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“Psht. I’m just giving you a heads up so I’m not completely to blame if I drop you on your face.”
“Don’t do that,” I warn, pointing a finger at him.
He flashes me a smile that tells me he’s just joking and offers another mocking solute. Surprisingly enough, I trust him to know his limits and keep me safe. He won’t drop me.
“Okay, let’s do this.” Trent tightens his top knot–a new look from his classic man bun that somehow bothers me slightly less–and joins me on the mats once more.
The night sky I can see through the windows behind him reminds me that we’ve been at this for hours, but I don’t care. I have one more attempt in me, and though Trent’s covered with a sheen of sweat, he seems on board as well. It’s nice knowing that I at least have a dance partner who’s willing to keep pushing through the pain, even if he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer.
“Ready,” he says with a nod as he finds his place.
I hit Play on the sound system, and our electric, hard rock version of David Popper’s “Dance of the Elves” bursts to life, filling the room. I fell in love with the unusual composition this last year, a wonderful meld of classical ballet and rock rebellion that suits me perfectly. And while it took some convincing to get Trent on board, I know he loves it now too. And seeing as I’m the only one of the two of us who’s capable of choreographing a piece worthy of the senior showcase, I didn’t leave him much choice.
We take the first stanza to get into our starting positions, me personifying a dark being of temptation and Trent representing the light and good–a fun juxtaposition to the typical roles often given to prima ballerinas and principals. My muscles are already warm from the repeated maneuvers of our previous rehearsals, on the edge of their limits even, but that’s what practice is for, to push myself and strengthen my body until what once was challenging looks as effortless as a stroll through the park.
Taking a deep breath, I center myself and settle into my pose, finding my focus as I wait for my entrance into the song. On the other side of the room, Trent comes to life, his knees bending and then straightening as he propels himself into the air, moving into a spin.
Then it’s my turn, and I twist, curving and arcing my arms as I lean forward and up onto one toe, my other leg rising behind me. Our song gives us no time to ease into the dance. From the start, the notes cascade from the speakers in a waterfall of shifting sound, encouraging me to move faster, push harder.
I do, my legs working to keep up with the timing as I flick my knees and point my toes then shift into a pique turn as I make my way across the floor. The music intensifies, the notes growing seemingly more desperate, and I follow their highs and lows with my arms as I reach Trent and twirl around him, my hand grazing along the back of his shoulders in my first touch of temptation as dark slowly encourages light into a forbidden realm.
He responds animatedly, executing his own spin and then reaching out for me as I leap away. Our hands connect, and he twirls me back to him, his hands finding my waist. I use the momentum of my spin, assisted by his arm to leap high in the air in agrand jete, performing a midair split and arching my back before floating to the ground, Trent’s hands keeping me weightless.
He releases me, allowing me to twirl away, before following for several long strides, watching me with longing as his arms reach out to me. Then he shifts into apirouette a la seconde, rotating on one foot as his other leg swings out at a ninety-degree angle, whipping around to turn him in a full spin once, twice–again and again in eight consecutive revolutions.
The music builds, and so does our dance, our bodies spinning together and flying apart as I transform him from a being of light and goodness into something dangerously sinful. And then Trent takes on a life of his own, commanding the situation as he moves me about the floor in a series of complex lifts. His transformation is complete, and he’s no longer my puppet but a master of his own, commanding the darkness.
It’s all I can do to keep up with the grueling rhythm of the music, the intense guitar blasting a melody that dances from note to note without pause. The sweet relief of my mind going blank, too laser focused on my next move to worry about Ilya or my life, fills me with strength and power. My muscles scream for me to stop, but I can’t. The drive within me is too great.
As the music crescendos, reaching its dramatic pinnacle, I race toward Trent, my legs carrying me forcefully across the floor. My hands find his solid shoulders as my left foot meets the top of his thigh, and his palms support my hips, pushing with me up as I launch into the air. I twist as I use his leg and shoulders to springboard me. And for a moment, I feel entirely weightless as my body twirls so high in the air that I’m above Trent’s outstretched fingers. I pull my arms in tight against my chest as I point my toes.
