take the purse back, clutching it to my chest, wordless. Up close I can see he’s in his mid-twenties, maybe, with a hint of sexy dark stubble on the chiseled line of his jaw. He’s wearing the same white shirt and tuxedo pants from his performance, and up close, his body is broad-shouldered and muscular.

  I feel another surge of desire snake through me. There’s something overwhelming about him, a raw physical presence that can’t be denied. I’m used to lithe dancer’s bodies, not this taut muscle and obvious strength.

  He could lift me easily.

  Or pin you down…

  I realize that he’s still talking. “What do you wish to do with him?” he asks, nodding to the thief. “I can call the carabinieri. Police.”

  I look down. The thief’s cap has fallen off in the tussle, revealing his face. I move closer. It’s just a boy, fifteen at most, cringing now on the ground.

  “No, it’s OK.” I’m suddenly hit with sympathy. The poor kid looks scared to death, waiting for his fate. “As long as he doesn’t do it again.”

  The man drags the kid to his feet, speaking to him in a stream of harsh Italian. The kid stutters and nods emphatically. Then he’s released, and scurries away into the crowd.

  “My apologies,” my rescuer turns back to me. “Many pickpockets use the show as a cover to steal, when attention is elsewhere.”

  “I
know why,” I find myself babbling. “You were amazing ... I mean, I’ve never seen anything like it. What was it?”

  Stop it, Annalise! I order. Stop sounding like an idiot!

  The man’s beautiful lips curl with amusement. “All things. Some flamenco, tango, modern ... I see where the music takes me.”

  I blink, dazed at the sight of his smile. Dear God, this man could stop time with just one look. “Well, thank you,” I say breathlessly. “For saving me. I mean, my purse. I don’t know what I would have done without you. It, I mean,” I correct myself, blushing.

  Stop now!

  “Annalise!”

  I hear the call as if from far away, but I’m so caught up in this strange encounter, I don’t register my name until I feel a sharp tug on my arm. It’s Karla, looking panicked.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she demands. “We’re all on the bus, and Mademoiselle is threatening to—Well, hello...” She notices the man with me.

  “Someone grabbed my purse,” I explain. “This guy helped get it back.”

  “Raphael.” He introduces himself, holding out a hand to shake Karla’s. Then he turns to me. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  “Hi,” I breathe, taking his hand. His touch is hot, his grip firm. I shiver, my heart racing. “I’m Annalise. Thank you, again.”

  Raphael holds my hand a beat longer, then releases it, his index finger grazing down the length of my palm in a gesture so soft, I shudder.

  Dear lord, what’s happening? I could melt to the sidewalk right now, and all he’s done is shake my hand.

  “I hate to break up the party,” Karla looks amused. “But seriously, Mademoiselle is about to lose her shit.”

  “Oh!” I exclaim, reality finally piercing my haze of lust. “We have to go!”

  I take a step backwards, but Raphael captures my hand again. “Wait.” He holds me in place, reaching into the leather satchel he has slung across his shoulder. “There is a party tomorrow night, in the Trastevere district. Come.”

  He presses a flyer into my palm, his eyes lingering on mine. I feel his gaze shoot through me, straight between my thighs.

  “Anna!” Karla tugs on my other hand.

  “OK.” My head is spinning. “Maybe.”

  Karla drags me away before I can say another word. I glance back through the crowd and see Raphael still standing there, watching us leave.

  Raphael.

  I feel his eyes on me, long after I turn away and hurry after Karla to face Mademoiselle’s wrath. That night, when I fall asleep, I dream only of him: dancing alone in a moonlit square, his body a blur of perfect motion, his eyes blazing with raw passion.

  In my dream, he takes my hand, and leads me to the shadows. Presses me up against the wall, covering my body with his hard muscle. His hands slide over my skin, he plunders my mouth with his lips…

  I wake flushed and gasping, my body aching for release.

  Raphael. The face of a saint, the body of a sinner.

  And oh, how I long to see him again.

  Five.

  “You have to go!” Karla’s whisper cuts through the silence of the rehearsal room as we run through the morning’s warm-up.

  “Shh!” I hiss back at her, stretching. The accompanist starts playing on the piano in the corner, and we all move to our positions at the barre. The studio has mirrors running all along one wall, with polished honey wooden floors and bright spotlights overhead: nowhere to hide from your reflection, but a dancer is used to it. We study our own poses for hours, making sure every limb is placed at precisely the right angle.

  “Hello, did you see how hot he was?” Karla continues to whisper from behind me.

  “I don’t even know him!” I whisper back, checking that our instructor, Gilbert, is over at the other end of the studio. “He could be like, an axe murderer, or a human trafficker, recruiting American virgins for some sex ring!”

  “First of all, you’ve been watching way too much Taken,” Karla whispers back. “And second, so what? You’re thinking about it, I can tell,” Karla counters, lifting her leg up to rest on the barre, and leaning out over it to stretch in a perfect line. “You were practically stripping for him right there in the middle of the square.”

