Chapter 15
“Easton,” I say, curtsying as he walks farther into the practice studio. Mateo laughs then covers it with coughing.
I cringe.
Easton’s gaze embarks on a slow journey across my hot pink unitard. His gaze eats me up and I try not to internally combust. His eyes meet mine and his entire face freezes into a frown.
Not a fan of unitards or not a fan of me? Either way, it means nada. I’m not affected. At all.
With a wave of my hand, I turn to Mateo, needing to fill the space. “Easton Blake, this is my brother, Mateo.”
Easton’s eyebrows go up. For a moment, I’m sure he’s remembering the scene that long-ago morning of Mateo bashing open the door and me holding him back while convincing Easton he was my brother and not a danger. To me. Not a danger to me.
I managed to get Easton to leave, thinking I’d call his room later. Later turned out to be the next day, thanks to a broken pipe in the boiler room and a meeting with the insurance company. By the time I’d gone to his room, he’d checked out. Without a goodbye. That’d hurt badly, but I’m over it.
Mostly.
Easton nods at Mateo.
My special musical request scowls back.
The camera operators follow everything.
Hopefully, that little interaction won’t make it onto the show. One of the problems with being on a reality television show is that if your brother acts like a pendejo, giving the guy who took your virginity the death stare, you can’t exactly tell him to knock it off.
Easton puts hands into the pockets of his FTW shorts, causing me to notice his veined and muscular forearms. My gaze locks on the Live, Love, Lift barbell tattoo.
It’s then that I notice his other forearm. A tattoo of a moon with the silhouette of a werewolf howling. I gape at it. Could that be…
Easton cocks an eyebrow. “Please continue.”
Right. Forgot that this new Easton is a stone-cold dick. Blushing, I turn back to Mateo. “From the beginning?”
Rubbing a hand aggressively across his brow, Mateo lets out a breath that doesn’t hide the unease on his face. I watch as his throat works. “Sí, querida,” he says, calling me by an endearment he rarely uses.
I feel a stab of guilt. I don’t want this to be hard on Mateo.
My brother starts to play, and I unleash all my salty emotion into the dance. I swing my hips in sharp, exaggerated movements. Raise my arms in lilting waves. Stretch and extend my right leg while dipping down over it.
“It has too many elements of your first routine,” Easton interrupts gruffly.
I startle from the pose. Mateo stops playing. We stare at Easton.
“It’s perfecto,” Mateo counters.
“I never said it wasn’t, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I hadn’t also done my research. This routine is nearly identical to the one that won her a spot on the show.”
“Verdad,” I say, “but the audience only saw a small portion of that routine, and I think I’ve altered it enough, adding an original bit of music and different tempos, to create something unique.”
Easton releases his hands from his pockets. He’s even more muscular than when I’d known him. It’s a bit intimidating. Or maybe it’s his hot-then-cold gruffness that’s intimidating. “The music works because it’s dynamic, but you’re playing it safe with your routine. It’s predictable.”
I bristle but take a deep breath. He’s right. I am playing it safe, but I only have a short time to practice before I have to get back to work.
“As far as I can see,” Easton says, “your routine has three new moves.”
He demonstrates each one, including holding his leg up and behind him for an extended beat. I’m impressed with his flexibility and can’t help but enjoy the firm, masculine line of his body. Obviously, he’s put in effort to learn more dance since the last time I saw him. I wonder if the night I’d danced with him influenced his fitness focus. No. That’s ridiculous.
But that tattoo…
He turns to me and I dart my eyes from his forearm.
“Drop all but those three moves, and weave something new and dynamic around them. You can keep the music.”
It’s hard not to snap at Easton, especially given his bossy tone. But the camera operator, toting equipment that reminds me of the backpack in ghost busters, and the person carrying his wires circle me, homing in on my reaction, so I paste a smile on my face.
I bite back my breath as I work through Easton’s suggestions with a flush of feelings churning inside. Basta. Enough. He’s a professional, and no matter what was between us, he obviously wants to help make my routine the best. I’m sure he’s doing that for all the contestants, so I’d be a fool not to take his sharp advice.
I release all that pent up breath in a slow exhale, then say, “Those three moves are static, so what if I weave a dynamic sequence around them?”
Easton shrugs. “Let’s see.” He points at the far end of the room. “That’s downstage for orienting purposes.”
Ay, I hadn’t thought about the fact that I need to know where my routine will flow when I’m performing on the outdoor stage.
Easton continues, “For the leg hold—since it has elements of ballet in it—could you do a series of leaps, left and right? Rapid, almost flying motions?”
I nod and Mateo takes up the beat. The rhythms soak into me as I perform the routine, then launch into a series of running leaps.
On the last, Easton catches me by the arm. The weight and heat of his hand stops me dead. He stares into my eyes with so much obvious lust that I’m brought back in time.
“Yolanda, fuck, you feel so good around me.”
“Keep track of your space.” He lets go of my arm with a growl. “You’ll bounce off the stage.”
What? Ay. He’s right. I was running out of room.
“Now,” he continues, “repeat the static move, bend all the way forward and allow your leg to go as far up as you can.”
I follow his direction, deepening the move, so that my right leg is straight in the air, my torso falls along my left leg, and I’m holding every muscle until I tremble.
Easton squats down so we are at eye level. I see his throat work. “Can you rise onto your toes?”
My heart lights up. Fighting to keep my control, I do what he asks and Mateo, instead of the moderate beat he’d been doing, trills a fast and defiant rhythm.
I feel as if I am lifting into the sky.
I release the move, stand back up. Easton grabs me by my forearms with a huge and generous smile lighting his face. “That was it, unique and powerful and beautiful.”
In that smile, I see the Easton I knew—unguarded and kind. I smile back, because I’d missed this, the way he believes in and sees me.
I know he’s doing this for everyone, but there’s absolutely nothing more thrilling than that feeling of being seen for all that you can be, for the things that you know are inside, but that so often don’t make their way out into the world.
His smile dies almost as quickly as it rose. His face freezes. His jawline stiffens. I watch as he cloaks the Easton I knew, with his easy emotions and unguarded heart, behind an invisible textile, cold and impenetrable.
“Great. Let’s work on the next move.”