The second his name leaves my lips, his steps falter.
“Xeno?” I repeat.
He lets me go as cold air rushes in, cooling my heated skin. Ripping off my bandana, I watch as Xeno walks away from me all taut shoulders and curled fists. He switches off Hozier and unhooks my mobile from the speaker system. For a moment, he stands still, drawing in deep breaths, then walks back towards me and drops the offending item in my hand as if it’s scolded him.
“That never happened,” he growls.
Yet again, words evade me. It’s been three years and there are many, many things I want to say, to ask, but the chasm between us prevents me from saying anything at all. I look up at him, caught in the power of his gaze. Emotion sits in the hard line of his lips, the frown darkening his eyes with heavy brows and the muscle ticking like a timebomb in his jaw.
Thump, thump, thump goes my stupid heart. It took me years to rebuild it and now it’s about to self-detonate because of one stupid dance. Xeno never asked me to partner him in bachata when we were kids. It was a sore point that hurt every time he chose another girl. Not that I ever told him that.
“That never happened. Got it?!” He towers over me, trying to intimidate me.
Tell that to my body, my soul, I want to respond because both have been set alight from his touch. Goddamn it. “Xeno, why are you back? Why are you here?” is what I asked instead.
His gaze scrapes over every inch of me until I’m raw from his scrutiny. I force myself to breathe, to straighten my spine, to not let him get to me like I know he wants to. Burrowing deep, I force my body to obey. He can’t know how affected I am by him.
“Tell me…” I repeat.
Beyond the studio I can hear voices, cutting our one-sided conversation short.
Xeno gives me one last glare before stepping past me and ripping the door open. He comes face to face with Madame Tuillard who smiles broadly at him.
“Ah, Mr Tyson, I see you’ve introduced yourself to Pen, one of our most promising students this year,” she says, flicking her gaze to me.
Mr Tyson? If he’s a student here, why is she referring to him so formally? The confusion must be clear on my face because Madame Tuillard steps into the room and explains.
“Mr Tyson is a new dance teacher here at the academy, he’ll be teaching bachata, a dance that you may or may not be familiar with. If you’ve picked Latin, then he’ll be teaching you too.”
“He’s a teacher?” My mouth drops open. I can’t help but gape at Xeno who meets my gaze with a blank look, as though we’re no more than strangers and he hasn’t just pressed his body intimately against mine or stolen a kiss Friday night at Rocks in front of a whole club full of people. Behind Madame Tuillard, Clancy, Tiffany, a petite girl with long, black hair and a guy I don’t recognise, step into the studio.
“Yes. Mr Tyson is our youngest teacher at the academy. He is also one of the most gifted.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I can feel the blood drain from my face and despite the shitty way I’ve treated her this past weekend, Clancy comes to my side and takes her hand in mine, squeezing it gently. “Breathe, Pen. Just breathe,” she whispers.
Clancy might not know our history, but she isn’t a fool and knows something is going on especially after Friday night’s battle. She’s a good person and I’ve been such a bitch. I don’t deserve her friendship.
“Girl, did you shack up with Mr Hot Dance Teacher over the weekend? Is that why you ignored me, too busy shagging?” she asks in a low voice. “I wouldn’t blame you in the slightest.” A giggle escapes her lips and I nudge her with my elbow.
“No…” That single word is about all I can manage right now.
Madame Tuillard glides into the centre of the studio, oblivious to the rising tension. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Bitchface Tiffany eying Xeno up. Clancy clocks it too and groans.
“Uh oh, Tiffany has set her eyes on your… man? Friend?” Clancy questions, trying to wrap her head around our non-existent relationship. Xeno might have kissed me Friday night but that was more about asserting his power than anything else. There was no emotion behind it unless you include the very obvious anger.
“He’s not my man or my friend,” I correct her. I don’t know what he is… Actually, I do. My fucking dance teacher.
Xeno glances at Tiffany and nods, casting a cursory look over her. That acknowledgement, and smidgen of interest, is enough for jealousy to wrap around my throat and squeeze tight. Xeno never gives his attention to the opposite sex unless he’s interested. Tiffany is beautiful, even if she is a stuck-up bitch, so I get it even if I don’t like it. Plus, she must be able to dance, which is really fucking annoying. I scowl, and Tiffany must feel my gaze because she turns to me and gives me her best resting bitch face.
“Don’t engage, Pen. I’ve learnt the hard way,” Clancy warns me, but I don’t give a fuck. She’s not my stepsister and if she looks at me like that again she’ll know about it.