  I blush, knowing that she’s right. I’ve thought about nothing but Raphael in the twenty-four hours since I first met him. Picturing his face, the way he moved…

  Imagining his body pressed against you, those hips rocking slowly into you.

  My face burns. The truth is, when it comes to guys, I’m painfully inexperienced. Ballet was always the number one priority in my life; I never went to parties, or out on dates, never even kissed a boy until I was seventeen, an awkward fumble backstage after rehearsal with a male dancer who was cut from the company the very next week. I’ve always watched girls like Karla with envy, who somehow manage to have a social life, and still put their ballet first. But Mom was clear: the sacrifices I make now are worth it. There’ll be plenty of time for guys later.

  But watching Raphael, feeling the intense desire that hit me like a ton of bricks, I wish I had more experience. It scares and thrills me, how quickly my body responded to his dancing. I’ve never felt chemistry like that, the way it made me imagine all the forbidden things we could do…

  Now, I can’t think of anything else. All through rehearsal, I pore over the invitation he so casually offered. Did he mean for me to come, like a specific question, or was it just something he invited everyone to, a big show, or even some kind of scam—another tourist thing, to make a few extra bucks?

  By the time we’re done with our basic routines, I’m more undecided than ever – torn between logic and desire. Karla’s crazy, I can’t go wandering off after dark in some foreign city.

  But somehow, not seeing him again seems crazy too. Crazy and terrible and wrong.

  “Let’s take five.” Our instructor, Gilbert, claps his hands together, and motions for us all to take a seat on the floor. My eyes flicker over the company, silently organizing them into groups: the male dancers, here to lift and carry and partner us. The first-year newbies, destined for the corps de ballet. Kathryn Landsdale and Petra Subkov, the two principal leads, and then the rest of us, here to fight it out with them for those precious solos. Karla, Lucia, Julia, and I.

  “I know you’ve all been waiting to hear about our program,” Gilbert motions for quiet. A lithe, intense man in his thirties, he was once tipped to be a great dancer himself, until an ankle fracture cut his career short ten years ago. Since then, he’s made a name for himself teaching and choreographing. We’re all secretly scared of him. “This fall, the city will be staging a classic series. We’ll be presenting selections from the greatest ballets in the history of dance: Swan Lake, Giselle, Les Patineurs, and Les Sylphide.”

  The room breaks into applause and chatter, and I feel a thrill of excitement. “Swan Lake,” I sigh happily, as Karla bounces in her place.

  “Giselle!” She replies, dark eyes sparkling with delight. “The dance of the willies,” Karla says, naming one of the most famous routines in all of ballet, where the tragic heroine, Giselle, is tricked into death.

  We grin at each other, already full of anticipation. They’re the ballets I grew up with, watching from the wings as my mother glided across the stage. I always dreamed of dancing Odette in Swan Lake, or the skater in Les Patineurs.

  Now’s my chance, it has to be.

  “I’ll be making my casting decisions over the next week,” Gilbert continues. “But I can tell you right now, that I expect nothing but total commitment from every last one of you. To dance for this company is an honor, and if you’re not willing to put your body, heart and soul into these rehearsals, then you’re not welcome here.”

  Silence. We all exchange scared looks. Lucia smirks.

  “What goes on outside the studio matters too,” Mademoiselle interrupts, from her perch on a stool by the mirrors. “We’ve had problems in the past with dancers running around, breaking curf
ew.” She glares at us sternly. “Such behavior will not be tolerated from us. Any dancer caught breaking the rules will be sent back on the first flight home!”

  We train all day with only a short break for lunch. By the time Gilbert dismisses us at 4:00 p.m., we’re exhausted.

  “You should try and nap now, make sure you’re rested for later.” Karla yawns, collapsing on her bed back in our dorm room. It’s a small space, barely room for three single beds, a wardrobe, and an old dresser, but the tiny balcony looks out onto a cute cobbled street, and bright pink bougainvillea spills around the dark green shutters.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, running cold water into a bucket of ice I brought up from the hallway. I set it on the ground beside my bed and sit, plunging my sore feet into the freezing water. Ah, that feels good.

  “For the party? With the hot dancer?” Karla prompts me. She rolls over and props her head on one hand. “The one you so secretly want to go to!”

  “Even if I did, I definitely can’t now,” I protest. “You heard Mademoiselle, ‘Such behavior will not be tolerated!’” I mimic, playing it light. But deep down, I feel a stab of fear. If I was sent home…? My mom would disown me for sure.

  The door swings open and Rosalie bursts in. “I hate her, I hate her, I hate her!” she exclaims, falling face-first onto her bed. We don’t need to ask who the ‘her’ is.

  “Nothing new there,” Karla remarks.

  “I mean it.” Rosalie’s head emerges from her pillows, flushed and miserable. “She’s a total power-freak, had me running up and down five flights of stairs at the studio just because her cappuccino had milk in it. Of course it had milk!” she cries, “It’s a cappuccino!”

  I give Rosalie a sympathetic smile. “I don’t know how you do it,” I tell her. “I would have quit the first day.”