Somewhere in California by Toby Neal

Author:Toby Neal [Neal, Toby]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Toby Neal
Published: 2016-06-21T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

Jade

Saladin is wearing an open leather vest and a pair of baggy satin pants at practice the next morning. He looks more than ever like a djinn.

“Ready?” he says. “Let’s do some warm-up. We’ll just dance freestyle and do stretches.”

He stands in front of us facing the mirrored wall. As the music comes on, a mix of hip-hop, R & B and disco, we get down and funky. I learn just watching Saladin. He shows me how far I can grow. An hour later, smiling, hot, loose in the joints and muscles, we’re ready to get back to our routine.

Saladin rolls out the butcher paper outline. “Take a look. Let’s see what you remember.”

He cues the music. We get started, and pretty soon we’re back to where we were the day before.

Ernesto really is a sexy guy, and the way he moves—crisp, but somehow lingering, like there’s an echo in the air behind him—infuses our “story” with a passionate burn, every appearance of real longing. I feel that longing between my thighs, along my nerve endings, and it makes me think of Brandon more than I have room or time for.

We have some spectacular screw-ups: the time I’m supposed to slide down his back and land in a roll, and instead just land on my tailbone with a bone-jarring thud. The time Ernesto’s supposed to cartwheel over me and instead, lands his hand right on my hip, mashing me into the unforgiving floor. The time our heads crack together as we leap toward each other.

“You kids are going to be sore tomorrow,” Saladin tells us at the end of the day, “but remember—today’s the day that matters. Tomorrow is just the results show and new partners, a whole day to get going on your next routine. So give it all you have tonight.” The choreographer puts his ropy, tattooed arms around us and pulls us in for a hug. Our foreheads touch in a sweaty, smelly, warm and wonderful bond. “Make me proud.”

I walk away toward Wardrobe blinking tears out of my eyes, amazed that I still don’t need to sanitize after all that sweaty contact.

“I wish he was our choreographer for all the pieces,” Ernesto says as we walk down the hall. “He’s a master.”

“Me too.”

“And I wish you were my partner every day, too.”

“Ah, you’re just saying that.”

Ernesto slings his arm over me in that way he has, skimming my arm with his fingertips. This time, I don’t like it—that icky human contact feeling again, for the first time today. “We have some mean chemistry. I could make it good for you,” he says.

I know what he’s talking about. “Ernesto. Damn it. I’m not into you that way.” I’m getting tired of having to have this conversation with every randomly assigned partner.

We pause in the dimly lit hall. The overhead fluorescent flickers over us, bathing us in chilly grayish light—but even then, he’s attractive with his large brown eyes, coppery-gold skin, full lips and that body that defies description.

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