Chapter 2
TWO
Mateo
The studio is located two blocks from my apartment, the building nearly identical to the one I live in.
With thirty minutes to spare and ice blocks for feet, I rush inside and sit on the stairs to change my shoes.
Anxiety has kept me from planning a routine, so I decided to rely on my muscle memory for today instead.
It’s a risk, but these are classes, not a competition.
Fusion Core is on the main floor, and I follow the signs until I find a corridor with three girls and one guy standing against the wall, a nervous energy stifling the narrow space.
These classes aren’t like most. If you apply for the advanced classes, you have to audition and they only have a limited number of spots open.
Four spots are what they’re offering, and as I look around, I feel confident I’ll snag one. I’m an exceptional dancer, there’s no point in being modest, and I have an impressive résumé—as long as I leave out the part where I became addicted to Oxy and cocaine.
“Hi,” the girl standing closest to me says as she holds out her hand. “My name is Yvonne.”
My heart pounds as I slip my hand into hers, knowing she must feel how clammy it is. “Mateo,” I mumble, hoping she doesn’t recognize the name.
By no means do I think I’m famous, that’s not what’s worrying me.
It’s not knowing if she was in my age-class and perhaps competed in the same circuit as I did at one time, having insider information about the destructive aftermath of my spiral.
Not that I would remember her name, having been high out of my mind most of the time. I barely remembered my own.
“I love that name,” she husks out as relief coats over me.
“Thank you,” I say a little louder, my secret still hidden.
“What dance are you doing?” She leans against the wall beside me as the others turn to listen in on our conversation.
“Not sure.” I bite my lip as my eyes flick over the others before returning to her. “You?”
“Samba.” She nods, a small smile working around her mouth. “It’s my strongest dance.”
“Samba is beautiful,” I reply as the door opens and an older gentleman stands in front of us. Greyson Ford.
“Welcome to Fusion. We have four spots to fill today and that’s all.
Choose your dance wisely and have your song choice ready.
There will also be a short interview with me and the co-owner, and the dance will be performed after that.
Are you guys ready?” His gray hair is coiffed back over his head and his blue eyes twinkle with excitement as he looks at each of us. “My name is Greyson.”
We all murmur our hellos, and I pray I’m only imagining things when his eyes land on me and stay there a fraction longer than the others.
It’s nerves. It’s been a year since I’ve had these shoes on my feet, and even though I want this desperately, I’m hoping to remain under the radar for as long as I can.
My family would not take the news calmly, and convincing them I’m fine wouldn’t be enough.
We file inside the studio as I take a deep breath.
The wooden floors shine to perfection, and three of the four walls are covered with mirrors, while the fourth has the door we came in through and another beside it.
The anxiety coursing through me has me second-guessing this for about ten seconds.
What if they know about my situation? My overdose and exit from the competitive circuit were never made public, but rumors did circulate.
Greyson asks us to line up against the wall as he motions for the only other guy to follow him through another door for his interview.
“I’m so nervous.” I turn toward the voice as two girls stand together, both with their arms crossed over their chests.
They turn to look at me, giving me tentative smiles.
“I’m Kari.” The first holds out her hand, her light blonde hair gathered into a bun on top of her head.
“And this is Fran.” She motions to a tall, willowy girl, her black hair in a French braid and her face filled with anxiety.
“Vaeda Lewis is the best dancer in the circuit,” Yvonne cuts in as she leans over to speak to them from my other side. “She’ll be a hard one to impress.”
“She’s the reason why I’m here,” Kari says, her teeth chewing into her bottom lip. “I need this class.”
I try to zone them out as I begin a routine in my head.
Coming here unprepared may be my downfall, but I won’t go out without a fight.
When an idea hits me, my heart speeds up as a smile curves along my lips.
It’ll be a risk, but everything about me being here is risky.
Just as I’m thinking through the playlist on my phone and the perfect song to use, the door opens and the guy steps out.
His skin is a few shades paler than when he went in and his brown eyes are filled with fear.
“Kari George. You’re next,” Greyson calls out.
Kari heads toward Greyson as my eyes follow the guy who takes her place beside me.
