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Carina
My mind soars above the music as I leap from one foot to the other in a jeté. Then I repeat the movement. And then do it for a third time across the space. There’s something about the required mental focus that allows me to turn my attention inward and forget about everything going on around me.
Dance has always been my escape. It’s one I’m able to lose myself in for hours at a time. The physical exhaustion that seeps in afterward is always welcome. I can hit the sheets at the end of a long day and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
With my body fully extended, I raise one leg and leap off the other, achieving a full split in the air. For a second or two, I hang suspended before returning to the floor. My heart thumps a steady staccato as the last note reverberates throughout the air.
I squeeze my eyes closed and slowly return to myself, becoming more aware of my surroundings. My muscles are deliciously pliant as exhaustion creeps in at the edges. All of the sexual tension thrumming through my veins dissipates into nothingness.
It’s the exact outcome I was searching for.
Lately, working my body over in the studio at school is the only thing that helps achieve a shred of inner peace. Not even my favorite vibe takes care of business completely. Afterward, I’m always left with a vague feeling of dissatisfaction. The sexual ache might be dulled but something’s still there, clawing beneath the surface, desperately fighting to break loose.
It’s terrifying.
The slow clap is what yanks me from those thoughts. My eyelids fly open only to find Ford sitting against the mirrored wall with his long, muscular legs stretched out in front of him.
The moment our gazes collide, my heartbeat explodes into overdrive. It only takes one look for all of the tension I’d just worked out of my system to slam back full force.
One second ticks by.
Then another.
The studio at Crawford’s has always been my private domain. Ford has a weight room located on the other side of the basement. There’s plenty of space to separate us.
I can’t remember the last time I found him here.
In high school, I took great pleasure in dancing for him. I enjoyed the way his eyes would track every movement as I glided around the space. Back then, I wanted every bit of his attention focused on me.
I lapped it up.
Blossomed beneath his smiles, kindness, and praise.
As those thoughts slyly invade my brain, I shove them away, unwilling to get tangled up in the past. And the inevitable pain and confusion that was left behind in its wake.
I clear my throat, attempting to appear unfazed by his presence as my heart riots beneath my ribcage. It’s as if the vast and airy space has shrunken around him, making it impossible to draw in breath.
“How long have you been here?”
Unable to stand still beneath the intensity of his scrutiny, I rise to my full height and beeline to the chair where there’s a small towel and wipe the sweat from my brow.
“About ten minutes or so. You were too focused to notice me.” There’s a moment of silence as thick tension ratchets up, permeating the atmosphere. “A bomb could have gone off and you wouldn’t have realized it.”
He’s not exaggerating. My physical self might have been in the studio, but my mind was soaring free in the clouds.
When he says nothing more, I ask, “Is there a reason you came down here?”
His shrug is casual but there’s a darker emotion buried within his golden depths.
I contemplate it for a second or two.
Annoyance maybe?
Anger?
His deep voice breaks the silence. “Dad received a call and locked himself in the office, so I came down to see what you were up to.”
“Oh.”
