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12
The second his name leaves my lips, his steps falter.
“Xeno?” I repeat.
He lets me go as cold air rushes in, cooling my heated skin. Ripping off my bandana, I watch as Xeno walks away from me all taut shoulders and curled fists. He switches off Hozier and unhooks my mobile from the speaker system. For a moment, he stands still, drawing in deep breaths, then walks back towards me and drops the offending item in my hand as if it’s scolded him.
“That never happened,” he growls.
Yet again, words evade me. It’s been three years and there are many, many things I want to say, to ask, but the chasm between us prevents me from saying anything at all. I look up at him, caught in the power of his gaze. Emotion sits in the hard line of his lips, the frown darkening his eyes with heavy brows and the muscle ticking like a timebomb in his jaw.
Thump, thump, thump goes my stupid heart. It took me years to rebuild it and now it’s about to self-detonate because of one stupid dance. Xeno never asked me to partner him in bachata when we were kids. It was a sore point that hurt every time he chose another girl. Not that I ever told him that.
“That never happened. Got it?!” He towers over me, trying to intimidate me.
Tell that to my body, my soul,I want to respond because both have been set alight from his touch. Goddamn it. “Xeno, why are you back? Why are you here?” is what I asked instead.
His gaze scrapes over every inch of me until I’m raw from his scrutiny. I force myself to breathe, to straighten my spine, to not let him get to me like I know he wants to. Burrowing deep, I force my body to obey. He can’t know how affected I am by him.
“Tell me…” I repeat.
Beyond the studio I can hear voices, cutting our one-sided conversation short.
Xeno gives me one last glare before stepping past me and ripping the door open. He comes face to face with Madame Tuillard who smiles broadly at him.
“Ah, Mr Tyson, I see you’ve introduced yourself to Pen, one of our most promising students this year,” she says, flicking her gaze to me.
Mr Tyson?If he’s a student here, why is she referring to him so formally? The confusion must be clear on my face because Madame Tuillard steps into the room and explains.
“Mr Tyson is a new dance teacher here at the academy, he’ll be teaching bachata, a dance that you may or may not be familiar with. If you’ve picked Latin, then he’ll be teaching you too.”
“He’s ateacher?” My mouth drops open. I can’t help but gape at Xeno who meets my gaze with a blank look, as though we’re no more than strangers and he hasn’t just pressed his body intimately against mine or stolen a kiss Friday night at Rocks in front of a whole club full of people. Behind Madame Tuillard, Clancy, Tiffany, a petite girl with long, black hair and a guy I don’t recognise, step into the studio.
“Yes. Mr Tyson is our youngest teacher at the academy. He is also one of the most gifted.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I can feel the blood drain from my face and despite the shitty way I’ve treated her this past weekend, Clancy comes to my side and takes her hand in mine, squeezing it gently. “Breathe, Pen. Just breathe,” she whispers.
Clancy might not know our history, but she isn’t a fool and knows something is going on especially after Friday night’s battle. She’s a good person and I’ve been such a bitch. I don’t deserve her friendship.
“Girl, did you shack up withMr Hot Dance Teacherover the weekend? Is that why you ignored me, too busy shagging?” she asks in a low voice. “I wouldn’t blame you in the slightest.” A giggle escapes her lips and I nudge her with my elbow.
“No…” That single word is about all I can manage right now.
Madame Tuillard glides into the centre of the studio, oblivious to the rising tension. Out of the corner of my eye, I can seeBitchfaceTiffany eying Xeno up. Clancy clocks it too and groans.
“Uh oh, Tiffany has set her eyes on your…man?Friend?” Clancy questions, trying to wrap her head around our non-existent relationship. Xeno might have kissed me Friday night but that was more about asserting his power than anything else. There was no emotion behind it unless you include the very obvious anger.
“He’s not my man or my friend,” I correct her. I don’t know what he is… Actually, I do. My fuckingdance teacher.
Xeno glances at Tiffany and nods, casting a cursory look over her. That acknowledgement, and smidgen of interest, is enough for jealousy to wrap around my throat and squeeze tight. Xenonevergives his attention to the opposite sex unless he’s interested. Tiffany is beautiful, even if she is a stuck-up bitch, so I get it even if I don’t like it. Plus, she must be able to dance, which is really fucking annoying. I scowl, and Tiffany must feel my gaze because she turns to me and gives me her best resting bitch face.
“Don’t engage, Pen. I’ve learnt the hard way,” Clancy warns me, but I don’t give a fuck. She’s not my stepsister and if she looks at me like that again she’ll know about it.
“Mr Tyson,” Madame Tuillard suddenly says, drawing our attention back to her once more.
“Xeno,” he corrects her.