“Mr Tyson,” Madame Tuillard suddenly says, drawing our attention back to her once more.
“Xeno,” he corrects her.
“Ah, yes, I forget you don’t like to be addressed so formally. Xeno, why don’t you stick around. You can introduce yourself to all my dancers when the remaining two decide to turn up.” Madame Tuillard says, looking at her wristwatch and tutting. “They’d better hurry. I’m not averse to rescinding my invitation.”
“There’s no need for that, Madame Tuillard.”
My head snaps around as York walks into the studio, Zayn following closely behind him. They briefly nod at Xeno who keeps his face neutral.
No. Fuck, no!
I half expect Dax to follow, but he doesn’t. I don’t know if I’m relieved or not by that fact.
“Oh, shit!” Clancy mutters, taking the words right from my lips. This can’t be happening. “Looks like Zayn got in after all…” her voice trails off as she takes in my expression. I can’t even acknowledge her. I want to be sick.
“Good of you to turn up,” Madame Tuillard states, unimpressed. “Lateness will not be tolerated. Whilst you’re attending my school, you follow my rules.” She folds her arms gracefully across her chest, glaring at them both. “I don’t care who you are or what circles you move around in. All of that is left behind the second you walk into my studio. Understand?”
“Circles they move around in?” Clancy repeats under her breath. Yeah, I picked up on that too but now is not the time to start discussing just what circles she’s referring too. I know exactly what she means, but I’m curious as to why Madame Tuillard does.
“That applies to everyone. Whatever baggage you have gets left at the door. I don’t care what happens outside the studio, but the minute you enter, you’re here to dance and dance only.”
I can’t even look at the Breakers to see whether they’re nodding in agreement like everyone else seems to be doing, because I’m too busy fighting my emotions and trying not to throw up.
Madame Tuillard starts to pace up and down in front of the mirrors, continuing her tirade. “If I ask you to meet me at eight am, I expect you to be here on the dot. If it’s five am, then get here for that time and not one second after. No excuses. There are a thousand dancers willing to take your place, just like that,” she says, snapping her fingers. “This might be the settling-in week, but that doesn’t mean to say you can ignore my instructions. This is your one and only warning. Each of you were personally selected by me because I saw something in you worth my time. Don’t make me regret my decision.”
By the look on Zayn’s face, he’s about to say something wholly inappropriate to the principal of this school. Fortunately for him, York interrupts.
“It was my fault. I delayed us this morning. It won’t happen again. Apologies,” he says, fixing his icy-blue eyes on Madame Tuillard.
Always the mother hen. Always bailing his friends out of trouble with polite words and respect. No one would ever believe what he’s truly capable of when pushed too far, when backed into a corner. He’s loyal to a fault and more dangerous than he appears.
Madame Tuillard purses her lips and nods. “Apology accepted. Let’s get started. Bags at the back, then find a space. Xeno, I’d appreciate your input.”
Xeno nods, flicking an angry glare at York and Zayn that is missed by the other students who are busy dumping their bags and finding a spot in the room. I’m currently at the back of the studio as far away from the Breakers as I can get. Next to me is the only guy I haven’t already met. He’s tall and slim, wearing a loose t-shirt and leggings. Definitely a ballerina given his attire. He glances at me and grins.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.” I try and smile back, but it comes out more of a grimace.
“Clancy would you step forward please,” Madame Tuillard asks, waving her forward.
Clancy gives me a wide-eyed look then moves to the front of the class, her cheeks flushing a little as everyone watches her with varying shades of interest. Bitchface keeps a neutral face, but if you look close enough there’s daggers in her gaze that are unmistakable. Clancy lifts her chin, ignoring her. Good girl.
“I want you all to introduce yourself. Give us a little of your dance history, your choice of specialism and anything else you think might be interesting. You’ll start, Clancy,” Madame Tuillard insists.
Clancy smiles broadly, her awesome personality shining through. “My name’s Clancy. My specialism is tap. Gregory Hines is my idol. The man was a genius. I’ve been dancing since I was five, and starred in Annie the Musical when I was thirteen, starting out as the understudy and then taking the lead about six months in.”
“So you can sing as well as tap dance?” York asks her, a note of respect in his voice that makes my mouth go dry.
“Yep.” She grins.
On the other side of the room Tiffany scoffs, muttering some nasty comment under her breath that she covers with a cough when Madame Tuillard glares at her, unimpressed.
“Thank you, Clancy. Tiffany, you’re next.”
