Very Wicked Beginnings (3 page)

I put my arms in the air, rounding them out in fifth position. He nodded his approval.

I continued, executing the abstract movements, some of which were more demanding than classical ballet, requiring deep
pliés
and distorted yet elegant lines. Climactic and passionate, I let myself fly as I danced the last scene, envisioning myself as the character that loses the love of her life.

Then something weird happened.

Right in the middle of my
grand jeté
tingles skipped up my spine and spread over my body. I landed and let out a shiver. It felt like someone was watching me, and I didn’t mean the teacher or Jacques or one of the other dancers. The sensation was more intense, darker, making me self-conscious as I finished up my routine.

As soon as my part was done, I went off to a corner to grab a drink of water, passing by the big window that faced the west and looked out over the football practice field.

I stopped in my tracks.

A big football player was facing me on the twenty yard line, dressed in tight white football pants and a navy blue jersey. He was tall, probably a few inches over six feet, and his shoulders were impossibly broad. No clue who he was with the helmet on, but his practice jersey said number 89, yet even that meant nothing to me. I knew nada about the game or the players on the team. Well, I knew some of the players’ reputations. Most were uber-rich and super popular. I mean, this was Texas where football players—especially those with looks and money— were treated like gods.

I cocked my head. Why would he stare into the dance window, and why—
slam!
He got pummeled hard by another player. I flinched and gasped, wondering if I should run out there and check on him, but then the coach loped across the field. He took the player’s helmet off, but from my angle I still couldn’t make out the fallen player’s face. After a few minutes, he stumbled to his feet with the aid of a couple of players, and they walked him off the field and back to the sidelines.

“Dovey, you’re up next,” one of the other dancers said.

I glided back to the center spot, forgetting about the player.

I’m sure he wasn’t looking at me anyway.

No one at BA ever sees the scholarship girl from Ratcliffe.

AFTER PRACTICE, I left the dance building to meet Spider, my bestie, in the school parking lot. Well, to be honest, I was meeting him and his random flavor of the month. Becca, maybe? Who knew. I couldn’t keep up with the names considering the constant rotation he ran.

As I came around the corner of the building, I saw he had this week’s girl backed up against the side of his Range Rover, his hands on her ass, all cozy as they made out. I noticed he’d colored his hair again; it was azure blue, and I had to admit, it looked good.

I paused and watched in a clinical kind of way, wondering what all the fuss was about with him. I mean, who’d ever want to kiss Spider? His mouth had been everywhere. I laughed low enough so they wouldn’t hear me, still taking it all in, planning on critiquing him later on his tongue technique.

He stuck his hand up her red shirt, going for boobs, and my brows hit the roof. It wasn’t even dark yet. Not that that had ever stopped him.

The girl moaned, her hands cupping his nape, her fingers caressing the hand-sized black widow tattoo he had on his neck. He pulled her closer and pumped his hips against hers.

“Spider,” she moaned, picking up a leg and wrapping it around his waist.

Good grief. They were about to make their own porn movie.

I coughed.

They didn’t move, their hands getting more frenzied, their kiss more heated.

“Yeah, baby, like that,” Spider said gutturally as the girl put her hands in his pants.

Okay, enough. This was gross.

I put my hands up to my mouth and let out a long, shrill whistle. I grinned when Spider flinched and shot me an irritated glare. I shrugged. So. I loved to give him a hard time.

The girl straightened her shirt, her beady green eyes on me. Pissy? Most definitely.

“Bloody fucking hell. Could you have let us finish?” he said, pushing down on the giant hard-on in his jeans. His British always came out more when he was pissed, which made me smile.

I cocked a hip. “You said we were going to Portia’s for a pastry, so I’m here. Jonesing for a donut, if you wanna know. If you wanted to mess around, you shoulda got a room. Or at least gotten in the car. It’s right there.”

The girl gave me a weird look. “You’re going with us?”

“Am I?” I asked Spider, arching my brow. He’d better say yes. We’d made plans at lunch and if he bailed on me …

He gave the girl a quick peck on the mouth. “Yep. She goes with me.”

Suck it
, I wanted to say to her, but I just stood there, because I’d still be here tomorrow … and her? Not so much.

I moved in closer and stuck my hand out to the girl, offering an olive branch. “Dovey Beckham. And you don’t have to worry. Spider and I are just friends.” I smiled, because really,
we were just friends
, and it would be nice to have a friend who was a girl.

But she gave me a look loaded with disdain. Typical reception from the rich girls who considered a girl from the projects beneath them. But maybe because Spider was watching, she put her hand out too. “Becca Mitchell. Spider’s girlfriend.”

I blinked to stop my eyes from rolling. She wished. Along with several others.

Then, I shot him a look to see if he agreed with that statement, but his face was a cool mask. As usual. No one could ever tell what he was thinking. But my gut sensed this girl was just passing through. Just yesterday, he’d told me about messing around with some cheerleader out at the barn, an old building that sat at the end of BA’s campus and was part of the equestrian program here.

I smiled brightly back at Becca, just as fake as she was. “Great. I hope you stay that way.” I rubbed my hands together. “Now, if you two are done, I just spent three hours working my ass off, and I’d like to get my carbs for the day.”

We got in Spider’s car, with Becca sitting in the front seat, while I sat alone in the back. Whatever.

