Hitting to Win (Over the Fence #2) (7 page)

M
y big toe was bleeding
, I could feel it. The blood matted the inside of my pointe shoe, the cut scraping against the rough side of the layers of fabric and glue. But that doesn't slow me down. I feed the pain, going harder into turns and leaps than I should.

I've been in the studio since 7 a.m., unable to sleep and feeling restless. So I came to my sanctuary. I had to be here to rehearse with Miles anyway, why not add another two hours to my already 30-hour practice week.

I hadn't been able to sleep for days. Between having vivid sex dreams about Miles and not getting any kind of call or text from him, my nerves were fried. We hadn't spoken or seen each other since Tuesday. And I hadn't been able to let it go yet. It didn't help that I had regularly scheduled events with him twice a week. If he could have only been some random guy that I'd never have to see again.

The soft, slow melody of the song I'd been dancing to stopped, and I glanced at the clock. Miles would be here in twenty minutes. Grabbing my water bottle, I sat on the floor in a butterfly position and began stretching my muscles out before unlacing the silk straps tied around my ankles. I was sore, really sore. Missing two days of class and then pushing yourself way too hard to make up for it will do that to you.

But now that my dream was within my grasp, I had no time to spare. I needed to push myself even if my bones ached, even if my feet bleed, even if I couldn't stand to dance for one more hour. That's what makes a prima ballerina, Madame V had said. I'd visited her office, at her demand, after the Barre Techniques class she taught.

"How are you feeling?" She says this with brusque disinterest, as if she only needs this to open up the conversation.

"I'm okay, much better than-"

"Yes, yes, darling. Anyways, there has been some interest in you. I almost should not tell you after you miss my class for two days." Madame's thick french accent cuts the threatening words.

"Again, I'm deeply sorry." Best to appear apologetic.

"Yes, well. The School of American Ballet is going through their application process for summer intensives. I know the director there, I may have put in a good word. Although now I may regret that."

I think my jaw hit the floor. SAB? It was only one of the premiere schools in the entire country. It fed right into the New York City Ballet. I could hardly contain my excitement.

"You recommended me? For SAB? Wow, Madame Vivienne, I don't know what to say..."

"Say you will work harder. Prove me right that I was correct in mentioning your name to them." She gives me her sternest look.

"I will. I promise Madame. I will do whatever it takes." I was shaking I had so much adrenaline pumping through my veins. SAB. Wow.

"I hope you do. I don't often give out compliments, but you have the raw talent to really go far. Listen to your teachers here and you just might be the one in a million who achieves what every amateur ballerina dreams of. Now, you may go." She dismisses me with a wave of her hand.

I float of her office, high on this recent development.

I'm dreaming of SAB and the instructors there, some of the best in the world, when I pull my left pointe shoe off to assess the damage.

It's sticky with blood, and makes a suctioning noise as I pull it off. My big toe has a ragged cut down the side closest to my instep, and I grab a tissue to help clot it. I have two new blisters on my third and forth toe, adding to the three I already had on them. And my pinky toe is bruised such a deep shade of indigo that I'm starting to get concerned about it.

My feet have never been pretty, being a dancer and all, but since I came to college they've been through hell and back. It's a good thing I don't even feel much of the pain down there anymore.

I hear the sudden groan of the studio door, and look up at Miles, who is surprisingly, fifteen minutes early. Gosh, he looks delectable. His sunny ringlets still damp from the shower, the white t-shirt he wears clings to all of the right places, allowing me to make out the grooves of his abs. I involuntarily blush as my gaze locks on his worn-in grey track pants. I know what's under them now, and that's not something I'll ever forget. Miles is hung like the guys in pornos. And I only know that because Kels made me watch some freshman year of high school.

"Hi." Miles gives me a small smile, his eyes genuine. Contrite. That wasn't what I was expecting. I don't really know what I'd expected. I'd tried to play this scenario out in my head for the last four days, and could never decide on which way it was going to go.

"Hi." I answer as I unwrap my right pointe shoe, peeling it off the shredded skin on my foot.

"Jesus! That's nasty." Miles squirms as he gets a closer look of my feet. So much for being nice to me.

"Hazards of being a dancer." I utter, harsher than I mean it to sound.

"You may look like a princess, but you must be tough as nails to endure that shit." His compliment both surprises and pleases me. Crap. We were supposed to be forgiving but not forgetting here.

"Thanks." I turn, reaching for my water bottle.

"Um...so, about the other night..." I peek through my lashes to watch Miles in the mirror. He's rubbing one big hand behind his neck, trying to figure out what to say next. He looks completely uncomfortable. "I...are you okay? I never, um, do that by the way. I'm clean. I didn't want you to worry."

