Wicked Grind (Stark World #1)(58)

       
         
       
        

I blink back a sudden rush of tears. Because she is right, but I'm not sure that matters.

"I'm scared," I whisper, and she deflates a little as she looks at me with compassion.

"I know," she says, and this time when she takes my hand I let her hold it. "But I promise I've got your back. Always."

Nia's words linger like some horrible prophecy as I arrive at the dance studio and greet my pint-sized dancers.

I look at them in their little pink leotards with the pretty pink bows in their hair, and I can't help but hope that their parents cherish them. That no one will ever warn them that they're hiding from life, and if they aren't careful they're going to suffocate.

I want these girls to know that they can grow up to dance and date and do whatever they want, and not have the voice of a wounded parent whispering in their ear, making them think they have to be someone other than they are.

The hard part is that I get it. I really and truly understand that my dad's to blame for the shell that Nia sees around me. And, heck, I see it, too. But shells are hard by definition, and I've been trying without success to break out of this one for years.

I shake off my melancholy and clap my hands. "Okay, girls. Everyone to the mirror for warm-up."

They scurry away, some graceful, some clunky. I don't think I have anybody in this class who'll grow up to take the stage, but what I want for them is to not only develop a love for dance, but to also be comfortable with their bodies. To realize that it really is only a shell, though hopefully not as stifling as the one Nia described. And that they need to take care of it even while they use dance to escape from it. Because no dancer ever stays inside herself. That's the point. To rise up with the music. To chase your soul. With your body only coming along for the ride.

"Can we jump, Miss Draper?" Amanda asks after the warm-up, and all the other girls bounce and shout, "Please, please!"

And even though I have another class planned out, I agree. Then line them up across the room, remind them of what to do, and then stand by as each races toward me, gathers her courage, and then leaps up, trusting me to catch her the way Johnny catches Baby in Dirty Dancing, one of my all-time favorite movies.

We do three rounds of jumps, then rehearse for the parent recital coming in four weeks. And then that's it. The time has literally flown by.

I accept all the hugs and promise I'll see them at the next class. Then I lock the door behind them, and for the first time in days I can completely relax. Because I don't have another class until Zumba, and nobody else is using this room until then.

I go to the jam box, turn on the music, and simply dance. Sometimes I rehearse a routine or try to choreograph something new. But not today. Today, I just want to get lost. And as the music takes me, I let go, relishing the freedom of the melody. The power that fills me. And not just the strength in my limbs, but the wellspring of emotion that rises inside me. 

It's as if I'm soaring. As if gravity means nothing. It's wonderful and thrilling and exciting.

I'm letting go completely, and that's something I never do in the real world. But in here, with the music, I'm always me.

It's the only place I've ever truly felt like me.

But as I fall to the ground in time with the final strains of music, breathless and alive, I realize that's not entirely true.

I felt this way twelve years ago in Wyatt's arms.

I felt it again last night.

And I'm not sure that I have the strength to stay away from the one man who can truly bring me to life.





18


"Griff!" I yelp, as I clutch the door with one hand and the dashboard with the other. "If we die before we get to the party, I am totally going to kill you. And if you scratch Blue, I'm going to disown you."

"Chill," he orders. "I'm just doing what you never do."

"If you mean driving like a complete idiot down a twisty canyon road, then yeah. I never do that."

We're still well above the city in the hills that separate the Valley from the West Side, but he's slowed down a bit. Whether because the road's now reasonably straight or because of my griping, I'm not really sure.

"I should never have let you drive," I mutter.

"Nonsense. Blue loves it, don't you, girl." He pats the Mustang's dashboard, and I have to grin.

I also realize in that moment that I can't sell Blue. She's an easy route to a decent amount of cash, but there's no way I can part with her. I love her too much.

More important, so does Griff.

Which means that I have to do the shoot, figure out another way to earn fifteen grand really fast, or tell Griffin I don't have the money.