Dance for Me (Fenbrook Academy #1) - New Adult Romance by Helena Newbury

Author:Helena Newbury
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2012-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

Darrell

Two hours earlier

The alarm went off, but I ignored it.

I was at the whiteboard and lost in theories and equations, trying to catch up after a full week wasted in Virginia. I knew I was close. I kept imagining Natasha, doing her fouettés and pirouettes, or doing the promenade in her bedroom, spinning slowly without any apparent effort....

My phone beeped. Not an alarm, this time. A text message from Carol: “Back at work, I hope. Not having private dances?” I sighed and ignored her. A few moments later, another message: “Seriously, are you on the job, or on the ballerina?” I slammed the phone down without replying.

The second alarm—the one I’d set because I knew I’d ignore the first one—went off. I silenced it and grinned as I thought about seeing Natasha. I really had to go and get ready, or I’d be late to meet her. I needed to shower, find a shirt, get my suit on....

Another text message arrived from Carol: “Are you ignoring me?”

I viciously stabbed the power button and held it down until the screen went black.

In blissful silence, I took one last look at the whiteboard. I had to make it move like Natasha moved...

Natasha. The irony was, the more I thought about her, the more I was inspired by her, the less comfortable I was with the project. I ran my hand over the casing. It was the best—or the worst—I’d ever built. And once I cracked the problem, its most deadly ability would come directly from her, from her dancing. She was going to be the inspiration for something that destroyed cities...countries.

Neil would say to walk away from the whole thing, but then he didn’t understand why I did it in the first place. He didn’t know what was driving me, deep down—no one did, except Carol. And I knew I wasn’t going to open myself up enough to explain it to Natasha, either. Without even realizing it, I was tracing my scars through my vest, and just the thought of that day roused the memories from their slumber. I remembered then why I didn’t let myself question my work, but it was too late.

I quickly turned on some music and cranked the volume up loud. I could feel a cold sweat breaking out across my back as the screams filled my ears, the music failing to block them out. The anger rose up inside me like a physical force, every muscle going tense. I picked up the whiteboard marker, but my hand was shaking so hard I could barely write. I wanted to scream and yell and hurl stuff around the room, but smashing up my workshop would be letting them win.

Work, that was the answer. Solve the problem. Build the weapon. Use my rage. I took a deep breath and started to work through equations on the whiteboard, knuckles white on the pen, hoping, praying that if I focused hard enough the memories would sink back down.

Slowly—very slowly—it worked.

....

When I reached for my Dr.

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