Like I hadn't been worrying the entire week. Like I hadn't cried myself to sleep Wednesday and Thursday night over how stupid I'd been, and how inconsiderate he was. "Thanks for letting me know. Don't worry, I'm fine now."

"Now? Did I...um, hurt you?" He looks worried, but isn't coming any closer to me. He stands in the middle of the room, while I sit by the mirror. This discussion couldn't be any more awkward.

"No. You didn't hurt me. But I did get the morning-after pill to be safe." My lips feel tight as I admit this to him. I can feel the tears pool in the back of my eyes just remembering taking that trip alone.

Miles exhales and curses under his breath. "Shit. I'm really sorry. I should have taken you, or something."

There is a few beats of silence. I really don't know what to say. What I want to say is, "Yes, you should have manned up. You should have called me in the last four days. You shouldn't have even had sex with me in the first place if you don't think that highly of me." But I don't. I hold my tongue, my niceness overcoming any rudeness. It always did.

"I'm really sorry about everything. I've been through hell and back the past year and a half, and it's not just because of my gold-digging ex-girlfriend. I've had some stuff going on. And the anger, I took it out on you because...well I don't really have a good reason. You were here? You're so nice and understanding?  I apologize, for all of it. You're a good person, Chloe. I never meant to take advantage of you the other night. So...I'm sorry."

Before I can think, the words are out of my mouth. "You're a nice person too." I imagine that little boy with the unruly curls, standing up for me. "Just because you got lost in the dark there for a while doesn't erase that. And Miles...you didn't take advantage of me. I wanted that just as much as you did."

Lust consumes his distinctive eyes like a tidal wave, and we just sit there, looking at each other for what seems like hours. Finally, he breaks the silence. “Well, I am really sorry. And nothing like that will happen again. I won’t hurt you like that.”

I shouldn’t feel disappointment at his words that it won’t happen again, but I do.

"So, we're jiving this week, huh?" I don't miss his double entendre.

"Yes, we are performing a jive." I smile, hoping he likes my idea. "I was thinking we go like, 1940s wartime costumes. You in a Marines uniform, I can wear an Army nurse's outfit. That's always what I think when I think jive."

Miles nods, his eyes lighting up. "Sick. I've always wanted to be a soldier. I'm in."

For the first time in weeks, our practice goes swimmingly. We don't just jive, we jibe. Our ideas are in sync, we get the choreography put together in record time, and Miles even cracks a few jokes. By three o'clock, I'm presently surprised we have performed the final result four times without any missteps.

"I think we're done for the day." I smile cheerily, glad to be getting out of the studio at a decent hour.

"Great." Miles pauses, not running out of the studio like he usually does. "Do you want to maybe...I don't know...grab a slice from Angelo's? Early dinner?"

My heart shouldn't leap the way it does at his question, but it’s such a reflex after all these years of wanting him. I shouldn't go. I said I wouldn't. And I can't even eat pizza.

“That depends, are you going to make me pay for it all by myself?”

I flinch, and so does he, at my words. I don’t know where that came from.

Miles looks guilty when he meets my eyes. “I know it won’t make up for it, but maybe its a start? Let me take you out for a slice.”

"Sure, I'd love to."

Idiot.

T
he week flies
by in a blur of baseball practices, dance competitions, class and parties. I thank god every night my head hits the pillow, I'm that tired. Thankfully baseball is over after this week. We go into hibernation for the winter before spring training starts in February.

Chloe and did alright on our jive in Tuesday's performance, but I had a few missteps. Something about playing a Marine just got me overly excited, and I'd accidentally earned us two eight's and a nine. Not bad, we were still top of the leader board, and hadn't been voted off, but it wasn't perfect ten's. Not that Chloe was mad. She was her usual polite, nice self.

I always got the urge to tousle her when she was like that. I think it's why I had been so nasty to her at first. Being in a bad place only perpetuated how badly I wanted to see her untamed. But this time I'd held back, opting to play pong with her at the DWTG after-party instead.

It was weird how well we'd been getting along. Our pizza dinner on Saturday had been a little awkward, but not overly so. She’d given me a complex lesson about how to actually make pizza, something she did all the time when she helped out her parents at their restaurants. Her family’s food was to die for. It was the only place my father made reservations for clients that came in from out of town, and sometimes he dragged me along.

I’d told her about baseball, and she mentioned she used to go to some of my high school games. It was weird, how much we knew about each other’s lives without ever having really talked. I didn’t know how to feel about the fact that she had always had a massive thing for me. I guess now I felt stupid, because I had wasted a lot of time not trying to get to know a genuinely great girl.

