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He leaned back, and his lips quirked up dangerously. “Why? It gets you wet?”
“No,” I barked, suddenly feeling the urge to smack him. “Because your girlfriend just walked in, and she’s coming our way. Oh, she doesn’t look very happy.”
Maddox looked toward the entrance before sinking more into his seat, as if trying to hide from the raging chick coming his way. “Ah. Shit,” he whispered.
Bianca wasn’t exactly his ‘girlfriend’ anymore. They broke up when Maddox didn’t show up the night he was supposed to go over to her house. The night he got into a fight with Landon and ended up in jail.
The next morning, Bianca threw a huge tantrum and even called me a ‘homewrecker’ and ‘bitch’ for trying to steal her man. Maddox dropped her so fast I thought she’d suffer a whiplash.
Her man? Yeah, right.
Maddox was never hers in the first place.
A week after their breakup, she still didn’t grasp the idea and has now turned into a stalker. Bianca stopped at our table, hands on her hips, and glowered at Maddox. “I need to talk to you.”
He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I’m busy, as you can see.”
“Now,” she snapped.
My eyes widened at her tone, and Maddox tensed. “You don’t get to come here and make demands. I’m not your boy toy, Bianca.”
She tapped her foot, impatiently. “You owe me a better explanation for breaking up with me, Maddox.”
Maddox rubbed his eyes and slurred a bit as he spoke, “I don’t owe you shit. And we were never together in the first place. We fucked, that’s it.”
The distaste was clear on her face as she gave me a nasty look. “It’s because of her, isn’t it? You’re choosing her?” Bianca said in a shrill voice, pointing an accusing finger at me.
Here we go again.
Another ‘girlfriend,’ same drama.
Maddox growled low in his throat, the sound so threatening even I winced. “Listen–”
My phone rang, breaking through the tension, and Maddox stopped mid-sentence. I gave him a sheepish look and slid out of the booth, phone to my ear.
I walked away from Maddox and Bianca as they continued arguing with each other.
“Hey, Bea?” I answered the call.
“Lila, shit. We’re in trouble,” she gasped.
“What? What is it? What happened?” I strode out of the club since it was too loud to hear anything Bea was saying over the phone.
Bea was a professional dancer, and my chorographer of the dance club at Harvard. Two years ago, I joined the club as a hobby and soon realized that I enjoyed dancing. It was therapeutic.
I wasn’t the best dancer, but I also wasn’t too bad. In between my studying and waitressing part-time, I needed something to do to relax and just unwind. Dancing seemed to do that for me.
“Owen is hurt. He broke his leg from a biking accident. He. Can’t. Dance,” Bea said, out of breath. I could feel her freaking out through the phone.
“Owen is hurt?” I asked, because I couldn’t believe what I just heard. “How bad is it?”
“He’s okay. He’s home, and he just called me. Owen isn’t in a lot of pain, but it’s bad enough he won’t be able to dance for the next three months. Oh God.”
Oh shit.
That didn’t sound good.
A month ago, our club partnered up with a non-profit organization that put on charity events for people with disabilities. This year, the fundraising event was for blind people.
Our small group of dancers were supposed to present a show for the attendees at the event who would be contributing to the charity.
Owen was my dance partner.
Shit!
“There’s no backing out now. This is top-notch, Lila. The organization, the event–everything–has to be perfect. We’re representing Harvard. We no longer have a dancing partner for you anymore, and you open the show!”
My throat went dry, and I tried not to panic, but Bea freaking out like this was causing me to freak out. “Bea, you need to calm down. We can figure it out.”
“The event is in a week!” She screeched loud enough I had to pull my phone away from my ear.
She was right though. We couldn’t mess this up. Every dance number at the event was a couple’s dance; the organization specifically asked for a partner dance since they thought it would be more attractive to the attendees.
I took in a deep breath, trying to calm my rising panic. I was used to perfection–my grades and my work. I was obsessed with it, although I wasn’t always like that.
My therapist said it was my way of dealing with the death of my parents–chasing perfection and wanting to always be in control.
Right now, everything was happening the opposite of what I wanted.
“So, we need to find me a new dance partner?” I questioned Bea.
“Even if we do, who’s going to learn the dance in less than seven days?” She took a shuddering breath and let it out. “It’s not possible.”
