“Pack a bag.”
Briar’s face snaps to mine before looking around the tiny room like I could be talking to anyone else. “What? Why?”
I eye her over the phone, typing one more thing into it. “It’s like thirty fucking degrees in here, Briar. You’re not staying in this apartment.”
She backs up a step, shaking her head.
“I don’t—that’s not?—”
“I believe we agreed you would do whatever I say.”
“I don’t know thatthisqualifies,” she mutters, folding her arms across her chest.
My eyes flick up for a second to meet hers before dropping back to my screen.
“It qualifies.”
Her mouth opens and shuts, and my lips twitch at the internal war she’s busy fighting.
“You can pack a bag, or you can wear nothing.” My eyes sparkle when her eyes narrow into slits, glaring at me.
“Your choice, Briar Rose.”
51
JUST BREATHE
BRIAR
Now
The backpack Koen asked me to pack sits ominously by the door of the studio. Taunting me.
He gave me a ride to the studio this morning on the back of his bike, dropping me off before leaving to take care of other business.
For a guy so concerned about me being cold, he sure has a funny way of showing it.
The chilly morning air nips at me, but I’m better prepared than I was the other night. I dressed warmer, and Koen lent me a thick pair of motorcycle gloves.
Despite the unexpected company last night, I actually slept okay. I can’t remember having any nightmares last night, which is good, considering that would’ve been fucking embarrassing to have Koen witness.
Mr. Carr has it out for me today. Or all of us, rather. He spends all morning barking at dancers, terrorizing the tech crew, and his stage manager absolutely went and cried in a closetduring lunch break, because when she came back, her cheeks were all red and splotchy.
“Man. Who pissed in his Cheerios?” Mia grumbles to me in between numbers.
I just shake my head, trying to focus while feeling more and more distracted. I’m trying to keep track of all of the quick changes and stage blocking, but my mind keeps circling back to Koen.
He slept in my bed last night.Koen O’Rourke. With his arms wrapped around me. Why the hell did he come to my apartment after he got shot anyway? Sure, he made his disdain for hospitals known last night, but surely his brothers or any of his men would have been better equipped to deal with that type of injury rather than me.
As the day wears on, Mr. Carr starts to call me out more and more.
I’m doing better today, but I’m still struggling with one small section of the choreography. Albeit, it’s acriticalpart of the choreography, but it’s only because I need more practice with it. It’s tricky, the footwork incredibly tedious. I’ll get it.
“Miss Ralston, either do it correctly or get off my stage!” Mr. Carr shouts, throwing his hands up in exasperation where he sits third row, center stage when I fumble the footwork on that section again.
I stop. “I—” I start, but he waves me off, motioning to cut the music.
“I don’t want to hear it. I can’t watch this again today, you’re done—off.” He points offstage and I obey, tears burning in my eyes.