Being alone didn’t matter.

And I had secrets anyway. And that meant keeping my distance when it came to relationships, because if these spoiled rich kids knew my true story, my entire future would be over.

“I blame myself for a lot of things.

Loving her wasn’t one of them.”

–Cuba

SEPTEMBER DRIFTED PAST. I went to school, played football, and partied as usual, picking a new girl to be with every Friday night after the game. I had my choice, being constantly bombarded with offers and texts and sexual innuendoes. Once I’d even hooked up with one of the teacher interns here. Fresh from the university, she’d been impressed with my athletic build, and I’d been impressed with her willingness to do anything I asked. But I was smart when it came to chicks. I always picked the ones who wouldn’t be bothered when I moved on to someone else. That meant most nice girls were out.

I don’t think I’m missing anything. I’m not a nice dude.

By mid October we’d won four straight games, and the sportscasters were calling me the best defensive end since BA had opened its esteemed doors in 1962. I accepted the praise because I needed the focus. Knowing I had something to work for kept me centered. I wanted to forget about my mother, and football helped with that. Girls did too.

As far as Ballet Girl went, I’d refused to let my gaze look for her in the window. No great loss. I told myself I’d built her up in my head; she really hadn’t been all that.

“Cuba, dude, sit over here,” Zero, another football jock, said to me as I entered the BA crowded gym. It was just after lunch, and we had an assembly today with a college recruiter. They came about once a month from various places, selling their universities. Today’s speaker was from Princeton.

I headed to where Zero sat. His real name was Zack and not only were we teammates, but we were
kinda
friends. Like mine, his family was prominent in Highland Park. Yet, he didn’t know everything about me. He didn’t know what I’d done four years ago.

Truthfully, I didn’t connect with anyone here, although if you asked most of them, they’d say we were good friends.

I sat down next to him.

“You been bulking up, Hollywood?” Zero was big into fitness.

I flexed an arm muscle. At six foot three inches I was already broader and taller than my dad. And I loved to work out because the burn it gave me numbed me out and made me so exhausted that by the time I got home and finished my homework, I’d crash.

Because I didn’t want to think about what was going on with my family.

I nodded. “Yeah. Swimming is good too—” and those words came to a halt as the pink swish of a skirt passed in front of me. The girl wearing the skirt plopped down in a seat directly in front of me. She also wore a grey hoodie, and her feet were stuck in a pair of knock-off Uggs. Pale pink tights were on her legs.

Holy fuck. Was that her?

It had to be. I’d know that skirt and those legs anywhere.

My cock tightened, and I adjusted myself in my seat, my mind churning.

This dude everyone called Spider sat down next to her, and she smiled up at him.

Oh
. They must be a couple. And why did I feel disappointed?

Then another girl—this one a blonde—sat on the other side of him, making me wonder which he was banging. Because he started talking to both of them, even going so far as to wrap an arm around each of their chairs. But his attention seemed more on Ballet Girl. Huh. Was the dancer seeing the notorious English kid who had a rep as a hothead?

It didn’t fit with what I had in my head. And it pissed me off.

Surprising myself, I scooted my chair over, trying to get a look at her profile. Because what if I’d been sitting next to her every day for the past two months in Calculus or wherever and hadn’t even known it?

“Dude, you’re right on top of me.” Zero sent me a questioning look as I leaned over in his space.

I moved back to my side. Feeling off.

Why did I care what she looked like?

“Just trying to see the speaker,” I muttered, since the assembly had already started.

Zero stood. “Dude, if it’s that important to you, let’s switch, then.”

I jumped on it, getting up and letting him have my seat. I settled back in the hard chair and let my eyes eat her up.

I had a great view. Her dark hair was scrapped back in a tight bun, giving me full access to her soft profile. The first thing I noticed right away was the curve of her lips and how full they were. I wondered if her mouth was always that pink or if she wore lipstick. Her skin was milky white with high cheekbones and a straight nose. I didn’t see what color her eyes were, but her lashes were incredibly long and black.

She smiled at something, and I lost my breath. Just a little. She wasn’t beautiful or made-up like some of the girls here. At all. But, she was lovely to look at, delicate yet with a strong body that she’d obviously worked on for years. She laughed again, and just the sound of it mesmerized me. Maybe because within her laugh, I detected a unique quality about her, something I didn’t have. She seemed hopeful and optimistic, like she believed in fairytales and butterflies and shit.

Yeah, stay away from that.

I avoided Mary Poppins type girls.

But then why did I find myself leaning forward, just a little closer. Dying to see the color of those eyes. Needing to see her face up close.

Someone sat on the other side of me, coming in late to the assembly.

I glanced over to see Nora Blakely, resident BA genius, National Belltone Spelling Bee Champion, and all around odd person. We didn’t talk much, but we’d grown up together here in Highland Park. And I liked her.

I nudged my head toward Ballet Girl and whispered, “Nora, who’s that girl?”

She arched a brow at me, and I played it up and grinned. “I mean, you’re gorgeous, of course, but just trying to place if I know her.”

She smirked, and I don’t think she cared one way or the other about who I was interested in. After a few minutes of looking at Ballet Girl, she turned to me. “Pretty sure her name is Dovey. I think she’s a scholarship student. Maybe from Ratcliffe.”