32. Rowan
ROWAN
I’m not on the rota to teach this week. None of us in the performance are. But I need distraction now more than ever. Rehearsals can only keep me so occupied; I need to fill my time. My thoughts. My heart.
Anything to stop me from focusing on the emptiness.
Once, I thought the darkness would be the worst thing I’d ever have to survive, but I think it’s this. The crushing numbness of knowing I was right. That I can’t be happy. The universe won’t allow it.
For the first time in a year, I opened up. I let others in. Really, I should’ve realized they are The Firm earlier. They say that when you ask something of them, you need to be prepared to pay the price without knowing what it is.
I asked them to love me. To accept me. Not intentionally, but that’s where I ended up.
And it cost me everything.
I started today with a full dress rehearsal before diving into lessons.
My preschool ballerinas were adorable as always, the middle school tappers focused and thriving.
And my jazz seniors? They finally nailed a combo we’ve been working on for weeks.
The beauty of it was enough to make the grumpiest man weep.
But me?
I felt nothing.
I didn’t let them see that. Of course not. I smiled. I praised. I made sure they knew how proud I was.
Even if I was dying inside.
Now, I have just one class left. I don’t even think about who or what it is, busying myself with a playlist as people start to filter in.
Then I glance up and realize my mistake.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt out. Several faces turn in my direction, but only one has my attention.
“I’m here for class.”
I drink up the details of him. The cautious gleam in his eyes.
How his beard is a little shorter, like he’s trimmed it.
Even his hair looks tidier. Like he isn’t as broken by this as I am.
I wonder if there’s a reason for his sudden appearance.
It’s only been a couple of days, but it feels like an eternity.
I can’t stop looking at him. Samson seems to be doing the same with me. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s trying to stop himself from striding across the room to grab me. To kiss me. To hold me close.
Well, he can’t. He lost that right the second his lies were uncovered.
A woman to Samson’s left clears her throat. “Are we in the right studio? I know we weren’t expecting you to be teaching until after the show.”
Her question snaps me back into the present. As much as I want to kick Samson out, I don’t want to cause a scene.
Which is likely exactly what Samson is banking on.
I grind my teeth together as I force myself to glare at him.
I want to cry, want to break down, but I can’t do that here.
Not when everyone is watching, not when it will make me look weak.
And really, does he think this will be enough?
That turning up to one of my classes is going to make me miraculously forgive him?
The nerve. The fucking audacity. I should call security and have him escorted from the building, but doing that would show him just how much he’s bothering me.
Fine, I tell myself. Let him stay. He’s just another student. He’s not anyone important.
God, how I wish I believed that. I don’t know what’s worse—the obvious lie or how the emptiness lifted when I spotted Samson. Okay, so the anger I’m feeling isn’t much better, but it turns out I prefer it.
Forget fifty. I’m seventy shades of fucked up.
I don’t look at him as I greet the class. Not even when he comes to stand directly in front of me.
My nostrils flare as I catch a hint of a sheepish smile from the corner of my eye. Samson really thinks this is going to work. That he can just plant himself in my path and force me to pay him attention.
Nope. Not happening. If I do that, I will crack. And I can’t crack.
Guess I’m going to be teaching on the move this evening.
That’s exactly what I do.
I demonstrate on the fly, the whole class rotating as I zip around the edges of the room, demonstrating the steps. Then I’m weaving in between them, offering feedback, praise, and tips.
I don’t stop by Samson. Not even once.
I know he’s struggling. From how red his face is and the loud huffs he keeps expelling, half the class does. If anyone thinks it’s weird that he’s the one student I’m actively avoiding, they don’t call me on it.
It’s the most unprofessional I’ve ever been inside this studio, and I hate it.
Oh really? More unprofessional than the time you and Samson almost fucked in here?
I exhale slowly. Not everything needs to come back to him.
Except it always does.
Every one of my thoughts returns to him, as they have done these past few days.
I try to keep my gaze off him, but my eyes betray me.
My feet try too, but I fight against them.
Against the urge to walk right up to him, throw myself into his arms, and beg him to never hurt me again.
To beg him to say he’s sorry again, to grovel so I can forgive him.
But I can’t. I won’t. He can’t be trusted.
He’s proven that already.
What I don’t understand is why he’s here. I’ve made it pretty fucking clear that we’re over.
Maybe he’s here to finish the job. The one he was originally given.
