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3
Present Day
“How do you know him?” Clancy asks me, her voice rising with interest. “He’samazing.”
“We grew up on the same estate… he moved away. I haven’t seen him in three years. We barely know each other,” I lie, trying to make my voice sound light, unaffected. “I doubt he even remembers me.”
“Oh, I think he remembers you alright. He keeps looking over at you every chance he gets…Whoa!” she suddenly blurts out as Zayn backflips from a standing position then drops to the floor, spinning on his back, only to jerk back upwards on his forearm before flipping to his feet again. A smug look drags across his face as he regards the room, he’s barely breaking a sweat. His gaze meets mine and I see the fire there, and the anger.
He always danced best when he was angry.
Well, fuck him. I’m angry too. I’ve been angry for three fucking years.
“Holy shit on a stick!” Clancy exclaims excitedly. She’s not the only one whose mouth has popped open. There isn’t one person in the room not impressed by Zayn’s moves, his ability. Yeah, he’s still shit-hot.
Zayn was the frontman of our crew even if he wasn’t the leader. Confident, arrogant and the best dancer of us all. At least back when we were friends anyway. York came in a close second. Me and Dax were on an equal footing and Xeno was the best allrounder and also the leader. What he said went, no matter what.
“Did you just see that?”
I don’t respond. Of course, I did. I’m not fucking blind. Though, right now I would gouge my own eyes out with a wooden spoon if I had one to hand so I wouldn’t have to look at the boy I once loved dance with such fury and fire. With suchpassion. My stomach rolls over. If I wasn’t in the mood for small talk earlier, I’m even less so now. I can’t believe he’s here. The consequences of him being back will be catastrophic for me… I force that thought away. I have to get through this audition.
He continues to dance, throwing in his signature moves. Hip-hop was always his speciality and Zayn was never afraid to innovate. He knows all the steps: popping, locking, tutting, gliding, robotting. He can do them all. The key with Zayn is that he takes a classic hip-hop dance move and makes them his own. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve seen him do a windmill then rise up on his arms and literally launch himself into the air into some crazy arse move no one has ever seen before.
He’s a genius.
Right now he’s freestyling. Just moving to the music, anticipating the next beat to drop, and delivering every time. I can tell that he hasn’t practiced this routine over and over to get it perfect like the rest of us have done. This is Zayn dancing from his soul. That was always something he was so proud of, being able to cut up a dance floor and wipe the floor with his opponents in a battle from sheer ability and musical rhythm. He’s still amazing. In fact he’s better than amazing. He’s outstanding.
That only makes this so much harder.
I groan internally. There’s no way he won’t be given a spot at the academy after this. When he finishes up with a well-placed freeze, his hands flat on the floor, the side of his head pressed against the wooden floorboards and his torso lifted off the ground with his legs bent, the room roars with appreciation. Clancy is clapping her hands like a kid on Christmas morning, but all I can do is sit with a stiff back and cold dread trying not to look at his six pack on show.
“Why?” I whisper, my question lost beneath the noise. Why has he come back now? Why is he here of all places? Why is he looking at me like I’m the one who fucked everything up? Why does my stupid heart hurt so damn much? Why? Why? Why?
As if hearing my silent questions, Zayn stands and locks eyes with me, jerking his chin. He’s offering me out, just like he would an opponent in a battle. Unlike a battle, this challenge won’t end once the music stops.
No. I recognise that look. It’s the one he saves just for his enemies.
Looks like that’s me.
“Thank you, Zayn. Take a seat,” Madame Tuillard says, holding her hands up to quieten the room. He gives her a nod, then flicks his gaze to D-Neath who gives him a sly wink that no one else seems to notice given they’re all looking directly at Miss Prim-and-Proper.
I smell a rat.
“He is mag-nif-i-cent,” Clancy says, drawing out the word like she’s praying to a new god. I look at her and notice the lust in her eyes and roll my own. I refuse to acknowledge the pang in my chest. He was always a babe magnet. That seems to have intensified over the years.
“Sure,” I mutter, forcing myself to look at Madame Tuillard and not track Zayn’s every move back to his spot in the corner of the room.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
For the next half an hour, ten more dancers, including Clancy, get up and audition. Of them all, Clancy was by far the best. Tap is her specialism and she knocks it out the park with quick footwork, musicality, and incredible expression. If York were here, he’d be impressed. The guy loved Fred Astaire and Sammy Davis Junior, imitating their moves from the old movies he used to watch on repeat. All self-taught. I used to love that about him, his exuberance and fascination with all the old black and white movies. Whilst the others messed about and played table football, we would huddle up on a beat-up sofa together in the basement of Jackson Street and watch all the old films. I was his Ginger Rogers once upon a time…
Fuck.Stop it!
Seeing Zayn has opened up old wounds and painful memories that I’ve long since buried. I can’t afford to think about him, aboutanyof them. I just need to get through this audition and figure out what to do after. Shaking my head, I grit my teeth and wait my turn, choosing instead to go mentally through my dance steps.
“Who’s next?” Madame Tuillard muses, consulting her list before she glances over at D-Neath. He looks down at his clipboard, taking his time to decide. I tap my finger against my leg, barely holding onto my nerves. I need to audition so I can get out of here and away from Zayn and everything he represents.
“Penelope Scott.”