Her forgiveness astounded me, although I still caught the looks she threw me when she didn't think I was watching. The ones where her purple orbs drained of all color, leaving her looking so sad and forlorn that it felt like a tornado was ripping around my gut. But she quickly covered it up, throwing on her signature smile and suggesting we try this step or that.

And dancing with her this week hadn't been easy, only for the fact that my dick spasmed anytime she got within two feet of me. I'd had to spend our lessons and performance thinking about dead horses and being covered in snakes to get my raging hard on down.

Now that I'd been with her, I wanted a second taste. A second try. I'd been so angry the first time that I'd been solely focused on one goal. I hadn't taken the time to feel every inch of her perfect, slim body. I'd ignored her full, luscious lips in favor of pounding her into kingdom come. I hadn't even properly laid her down on a bed.

But I wasn't going there. I'd put this girl through enough, and I couldn't promise her a thing. I was still messed up despite my epiphany, and had to focus on finding a way to ensure my future. The future that I wanted, anyway.

No one was around except for Parker, which was weird for a Friday night. Owen had taken Minka to the movies— he was so whipped — and Clint had opted for staying in after pushing himself to the breaking point at the gym.

I found Parker in the living room, sipping a glass of something amber. "Dude, you're such a gentleman right now. Look at you. Is that whiskey?"

"Some of us drink like real men, not girls...with your piss for beer."

Surly motherfucker. "Ok, James Bond. Whatever you say. What's up for tonight?"

The ice clinked against his highball, and I chuckled to myself. He really was one weird dude, but we liked him. "I think Travers is having a party. Want to head over?"

Mick Travers was one of the seniors on the baseball team, who also happened to live two houses down from our average college shithole. While he didn't play too much, he wasn't all that great, he did know how to throw a party. I didn't exactly feel in the mood for one of his all-out ragers, but I also wasn't sitting at home thinking about all of the shitty situations I was currently in. "Sure."

I changed my shirt to something that didn't smell like stale sweat, pulled on a pair of jeans, and met Avery on our front porch. I could hear the rap music and drunken screams already, and it only got louder as we walked down the street.

Guys and girls spill out into the street and litter the front lawn. The smell of beer, sweat and smoke fills the air, and I'm so tempted to find someone with a joint on them that I have to ball my hands into fists until my nails leave indents on my palms. I'm trying to clean my act up, and weed is the opposite of what I need to be doing.

I bump fists with Travers as we walk up the lawn, he's trying to convince a girl to funnel what looks like jungle juice. Inside the house, people are grinding heavily in the living room to a hip hop beat that's all but blowing out my eardrums. It’s only 11 o'clock and this party has already hit the too-drunk-to-see stage.

I wander into the kitchen on a search for the keg. I'll have two or three tonight. Nothing to get me drunk, but enough to take the edge off this whirlwind of a week. And to get the nerves out of my system about seeing Chloe tomorrow morning. I'm oddly looking forward to it, and my stomach has been in knots all day. I feel like a 12-year-old girl.

I locate the keg right outside the alcove into the kitchen, and pour myself a beer. Giggles from within cause me to pause, and when I peek around the archway blocking my view, I see Chloe, sitting on the counter in a very short skirt, surrounded by three guys. What the fuck?

I top off the foamy beer, probably some shit I drank as a freshman, Travers never splurged on halfway-decent beer, and enter the kitchen.

"Well, what's going on here?" I take a long swallow of my beer, which of course tastes like piss, to keep myself from going off on her or the guys. What was she doing in here, alone? And why was she falling all over herself? Couldn't these guys see she'd definitely had too much to drink?

"Woah-ho-ho, look who it is! My partner extraordinaire! Get over here Mr. Tango Baseball, we're playing 'Who Can Chug The Fastest.'"

Well that explained the glazed over look in her eyes. Jesus, she was hammered. I studied the jackasses who were letting her pound beer after beer, and knew I could take them with one arm behind my back. The way they were leering at her, trying to peer under her skirt, which was pulled tight across her spread open thighs...I was definitely going to have to throw a punch soon.

I stepped in, breaking up their circle, and plucked the beer out of her hand. "Okay, princess, I think you've had about enough." I winked at her, hooking my arm around her waist and guiding her off the counter and to the floor, where she teetered on wobbly legs. At least she was covered up now.

"Aw man, what the fuck dude, leave her be!" Douschebag Number 1 clucks at me.

"She was just having some fun with us, let her do what she wants!" The second guy rounds on me.

I stare down at Chloe, who I'm basically holding up she's so drunk. She's staring back at me from under those long, black lashes, her teeth biting down on that plump lower lip. "Do you want to stay with them?"

