The Right Moves (The Game #3)(6)
Author: Emma Hart

Home. I’m home, in my bathroom. Not at a party. Not with Pearce.

I’m safe.

“I’m safe,” I whisper. “I’m safe. I’m safe. I. Am. Safe.”

I keep whispering those words, over and over, over and over. Reminding myself of what I know as I struggle to erase the flashback from my mind. I don’t need to ride it out – I remember what happened too well. I remember the bruise on the side of my head from hitting the drawers after he shoved me aside and I remember “slipping on some black ice on my way home.”

I let go of the tub and rub my hands down my face. The water is freezing cold. A quick glance at the clock on the wall tells me I’ve been in the bath longer than I thought. Much, much longer. I climb out and wrap my body and hair in towels with shaky hands. Adrenaline is still pumping through my blood from the memory, roaring through my body, and it makes me want to forget.

My eyes dart to the cabinet but it’s pointless. I know there’s nothing in this house that isn’t carefully hidden that would hurt me. No razors, no scissors, and the broken mirror in here has been replaced lest I slice my finger along it. There’s even a lock on the knife drawer in the kitchen – that’s how much my parents trust and believe in me.

But somehow I feel safer this way. Knowing I can’t get anything that would hurt me almost makes me feel a little stronger because I have to cope. Right now I have to cope with the memories because my chosen way out isn’t an option anymore. I can’t escape into the pain or lose myself in my blood swirling down the plug.

I have to feel. I have to remember. I have to live.

Yet it doesn’t stop my nails digging harshly into my palms. Even that, the small sting of pain, takes off the edge of the past. It clears my head long enough to realize I haven’t danced today.

Long enough to realize, I need to dance.

I change into some yoga pants and a tank top, clip my wet hair on top of my head and grab my ballet shoes. The TV buzzes as I pass the front room, and I open the door in the kitchen that leads to the garage.

Dad converted half of the double garage into a mini dance studio when we found out I’d be leaving St. Morris’s. There are mirrors on the wall and a brass banister that doubles as a barre. I’d laughed at him when he showed me it for the first time, but it works surprisingly well.

I take the cold metal in my hand, moving into position, and can’t help but think about the last time I danced… With Blake.

When Bianca had ordered us to partner off, I was ready to run there and then. Or shout at her for not telling me – either one. I know now she deliberately didn’t tell me. And after all, I’d have to dance with someone at Juilliard, so it’s better to get that hurdle cleared now. And it was cleared easier than I thought it would be.

When we danced together, I felt nothing but free. I felt like I could take any steps to any music on any stage in the world and I would get it perfectly right.

The art involved in ballet is like a movie. If the two lead characters don’t have chemistry, it doesn’t work. If two dancers don’t have chemistry, if they don’t click, the dance won’t work.

I’ve partnered with more people than I can count, both male and female, and I’ve never connected with anyone the way I did with Blake. I’ve never felt so comfortable in someone else’s arms as we danced together, and I’ve definitely never trusted a partner that way. I’ve also never been as attracted to a partner as I am to him.

And that scares me.

The day I walked out of St. Morris’s for the last time I built walls a hundred feet high around every part of me. I topped them with barbed wire and guarded any crack with wolves. I was – am – determined not to feel. I’m determined not to let anyone in. Not until I know I can keep myself up.

Dance is the one thing that keeps me up. It’s the one thing I let myself feel; it’s the one thing that is truly real to me. It’s the only thing that’s allowed to get past the wolves and climb my walls. Yesterday, Blake and dance were synonymous. They were one.

Where the dance went, he went, too.

I slowly lower from pointe and breathe out. Instead of being at the barre, I’m in the middle of the garage. I danced without realizing. Lost in my head, I could have done any dance, any steps, any positions, and I’ll never know.

But I did what matters.

I fought the impulse to hurt.

And I danced.

Chapter Four – Blake

“Bloody hell.” I mutter as I slam the door to my apartment. “Takeaway guy needs to get some manners.”

I set the cartons down on the small table in my kitchen and grab a plate from the cupboard. My chef’s clothes are in a heap on the floor in front of my washing machine, and I kick them to the side.

I’m a chef and ordering takeaway for dinner. But really, a guy who cooks for ten hours in a shit hot kitchen doesn’t want to cook at home as well.

I dump the food onto my plate and take the ten steps into my front room. I sit on the sofa, swinging my legs up, and switch the tele on. And my phone rings.

“Uhhh,” I groan, leaning my head back. “Jesus.”

My steaming plate earns a place on the coffee table as I grab the phone. And groan again when my brother’s name appears on screen.

“Jase,” I answer. My favorite brother. Actually, my only brother.

“Mum was wondering if you were dead. You haven’t called her.”

“So she has my barely-legal baby brother calling to make sure her eldest son is still alive?” I snort. “Save me the sob story, Jase.”

He sighs. “She’s on deadline-”

“And only has however long to get however many designs of her fancy shoes into her office. Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all.”

“Right.” He pauses, and the line cracks a little. “Well. I think she misses you.”

I snort again. This one full of disbelief. “I’m her biggest disappointment, bro. I was supposed to follow in Dad’s footsteps and go into the firm with him, but instead I decided to “cook fancy dinners,” as she puts it. Then I came to New York to do what Tori and I always promised each other we’d do, and she hates that.”

Jase doesn’t say anything, and even though he’s so much younger than me I know he remembers her. There’s no way he couldn’t. As usual, the mere mention of her name silences the whole family. Like they won’t forget – like I’m the only one who can remember the way her eyes sparkled when she laughed and the way she flicked her hair over her shoulder when she was playing up the daddy’s girl act. The way everyone loved her, because she was just the kind of person you couldn’t help but love.