“Well?” Yvonne breaks the silence, blowing a tendril of light brown hair out of her face. “How was it?”
“I almost threw up,” he confesses as he blows out a breath. “Lewis is intense.” My heart sinks into my stomach as I contemplate leaving.
“I’m Yvonne.” She reaches around me to hold out her hand. “How long have you been dancing?”
“Adam.” He takes her hand for a limp shake, then drops it. “Ten years next week,” he murmurs. “Vaeda made it sound like it was nothing, especially when I’ve never competed.”
Shit.
They’re going to ask me about competing.
I shake out my hands as I try to calm my insides, and for the first time in a long time, I crave something to take off the edge, to numb my heightened anxiety.
My heart pounds with the revelation as I shake out my hands once more and breathe.
I want this so much that I’m willing to overlook my bout of weakness.
The door opens again just as I’m finishing counting down from ten, and Kari walks out, looking a little down, but nothing compared to Adam.
“Yvonne Cardenas,”—Greyson snaps his fingers—“you’re next.”
Yvonne gives me a wink as she passes, her confidence shining while the rest of us struggle to keep our feet on the floor.
“Are you okay?” Fran asks as Kari falls against the wall beside her. “How bad was it?”
“Not bad, but they were asking me what studios I danced in before and if this was something I was serious about. They felt my dancing experience was lacking and told me I’d have to prove them wrong with my performance.
” She shakes her head, her bun moving precariously.
That’s her first mistake, not having her hair secured.
It makes her look unprofessional, and it’ll be a problem when she dances.
I run my hand over my gelled-back hair, my fingers moving until they stop at the nape of my neck. This is how I wear my hair most days, something I’ve kept up since my dancing days. I hate having my hair loose around my face unless I’m at home.
“Vaeda has a way with words, making you feel so small,” Adam growls, his short, curly hair moving as he turns to look at Kari. “I wouldn’t want an instructor like that.”
“Most are like that,” I say quietly as they turn their heads toward me.
“In a class meant to mold competitors, they also aim to toughen your skin. A good instructor will guide and teach you each dance, but a great instructor will tear apart everything you thought you were good at, only to rebuild you into something indestructible.”
“Have you competed?” Fran asks as the door opens again, saving me from answering.
Yvonne emerges with her mouth in a grim line and the sparkle that was in her light brown eyes before is noticeably missing. “She’s a bitch,” she snaps as she retakes her spot beside me.
“Franchesca Taylor,” Greyson calls out. “Let’s go.”
I’m last. An ominous feeling comes over me as the others begin to trash-talk Vaeda Lewis. It feels like I was purposely saved for the end, and it does nothing to calm my beating heart.
“Mateo!” Yvonne’s hiss draws me out of my thoughts as I turn to look at her, her chin jutting toward Greyson standing in the open doorway. His eyebrow is raised as I start forward, my feet on autopilot as my stomach sours with unease.
Greyson motions for me to go ahead of him, my shoes clicking against the polished floors, sending echoes around our heads.
I’d pay more attention to how heavy my steps are if my pounding heart wasn’t overpowering the sounds instead.
This is my last chance to turn on my heel and escape, to continue studying business and leave dancing in my past, but my will is stronger than any fear I possess.
A table appears in front of me, two chairs positioned beside each other and facing where I entered.
Greyson quickly sits in the vacant seat, but my eyes are on the woman sitting in the other.
Her posture is perfect, her porcelain skin shimmering, and not an auburn strand of hair out of place.
Vaeda Lewis looks regal as her chin lifts a fraction higher, giving her an air of arrogance as she somehow makes me feel looked down on, even though she’s seated and I’m standing.
Suddenly, I feel so small, my towering 6’3” stature doing nothing to ease the discomfort.
“Mateo Sanchez,” she reads from a page on the table in front of her, her full lips barely moving as the husky lilt of her voice invades every one of my senses.
I don’t just hear her, I feel every syllable as the sounds course through me.
“Could this be the same Mateo Sanchez who competed in the World Championship division?”
And there it is, my worst nightmare coming to life. I nearly laugh out loud at the naivety of my coming here, at my thinking I could escape the past. How can you run from the past when it’s chasing your future?