She looks up at me, her almond eyes unblinking, mesmerized by something I can't see. She shakes her head slowly, indicating she doesn't want to be there.

"Have a good night fellas." I don't even glance back as they groan. I take careful steps as I hoist Chloe up. It doesn't help that she's stumbling for her footing in her high-as-fuck heels. Why the hell do girls wear those? I get her outside and maneuver us to the side of the house, where the lawn is less filled and there is actually a pocket of quiet. When I try to lean Chloe against the stucco wall, she grabs onto my waist instead, causing me to stumble into the side of the house with her leaning on me.

Her black hair cascades down her arms like a waterfall as she leans against me, nuzzling into my chest. I stand there, arms limp at my sides, not sure where to go from here.

"You're always saving me." She sighs, resting her head in the middle of my chest.

"Huh?" I've lost all ability to think or speak with her rubbing against me like a happy feline.

"You always protect me. Miles my hero..." She sings this last and giggles while jabbing a pointy pink fingernail at my nipple. "You saved me on the playground, and you're saving me now! How funny is that?"

Her syrupy sweet drunk voice makes me smile. "What do you mean I saved you on the playground?"

Chloe rolls her eyes, and it’s so unlike her that it makes me snort. Eye-rolling is definitely a Minka thing. "Oh I knew you wouldn't remember, silly! From stupid Bruce Nichols, he was calling me praying mantis. And you pushed him! Just pushed him down...you were sooo cute back then, with all your curls. Not that you aren't now...but you're sexy not cute. But anyway, you are always saving me! It makes it hard to try not to like you..."

Her little confession sends me flashing back...to a time when I hated Bruce Nichols. Not that I still don't, guy is a dick, but I do remember pushing him. I just didn't know it had been her I was defending. So that's why she's always tried to get with me.

"I'm sexy, huh? Then why would you try not to like me?" It was sort of wrong to pull information out of her like this, but I was at a disadvantage. Being an asshole early on definitely didn't help her act openly towards me now, and if drunken Chloe was how I was going to get some answers, so be it.

"Because you hate me. You even said so. Miles hates me, yep. He doesn't want to talk to me, and definitely doesn't want to hook up with me. I'm not pretty enough for him or something...I don't know." She hugs my waist tighter to comfort herself. I don't even think she knows she's talking about me, to me.

"I don't hate you, and I never said that. And I don't think you're pretty, I think you're gorgeous."

Chloe looks up at me, her eyes shining in the shadowy moonlight. Then, her face crumples. "I don't feel good."

Next thing I know, she's hunched over, her hand clutching my forearm, puking into the grass. Normally, I'd leave. I don't do vomit, and I definitely don't do girl vomit. Or girl consoling.

But I don't even think before I'm in back of her, holding her waist to keep her from falling over and rubbing circles into her back to soothe her. "It’s okay, that's it, get it all out."

When she's done dry-heaving, she starts to make whimpering sounds. "Chloe it's okay, I'm going to take you home."

This seems to calm her, and instead of hoisting her up as I walk us back to my house and figure out what to do next, I scoop her up. She's light as a feather as I carry her the three houses over to mine. I think she's nodded off, because she isn't moaning anymore.

When I get her into the house and deposit her on my bed, I dial Owen to see if they're on their way back. Maybe Minka will know what to do. No such luck when it goes to voicemail.

"Shit..." I mutter to myself. Glancing at the bed, I see Chloe curled up in a ball in the middle of my California king. She looks so small and delicate on the cavernous piece of furniture. Maybe I should just leave her be, let her sleep it off instead of trying to move her again.

Sitting next to her, I unstrap the skyscraper heels from her feet and slip them off, revealing her battered and bruise toes. Fuck, that looks like it kills. Tossing her shoes on the floor, I then try to remove the leather jacket she's wearing. She protests as I try to wrestle it off of her, but I finally pry it free, leaving her in a tiny white tank top and black skirt. Its as far as I'll undress her. One, because she'll probably be pissed if she wakes up in her underwear, and two, I don't think I'll be able to control myself.

Gently moving her willowy figure to the side of the bed pushed against the wall, I shed my clothes and don a pair of gym shorts over my boxers. Climbing in next to her, I try to adjust my body so that none of my limbs are touching hers. Not because I don't want to touch her. I want to, badly. But I never would like this.

It's weird, sleeping with a girl in my bed. Its been a long time. Olivia rarely slept here even when our relationship was good, said it smelled like dirty jockstraps. Which it probably does.

Chloe stirs, kicking the covers off in her sleep and exposing a bigger slice of skin as her skirt hikes up. I shut my eyes, trying to will myself to sleep as my cock jerked to life in my boxers.

It was going to be a long fucking night.