I dismiss that thought as quickly as it arrives. Samson might’ve planned to kill me once, but he won’t hurt me now.
Not physically, anyway.
Finally, after a lifetime, the clock on the wall tells me the hour is up. I smile brightly as I face the class. As I face Samson. “Excellent work, everybody. Soon you’ll all be dancing in your own show here at Rhythm Studio.”
A series of wry chuckles meets my ears. I tut, arching a brow and putting a hand on my hip.
“Oh, don’t you all give me that. You might be beginners, but let me tell you a secret.
Dancing on stage is about love. It doesn’t matter if you miss steps or aren’t technically polished.
If you love what you’re doing, the audience will enjoy it. ”
Samson’s eyes burn into me during my little speech. Does he know that part of me is making it just for him?
I might be pissed at Samson. Furious, really.
But I still love him. I still want him to be happy.
To dance. To be who he always wanted to be deep down.
I speak around the lump that’s suddenly formed in my throat. “Until you’re ready for that, don’t forget to pick up your tickets at the front desk. I’m hoping to look out into the audience in two days’ time to see all your smiling faces.”
More than one person comes up to tell me how excited they are to see the show. I smile in all the right places, engaging in small talk and thanking them for their support.
The whole time, my mind is only half there. The other half is with the man leaning against the wall, one foot up, looking as though he has all the time in the world.
Well, he can keep on waiting. I’m not ready to talk.
I don’t think I ever will be.
When the final person leaves, I don’t give him the attention he’s after. With shaky hands, I unplug my phone from the speaker system and grab my bag from the tiny office. Sinking gracefully to the floor, I’m silent as I swap out my ballet pumps for sneakers.
A shadow falls over me. “Can we talk?”
That voice, rough and so fucking perfect.
I keep my eyes on my laces, not trusting myself to look at him. It’s too risky now that we’re alone. “I’ve said everything I want to.”
I get to my feet, but he’s still there, his big frame crowding me. “
You might’ve said your piece; now it’s my turn.”
“Move,” I shove at his chest. Stupid thing doesn’t shift an inch. I might be muscled and toned, but for dance, not moving stubborn men. “I’m not interested.”
“Please.” There’s a desperation in his eyes that I wish to god I hadn’t noticed. “Just five minutes. I didn’t… I was in shock before. I couldn’t find the words, but I’ve found them now. Please. Let me say them, Row.”
I hate how he shortens my name. The softness on the single syllable, like it’s something precious to him. It’s enough to have me caving, lowering my walls by a single inch.
I fucking hate it.
I fucking hate him.
Except I don’t.
I love him.
I love him, and he betrayed me.
I hate that most of all.
“Five minutes,” I grind out. “That’s it. Make them count.”
His chest inflates as he takes a deep breath. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” I mutter. “Not saying this is going to change anything.”
“I know, but I’m sorry,” Samson starts. “I want to get that in there right away. I’m sorry for lying to you about who my family are. What we do. I’m sorry that you weren’t aware of what we were planning, or that Harley offered to play a part.”
“You aren’t apologizing for taking on the job in the first place?”
His brow furrows. “Why would I do that?”
Is he fucking serious? I try and shove past him, but Samson steps neatly to the side, showing a grace that rivals my own. “Wait, why does that upset you?”
“Are you for real?” I bellow, my voice echoing off the mirror behind us. “You were hired to murder me. Aren’t you the least bit sorry about that?”
“How can I be when it’s the reason we met?” Samson clasps my chin, forcing me to look at him. The sincerity in his eyes, his fingers burning a love letter on my skin. “In a better world, maybe we would’ve met in different circumstances. But there’s nothing to say our paths would ever have crossed.”
“So that makes it okay?”
“Yes. Because you’re the best thing to ever happen to me, Rowan Mitchell. I can’t regret that.”
Heat stings the corners of my eyes.
“I know we didn’t have the most traditional of beginnings,” Samson whispers, his voice cracking.
“Never been one for tradition, to be honest. I leave all that shit up to my brothers. But with you? You give me hope for a life I thought was out of reach. One where I can dance. Laugh. Love. I want all of it. And I want it with you.”
Fuck, I want to believe him. I do. I’d give anything to be able to trust him the way I once did.
“You hurt me,” I whisper, a tear rolling down my cheek. “You would’ve kept this from me forever.”