Leather & Satin (The Bad Boy and the Ballerina) *EDITING*

Chapter 8: The Bad Boy's Past

I stand in my leotard, chiffon wrap skirt, and pointe shoes, hands on my hips, glaring at the mirror, unsure what to do. My room was a decent size, but there was no floor space big enough to dance in. I hadn't even considered it when I was decorating, I was so foolish. Maybe if I moved the bookshelves out of the way and pushed my vanity off to the side...

And my shoulder aches with every move. I just can't afford the time off that the doctor suggested. I wouldn't push myself as hard as I normally would, but I couldn't just stop training fully for 6-8 weeks. My technique required constant rehearsal.

I chew my bottom lip nervously. If I went downstairs in search of a big enough floor space, then I would risk being seen by Chase and/or Hayden. And what would they have to say about me parading around in dance attire?

Oh shut up, you little wimp, a voice in my head sneers. You're a performer. You aren't really afraid to dance in front of some teenage boys are you?

As much as I hated it, that rude little voice was right. How could I be afraid when I danced in front of audiences that had more people than this entire town?

Impossible. I was losing my edge. If this place was going to be my home, I had to get comfortable dancing and rehearsing here.

I stick my chin up and gather all the dignity I have, marching downstairs, the hard toe of my pointe shoes clicking on the creaky wooden floor as I move down the stairs and past the kitchen. Not big enough in there, and the tile would be too slippery for en pointe; I would fall.

The living room, though...that could work. If I just pushed the coffee table to the side a little bit, it would be plenty of room. I grin in victory.

"Perfect." I nod to myself. And Chase and Hayden were nowhere to be seen. Summer wasn't either. Nothing to be embarrassed about, right? I am a dancer, we have to practice every day to maintain our flexibility, grace and strength. So practice I would.

I carefully slide away the table and clear space. I pulled my ipod out of my pocket and used the stereo system in the corner to plug it into. I keep the volume low so as not to disturb the others.

As soon as I hear the sweet, drifting piano melody of the music I calm down. I start stretching, becoming another version of myself. A better version. Smarter. Stronger. More beautiful. When I danced, I could become anything, anyone. I stretch out into my splits, my middles, and do a couple leg holds to warm up my inner glutes and hamstrings before I begin. My shoulder is tender, but not unbearable. I take a couple Advil to help with the pain, against my better judgement.

Taking painkillers for an injury as a dancer was never recommended; if you couldn't feel your injury, you could easily overwork yourself and unintentionally make your injury worse, but I felt confident that I would be able to be careful with my shoulder. I would simply focus on my footwork today.

The next song comes on, and I dance...and it's all too easy to focus on the dance itself, forgetting about the injury I was nursing.

This is one of my favorite routines, it was my solo last year, and I'd gotten first place at every competition I'd competed in with it. It was a variation from the ballet, Giselle. The most dramatic scene, when she dances so much she dies from it. I had the facial expressions and perfect body posture for this piece, and my choreographer knew it.

If I was ever going to die, I think dancing would be the best way to go. It was the one thing in the world I truly loved, besides my mother and dead sister. It was home for me. I wanted it to be the very last thing I ever do.

I completely lose myself in the music, and the rest of the world fades away. There was only me, the music, the story I was telling through my movements. The pain of my injury, the stress of moving...it all felt far away.