AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I’ve checked him out. He’s good.”
That answers my question. I’m not surprised that Juan Pablo isn’t my stalker. He’s been my partner for six years. We’ve shouted at each other, we’ve celebrated together, and we’ve cried on each other’s shoulders. I can count on one hand the people I willingly trust most in the world. London, Holland, Pierre, and Juan Pablo. Cannon gets the fifth finger, but only because I have to.
I swivel in my chair to change shoes before Juan Pablo walks in. Elsa said she’d get the door for him.
“How long is your practice tonight?” Cannon asks.
“We’ll stick to an hour. Maybe an hour and a half. It’s not our formal practice with our instructor.” I finish with my other shoe and expect Cannon to ask about the formal practice. Dance instructors still need their own coaches, and people not in the business are sometimes surprised that Juan Pablo and I still need to hire someone when we’ve each been dancing since we were in elementary school and I teach on top of it.
Cannon drifts out of the office as silently as he entered.
I don’t even get a confirmation? A sign that he heard me? It’s better than hearing that he thinks it’s a waste of time, but my bruised pride disagrees. I should be used to being ignored by now.
I push away and close the door. I brought my black practice dress into the office to change faster. Elsa lets in Juan Pablo and introduces herself, staying just as professional as she has all day.
Relief passes through me as I shimmy into my dress and listen to their casual chitchat. This would be awkward if she was flirty, but that’s my stereotyping coming through. I can’t help it; it’s the way women have acted around Juan Pablo since I’ve known him.
He’s a handsome man. Tall, with shoulders as broad as Cannon’s and a posture that a marble statue would envy. He gets hit on at every competition, and while dance judges are supposed to be objective, I often wonder how many of our points are earned based on aesthetics alone. We make a stunning pair.
I’m the type people assume he’d be attracted to. Tall and willowy, with fine bone structure, and quiet poise. But there was never more between us than a passion for competitive ballroom dancing. He started in ballet like me, but a knee injury led him to ballroom dance. His wife is a little over five feet tall with curves for days and salsa moves that make me blush when I watch her dance with him. She cusses like a six-year-old who learned how fun bad words are. She’s perfect for him, and if I could adopt them as a brother and sister, I would.
In the studio, Juan Pablo’s warming up with body twists. I join him. I’ve never been so self-conscious. I’m hyperaware of Cannon. He goes to the edge of the door and peers outside. He roams to the back. He speaks quietly with Elsa, who leaves to grab some dinner.
Cannon doesn’t watch us. Half of the time, I don’t see him and I’m able to relax as Juan Pablo and I go through our Viennese waltz and the paso doble.
Juan Pablo resets the song. We’ll do one more run-through of our paso doble and we’re done for the night. Then Cannon will drive me to my mother’s.
I let the music absorb into my skin and caress my frayed nerves. The zen that takes over is akin to a runner’s high. We’ve practiced so much, the steps come naturally. When I reach this state, I perform the best. Juan Pablo senses it, and we flow until we’re moving art.
The practice dress moves with me, but it doesn’t add the flair a competition dress would. I’m not worried about my expression. This is about the movement, the synchronicity that’s possible with a partner I’m completely vibing with. If anyone asks why I still dance, it’s for this right here. I live in fear of the time that Juan Pablo will decide that family life and a job with benefits come before dancesport.
I don’t know where else I’ll find this release, and without it, I’ll have to face my life like I’ve been stripped of all my medicine. All my coping mechanisms gone. Because when I’m in this space, I’m competent. I’m not an outsider in my own family. I didn’t marry the wrong man. I don’t worry about where I’m sleeping for the night or how I’m going to pay rent. I just exist and flow with the natural order of the world.
We finish. My hands are displayed over my head, and my back is arched. I’m surrounded on three sides by mirrors, and in the corner is Cannon’s reflection.
The aloofness is gone. The near sneer when he looks at me is nowhere in sight. His eyes are full of heat and his body is coiled like a venomous snake, ready to sink his fangs into a clueless dancer and consume her.
Then it’s gone, sucking the air out of the room with it.
I gulp in oxygen, breathing like I’ve been running through the sixteen steps for over an hour. Did I imagine it?
I must have. Because the only thing worse than a bodyguard who thinks I’m a waste of flesh and bone is one that makes my heart race and makes me wonder what it’s like to be consumed by that intense energy.
