I turn to see Hudson, red in the face and breathing heavily, take a step closer to Freddie, protein shake clutched tightly between his fingertips.
God. I swear in a second Freddie is going to be wearing the damned shake.
Wrapping my hand around Hudson’s bicep, I attempt to drag him away.
It doesn’t do much good; one, because my hand doesn’t even reach around the entire circumference of Hudson’s muscle and two, because he’s got at least 100 pounds on me, plus 8 inches of height.
“Stop it! Both of you,” I grit out between clenched teeth. “If Michael catches you out here scrapping like a pair of wild cats, he’s going to fire you both on the fucking spot.”
With a final snarl spilling from Hudson’s lips, he unsticks his large feet from the floor, allowing me to pull him away.
“That fucking prick,” he spits. I keep my face looking forward, desperately trying to ignore the heat radiating from his skin, seeping into my palm, as we walk away.
I need to let go of him.
Stopping abruptly beside a row of lockers, I pull my hand back from Hudson’s bicep like I’ve been scalded.
I can’t bear to look him in the face, so I look over his shoulder instead, the locker combination codes burning into my vision.
“Look, I appreciate you defending me,” I start, “but unless you want to get fired that isn’t the right way to go about it. Plus…”
“Plus, what?”
I shake my head, eyes burning with sudden burst of tears threatening to overspill. It hurts. It hurts so fucking much to be this close to him. A thousand and one things I want to say to Hudson, to ask him, to throw at him until he bleeds, hang in the air above us. But I can’t make my lips move beyond a few words.
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
Hudson takes a step closer to me, our chests just barely brushing up against each other. “Can we talk, Gee? Please?”
I step back. “No.”
“Giselle—”
I leave him hanging, unable to take another second of him being so close to me. Hightailing it back to my dance studio, I lock the door behind me so I can eat my mushed up acai bowl, sans my extra scoop of desiccated coconut shreds, in peace and quiet, without anybody questioning the silent flow of tears cascading down my face.
The sultry beat of the pop track radiates through my bones as I lie flat on my back, peering up at the popcorn textured ceiling, my heart rate skyrocketing.
God. I needed this; an outlet to let out my feelings and emotions and get back down to earth. To get back to feeling like myself.
Dance has always been my main source as a means to expressing myself, especially when journaling, meditating or even talking about the way I feel out loud, is too difficult.
It’s the one thing that has never failed me.
It’s the one thing I always come back to no matter what.
Flipping over to my stomach, I wait a second for the music track to loop back around to the beginning again before I move into the straddle splits, my head tipping back.
I barely register the feel of my long hair tickling the length of my spine because I’m moving again in time with the heavy beat, dragging my legs closed and sliding across the lament floor, my stomach and cheek both resting on the cool surface, bending one leg at the hip until I can grind into the floor in a lewd interpretation of sex.
My eyes fall shut as I urge my body to move fluidly, like catching a wave.
Popping up onto my hips, I raise my arse in the air, feeling the soft flesh there bounce.
This.
This is what I’ve been craving. What I’ve been needing.
To take back my own sexuality, my own desire. For myself and nobody else.
