33. Jaxon
33
JAXON
Where the fuck is Logan ? On stage, a talented dancer leaps and twirls, and I try to pay attention, but after a few seconds, I flip over my phone where it’s resting on my thigh to check the time. According to the program, Rya’s solo is up next after a brief intermission.
The moving music comes to a close, the dancer striking a dramatic final pose. I do my best to maintain focus, but it’s difficult. The style of dance was pretty. Soothing, in a way. I forget what Rya called it. Lyrical, maybe? With a sigh, I grit my teeth, my mind once again slipping to where the hell Logan could possibly be. I don’t think I’d have missed him coming in. And none of the doors have opened since the performances began. As more and more time passes, I’m becoming increasingly anxious.
The dark auditorium is hit with a soft glow of lighting, and at the front, Ms. Mooreland—Rya’s ballet instructor—smiles. “There will be a short intermission before we begin the final few performances. Please remain in your seats. We’ll resume in ten minutes.” The lights dim again, and at my right, the creak of the door distracts me from anything else she might have said, because I’m too busy turning to look for Logan.
Sure enough, it’s him. I lift a hand, gesturing to the seat I’d saved for him, and he strides quickly toward me. My brows draw together. I already knew something wasn’t quite right or he’d have been here thirty minutes ago. But it’s not so much that as the paleness of his skin and the way his face is pinched, his jaw tense as fuck. Shit . What the hell could possibly have happened since I left him earlier? He’d just been talking to his mom. Shit . I hope it’s not something to do with my dad. If that fucker somehow found out that Jamie is planning to divorce him, that could totally bring on a whole set of problems we weren’t anticipating. That’s why when Logan and I had filled Rya in and discussed potential issues that could crop up, we’d decided among the three of us that there is no fucking way we were saying a word. We’re ready to be done with Eric Ledger’s conniving and sometimes hateful ways. I’m not even fucking calling him Dad anymore. He’s never earned the title, anyway.
Logan slips into the seat beside me. He runs his hands over his eyes before turning to peer at me. “Sorry. They wouldn’t let me in during a performance. There’s this lady standing outside the door over there like a sentinel.”
I glance around. No one is paying attention to us, so I casually grasp the hand closest to me, entwining my fingers with his. “No big deal, but why do you look like you’re going to throw up?”
He drags in a ragged inhale, his grip on my hand tightening. “She’s fucking gone crazy. Like seriously nuts,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Who are we talking about?”
“Hazel. She was back at the dorm when I went to leave. Crying in front of their room. I felt fucking bad.” He rakes his free hand through his hair as his gaze remains locked with mine. This doesn’t sound good. In fact, he’s wigging out hard and that makes me fucking concerned. He grimaces as he continues. “She locked herself out of their room, and I thought I was doing the right thing by helping her. I found Rya’s keys in her bag and let her in. But then…” He blows out a hard breath as he falters. It’s like he doesn’t want to admit to something.
I stare into his blue eyes, searching for the truth, and squeeze his hand. Murmuring low, I grit out, “What the fuck happened?”
Hesitating for only another second, the dam finally breaks, and his words come out in a rush. “The motherfucking power went out while we were in the elevator. And—” He blinks, staring at me with wild, panicked eyes.
He seriously looks like he’s about to vomit all over himself.
“It was nearly pitch-black in there, and she was freaking out. The lights came on and boom. Her lips were on mine.” He runs a hand over his face. “I pushed her away, fast. Asked what she was doing…” Swallowing hard, he heaves out a disbelieving breath. “And what’s her response? She goes off on me like a delulu fucking head case. Just as the elevator door begins to open, it’s like she flipped a damn switch. Sad Hazel? Gone. Clingy Hazel? Also gone. Instead, she acts like it wasn’t her who had instigated the kiss. Then screeches that I put my hands on her—loudly enough that everyone who was standing outside that elevator door heard everything.”
My mouth opens, then closes again. I don’t even know what to say. I’m stunned speechless.
“I didn’t do anything ,” Logan grits out, his eyes pleading with me for understanding. “I swear it. I would never.”
I frown. “I believe you. There’s no way you’d want anything to do with her. I think she’s one strike short of a full count.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re ready to begin the second half of our program!” Millie is up on the stage this time, the spotlight shining on her. She smiles. “Next up, we have a gorgeous piece of ballet choreography from freshman, Rya Monroe.” With a flourish of her arm, she exits stage right, and as the curtains draw apart, I mumble under my breath as we join the crowd in a round of applause as Rya steps onto the stage with her back to the audience and waits patiently for her music to begin. “It’s okay. We’ll handle Hazel. Let’s watch our girl do her thing, then we’ll figure it out.”
Only, as the first notes of Rya’s music selection drift through the speakers and the dancer on stage begins to move, my stomach bottoms out. Because that’s not Rya up there.
It’s Hazel. And she’s working through the exact choreography Rya has been training so hard to perfect these last few weeks.
“What the fuck?” hisses Logan as I put my hand on the back of the seat in front of me, preparing to stand up, but not a clue what I’ll do from there. I kinda doubt there’s a standard etiquette for something like this. Hey, everyone. This psycho is dancing in our girlfriend’s place! might not go over so well.
My eye catches movement from the side of the stage, and horror rushes through my veins. Rya appears, a mixture of stunned dismay and anger etched into her features. And worse, she looks broken , clearly having somehow sustained multiple injuries. Her nose is bloodied, and high on her cheekbone, even from here, I can tell there’s a nasty bruise forming. She staggers farther onto the stage toward the center, and it’s as if I’m caught in some sort of void where I can no longer move, hear, or think. Logan must be the same because he hasn’t budged, his eyes wide and disbelieving.
Our girl takes halting steps in her pointe shoes and, as my throat goes dry, my eyes scan over every jerking, painful stride Rya makes. More details come into sick focus—her bun sits askew on top of her head, the knees of her tights are dirty, and the gorgeous tutu I’d rescued from her room the other day is torn. The more I observe in these seconds that pass agonizingly slowly, the more shock hammers into me. She looks like she was in a fight… and lost. Her feet drag as she stumbles closer and closer to Hazel. She turns a bit, an agonized moan tearing from her beautiful lips, and from this new angle, it’s obvious her arm dangles sickeningly from the socket.
Rya’s body shakes as she watches Hazel twirl around, then proceed through a complicated sequence of foot movements. Rya’s choreography—the dance she created and was chosen to perform. Not fucking Hazel.
And speaking of the crazy bitch, either Hazel hasn’t seen Rya yet or she’s ignoring her presence. It’s hard to tell if she’s even aware of what’s going on around her, with this oddly serene expression on her face. It’s incredibly disturbing—especially considering the rumble of concern that is moving through the crowd.
“Tiny Dancer,” Logan chokes out, time finally catching up to us. He surges to his feet at the same time I do.
From my own mouth, her name bursts from my throat, raw with emotion. “Rya!” Scrambling now, we hurry, trying to exit the row of seating we’re penned in, desperate to get to her.
Through all this, Hazel has continued to dance, seemingly oblivious to her roommate. The girl has to be fucking cuckoo not to stop right where she is. But no, she continues to pirouette like this is her crowning performance, and there’s nothing strange here about her having taken over someone else’s choreography. Something vicious inside me claws its way to the surface. I’m sure of it now—there’s no way Hazel isn’t responsible for the things that have been happening to Rya.
If I were Hazel, I wouldn’t dance. I’d fucking run.