Tiffany moves gracefully towards the spot Clancy just left and turns to face us, a pretty smile on her perfect face. It doesn’t cover the fact that she’s a bitch though.
“My name’s Tiffany,” she begins, stopping when I cover the word bitch with a well-placed cough. The look Tiffany gives me is murderous and I raise an eyebrow, winking at her. Don’t dish it out, if you can’t take it back, bitch.
I meet Clancy’s gaze in the mirror, her grin is huge, but she quickly smothers her smile when Madame Tuillard lets out a long, frustrated sigh.
“Clearly, there’s something in the air today. Need I remind you all what I said no more than ten minutes ago? Baggage is left at the door. Final warning.” Madame Tuillard looks at me directly and I nod. Understanding perfectly.
I don’t interrupt Tiffany again. I think I’ve proven my point. When she starts droning on about her illustrious dance career I can’t help but wonder why she’s here and not working with the Royal Ballet. I’m betting there’s far more to her story than she’s letting on. I make a mental note to ask Clancy about it later.
One by one, Madame Tuillard calls everyone up. The ballet dude who was standing next to me is called River. Hippy parents apparently. He took up dance when he was three and had way too much energy that needed to be funnelled into something that would keep him interested. His mum chose ballet much to his dad’s disgust. But River loved it and so here he is.
Following River is the dark-haired girl. Turns out her name’s Sophie. She moved to London with her family after her father got a new job. Her specialisms are street dance and hip-hop. Other than that she’s tight-lipped and if my instincts are right, there’s more to her than what she presents to the world. Not that I really give a shit. We’ve all got secrets. She can keep hers, and I’ll keep mine.
After her, Zayn and York both give bullshit stories that are about as far away from the truth as you can get. I wonder why they’re lying, and a thread of worry skirts my veins. Nothing good ever comes from lies. I should know.
Eventually it’s my turn.
“Last but not least, Pen,” Madame Tuillard says, waving me forward.
I bite down on the groan that wants to escape and weave through the group, avoiding all eye contact with the three Breakers before me. I can feel Xeno’s stare drilling into the side of my face.
“My name’s Pen. I grew up on a council estate in Hackney, not far from here. I danced to escape. Growing up was… difficult.” I swallow hard, my throat constricting. Clancy gives me an encouraging smile and I grit my teeth, forcing myself to continue. “I learned to dance by watching YouTube tutorials. I didn’t go to any dance schools like you did,” I say, making a point to look at Zayn and York, acknowledging their lies. “Dancing is the only time I ever feel safe. Happy. Free, I guess…”
My voice trails off and Madame Tuillard smiles. “Thank you, Pen, for sharing.”
“I haven’t finished,” I say.
She nods. “Apologies, please continue.”
Gathering courage I look at Zayn, meeting his steely gaze. “I met someone who introduced me to his dance crew. We grew up together. We were friends. My love of dance grew in their company. They made me believe I could do anything. The truth is…” My gaze flicks to York, who has his game face on. I can’t look at Xeno without being obvious, but it doesn’t matter, I know he’s watching me avidly, just like the other two. Should I continue on? I wonder what would happen if I did if I told everyone here the true story of us. The only story that counts, apparently, despite all the years of friendship I shared with the Breakers leading up to that point. You see it all boils down to one night, one decision, and one devastating consequence that separates who we were to what we are now. Would Xeno try and stop me if I told the real truth? Would York persist in pretending he doesn’t know me? Would Zayn still look at me like he hates me? Will Dax suddenly storm into this studio too?
“The truth…?” Xeno asks, his voice steady with warning.
Flicking my gaze to a spot at the back of the studio, I take a deep breath. “The truth is, I realised that the only person I could rely on was myself. These friends I once had may have given me confidence, a family I never had, but it’s always been dance that has taught me to be brave, to want more. Dance changed my life because it gave me hope when everyone else let me down, including them. That’s my story, for what it’s worth.”
Heading back to my spot at the back of the class, I ignore Xeno’s gaze and the piercing reflection of Zayn and York as they stare at me in the mirror.
Friday night they laid down the gauntlet with their emotional warfare. Today I’ve struck back with an emotional bomb of my own. If they think they can walk in here and fuck this up for me after everything they did, they can think again. I will not let them ruin my chance of making something of my life. I refuse to let them hurt me again. Screw them and their games. They might be some bullshit gangsters with a secret agenda, but this is my chance at a future, and I will not let them ruin it. Judging by the look on their faces, the truth hurts. Though, this isn’t the first time the truth has caused pain, and I doubt it will be the last.