And then Trent’s hands find my hips once more, catching me and suspending me aloft. I arch my back, my left leg rising over my head in a deep split as I brace on Trent’s shoulders. It requires every muscle in my body, and my limbs quiver from exhaustion, but I maintain the position, fighting to stay balanced and still as Trent holds me above his head. Slowly, my partner transitions all my weight to one arm, lowering the other out to his side as I remain suspended like a weightless trophy. And then he starts to walk a triumphant circle. The song’s final notes blare from the speakers, announcing our victory as we finally master our hardest lift.
When the last note fades into nothingness, Trent lowers me, catching my waist with both hands as he sets me lightly onto the floor once more. I can’t help the squeal of delight that erupts from me as we finish our first perfect run-through. It took everything we had. It was beyond challenging–and it was flawless. The grin that bursts across Trent’s face is full of the same achievement I feel, and before I know what he’s doing, his arms wrap me in a hug as he lifts me off my feet and whirls me in an elated spin.
“Trent!” I shriek and giggle, but I’m too giddy from our accomplishment to mean my scolding tone. And when he sets me back on my feet, I’m smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.
It’s then that I notice the shadowed figure standing in the doorway to the studio. My heart drops into my stomach as I meet Ilya’s gaze. His hand still holds the door as he remains motionless, frozen in place, his knuckles white from gripping the door so hard. I don’t know how long he’s been there, but from the look on his face, he doesn’t like whatever he’s seen.
Suddenly, I’m intensely aware of Trent’s arms around me. The smile falls from my face, and I shove my partner away.
“Easy, woman. I was just–” Trent stops short when he sees where I’m looking, and his smile vanishes. “I, uh… we were… I mean…” he fumbles, discomfort etched across his face as he makes things seem so much worse than they already are. “I’ll, uh, just leave you to it, shall I?” he mutters, giving me a sidelong glance before rushing toward his pile of school supplies and snatching them up off the floor. He doesn’t bother trying to change his shoes as he flees. “I’ll see you Monday, Whit,” he says as he picks the right-hand side of the studio doors, which Ilya’s not occupying, and exits without a backward glance.
Intense relief washes through me when Ilya lets my partner go without an issue. The look on his face made me worry he might just rip Trent’s throat out. Then the door clicks shut behind my partner, leaving me alone with Ilya. Adrenaline pours into my body as my nerves take control. I can’t read his face except to know Ilya is not happy, and that scares the shit out of me.
30
ILYA
I saw the entire showpiece. From the moment the music started, announcing which room Whitney was in, to the closing note and the way she held her body like a perfectly sculpted statue before her partner put her back on the floor, I saw it all. I intended to announce my presence, but the sight of her body coming to life, her beauty as she became completely lost in the dance struck me dumb. Aside from her showcases, I never really have the opportunity to watch Whitney dance ballet, but I can see this one is different from the others she’s performed. She’s poured her heart and soul into this dance, and the power of her passion has left me speechless. I’m astounded at how deeply it moved me.
Then Trent picked her up and actuallyspunher, and suddenly, unbridled jealousy roared to life inside my chest. I’ve never wanted to murder the guy so badly for putting his hands on my woman–and there have been plenty of times the thought has crossed my mind over the past few years.
It takes every ounce of my self-control to let Trent leave, though I’m sorely tempted to wrap my fingers around the guy’s throat and strangle him. But I know I’m partially to blame for the situation I find myself in because I’ve been avoiding Whitney. Not that I haven’t been busy. I have. I’ve spent every waking minute of these past few weeks trying to find where my Bratva’s enemies might be hiding, but since their declaration of war, they seem to have vanished into thin air. I’m finally at my wit’s end, and though I haven’t managed to sort through my conflict over Whitney yet, I chose to take the night to drive up and see her because I can’t stay away any longer.And what do I have to show for it?My woman in the arms of another man.
Intense envy boils up inside me because I could see it there, the connection I’ve worried they might develop all along. Dance can do that, bring two people together. After all, they’ve been in close physical contact with each other for years. And now that I so conveniently withdrew my presence, I left the perfect opportunity for them to explore that.
Perhaps my silence over the past few weeks made Whitney think our contract was done. I suppose I can’t entirely blame her. But tonight, I’m going to wipe any shred of doubt from her mind. Taking in the sight of Whitney’s wide eyes and lips parted in surprise, I release the door to cross the room in four long strides.
