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I put a protective arm around her and glare at the boys leaving. “You need a new hall monitor.”
“Weren’t you upset when she wouldn’t let you in?”
“That’s different,” I grumble.
One guy stumbles toward us, his breath stinking of day-old brew and his shirt only half buttoned and his jeans halfway down his ass. I swing Erika out of the way and give the old boy a shove. “Watch where you’re going.” I glare.
“Fuck off, man,” the drunk retorts. Too bombed to realize what he’s doing, the boy comes up swinging. I slide to the left, stick out my foot and the guy slams face first on the floor. Behind the desk, a head pops up.
“What happened?” the bleary-eyed hall monitor asks.
“Some trash spilled in the entry,” Erika says. “Tank, let’s go before we get too dirty.”
She tucks her hand in mine and hauls me to the elevator bank. “Do you think we should check on him?” She looks over at the figure on the floor. The boy hasn’t moved.
“No.” He tried to breathe funny in Erika’s presence. In my opinion, falling on his face is mild compared to what could have happened to him. Instead of the floor greeting him, it could’ve been my fist.
I hustle Erika into the elevator and press the third-floor button. All these dicks around at night worries me. Maybe I’ll get one of the younger guys at the gym to come work the nightshift.
“I’ll be right back,” Erika says, dipping into her dorm room. I only get a quick look at it before the door’s shut in my face. The room appears small, but tidy—kind of like Erika herself.
She doesn’t take long. In a hot second, she’s out in new leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. A bag is slung across her body. I check my watch. “We have enough time to pick up some breakfast.”
“Wasn’t that what the ice cream was for?”
I fold her hand in mine. “Nah. That was like a pre-breakfast.”
Her hair is up again in that thick knot. Having seen all of it last night, I’m wondering how she gets that mass into one small circle. I did watch a few braiding tutorials on YouTube but didn’t come across one that was like this. Guess I’ll have to expand my viewing playlist.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks quietly as we head down the hall toward the elevator.
“Your hair. How do you get it to stick up like that?”
“I have a clip.” She flips up the small bun and reveals a doo-dad about the same color as her hair.
Impressed, I nod. “Wow. I feel like I’ve just been let into a secret society.”
She nudges me with her shoulder, a move that may have been designed to knock me off balance, but since I weigh a good hundred pounds more than her, it feels like a love pat.
“Tonight, are you going to dance?”
“Probably.” She rubs one small foot against the side of her leg.
“Mind if I come?”
I noticed she goes late at night, when no one else is around. I can’t see much from outside the studio—mostly shadows and stuff. It’s a turn-on.
“I don’t usually let anyone see me dance,” she shares quietly. “But you can come if you want.”
“I want. How come you don’t want anyone seeing you dance?”
“I’m not as good as I used to be.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” We step into the elevator.
She gestures toward her leg. “It means that before I broke this, I was pretty amazing. I won contests and stuff. But afterwards, I didn’t have the strength and my ability declined. I dance for pleasure now only. Not for an audience.”
“I don’t have to come inside.”
