Hope she had the good sense to be safe, at least.
Walking through the kitchen, I trailed down the hall, around the bannister, and up the stairs. The music still pounded outside, but it was a distant and dull thrumming now, and while I had kind of wanted to stay at the party, I’d already decided to leave even before I’d heard Arion and her boyfriend going at it in the brush.
Embarrassment rose to my cheeks, remembering the guy that came up to me a few minutes ago. You’re a little visible through your shirt, he’d stuttered in my ear.
He wasn’t unkind about it, but it was still embarrassing.
I resisted the urge to fold my arms over my chest, but instead tried to be casual about it and act like it wasn’t a big deal. I’d felt my nipples even through my bras from time to time. It couldn’t always be helped.
It was nice how he’d offered me the sweatshirt, though. Sweet, really.
I found my way to my room and swung the door closed a little, just in case Arion came in with her boyfriend. I’d locked the doors downstairs to keep the party outside, but Arion knew where the key was hidden when she wanted in.
I tore off my tank top and pulled on a sports bra, putting my top back on when I was done. I almost always wore bras since I didn’t have the genetics to be as small as some dancers, but I wasn’t that big, either, given the diet and training I still put myself through.
And the one time I didn’t, someone said something. Awesome.
I grabbed my pointe shoes on my bureau, but then stopped and put them back, deciding against them, and felt for my slippers instead. Opening my door, I left the room and pulled my phone out of my back pocket. Leaning just barely into the bannister for support as I walked, I tapped the top of my screen, the voice-over reading the time.
“Ten-thirty,” it said in a computerized male voice.
Arion would be down at the pool for hours yet. Plenty of time.
I walked toward the stairs, but the floorboards somewhere behind me suddenly creaked, and I stopped, turning my head.
“Arion?” I asked.
I hadn’t heard her come in.
“Arion, are you here?” I called out again, louder this time.
Did I hear that right?
But it was silent now. No response. No more creaks. My heart started to pump harder, though, and I listened for a moment, my brain going through every possible scenario of what that could’ve been.
We didn’t have pets.
My parents were gone.
I was the only one in the house.
The wind, maybe?
I clutched my phone, my thumb nervously rubbing over the corner of the screen. “Phone,” the voice-over said as I accidently hit the app there. I startled, picking up my foot.
As I did, though, the floor creaked again, and I hesitated a moment before putting my foot back down on the same spot.
The floor creaked under me once again. Right at the spot I was stepping.
Was that me then? I turned my head behind me, perking my ear for any sounds. I could’ve sworn the sound came from the floorboards behind me.
I put my foot down again, the old hardwood floors in our antique home creaking under my weight as I trailed down the stairs and into the mini ballroom.
It was fine. I just came inside, and all the doors were locked.
I walked into the large room, counting the strides and picturing it in my mind from my memories as a kid. A whole wall of large windows sat to my left, facing the front of the house, and it was adorned with long, cobalt blue drapes, I remembered. The dark wood floor always flickered with the glow of the electric candles coming from the massive chandelier above, and I still remembered the white fireplace against the far wall where I got to decorate the mantel every Christmas.
Or my mom would let me decorate it, and then she’d come and “fix” everything how she wanted it when I wasn’t looking.
I pulled on my ballet slippers, my feet too sore to put up with the pointe shoes tonight, and picked up the remote for the small stereo system I had set up by the wall.
Clicking to the second track, I found “Nothing Else Matters” by Apocalyptica and increased the volume to drown out the music outside before tossing the remote and my phone on the table.
I walked around the square dance floor, marked by my sandpaper stickers still there, worn and dulled, after years of holidays and visits home when I practiced. When my parents had large dinners, there would be tables and chairs brought in and placed around the dance floor, but the room was all but empty at the moment. I could probably make my rehearsal space larger, given that there was no furniture to bump into.
The music started, and I walked the perimeter, counting my steps and bobbing my head to the strum of the cello. The beat teased one, two, three, four, and five, and I matched my steps to it as the other instruments kicked in, and I vaulted up onto my toes and swung around in a circle.
My arms shot out, my wrists bent and my fingers splayed, as I bowed my head and moved, just going with it as I let the music crawl inside and take over.
Yes.
The familiar flip hit my stomach, and I spun and stepped, swayed and dipped around the dance floor, feeling the energy of the music course under my skin.
And I smiled.
What I was doing wasn’t classical, and I probably would never perform it, but it was my fun time, and my parents weren’t home. My dad hated loud music, so may as well have a party of my own up here while I could.
I moved around the floor, my back cooling with sweat and my ponytail flying in my face as I spun, and I let my hands glide down my face and neck, the blare of the music flooding my veins and making me want to go wild. I bit my bottom lip as I dipped my head back and moved and moved and moved, swinging my arms and raising them up before running my hand sexily over my head and pushing my hair over to the side.
My brow ached with how hard I squeezed my eyes shut and…
Do you have the reflex anymore to squeeze them shut? Like when you’re in pain or…when you’re excited?
I faltered in my step, Damon’s words from the other day in the cafeteria coming back to me. Son of a bitch.
I pressed on, tossing him out of my head. I matched my body to the beat, and, as the song ended, I slowed my movements, breathing hard and feeling a trickle of sweat glide down my back.
Jerk.
I heaved breath after breath as I landed on my feet again and put my hands on my hips.
Why had he just popped in my head like that?
I’d actually been able to avoid him this week after our initial encounters the first day. That didn’t mean I hadn’t been aware of him, though. In every hallway I walked down. In the lunchroom where I knew he ate the same period as me. In the parking lot where I could hear the loud exhaust from the truck of Will Grayson III—his best friend, I’d learned.
I was very aware of him in such proximity at school. And when we weren’t at school, my mind still drifted to him way more often than necessary. Rika and her friends had definitely filled me in on what an enigma Damon Torrance had become since we were kids. Popular with a really bad reputation. And not bad in a way people envied, either. It made people want to avoid him, but not want to be caught avoiding him.
But still, rumor had it, girls were enamored. They thought he was a challenge, and they thought they could tame him. So I was warned—don’t be stupid enough to put yourself in his path. He has no heart.
Well, no one had to worry about that. He’d already done irreparable damage. The couple of hours I knew him as a kid wasn’t worth any more harm he could do. I’d steer clear.
Using the remote, I clicked through the tracks, counting until I found number fifteen, and then I raised my arms over my head, straining the sore muscles in my back.
But after a moment, no music came from the stereo.
I picked up the remote and clicked Play again—and then again.
I waited and nothing.