I moan. "No. Go home."
He glares at me. "You're a Mean Girl. You're a witch with a B."
"You need to get new material!" I yell out as he walks from the room.
"Your mum's chest hair!" Toni replies and then laughs.God, I wishMean Girlswas never filmed because he finds aMean Girlsquip to nearly everything I say.
When I hear the front door shut, I decide it's an animal-print leotard kind of day. And even though I'm really hung-over, I'm dressed and out the door by eight fifty-five.
My studio is a hundred metres behind the main house with its own driveway and two parking spots. It looks just like another house on a rear block and has all the modern commodities to match. Bathroom. Kitchen. It has excellent acoustics and high ceilings completely covered in LEDs—the more lights the better. Mirrors line the inside walls, and the flooring is a kind of vinyl plank. Dad had the studio built specifically for Flick and me when we both needed a place to dance. But Flick gave up ages ago.
I, on the other hand, attend a professional academy five days a week, and my goal next year is to secure a higher-paid position as a ballerina. It may be a bit ambitious, but I'd love to join an international company; I don’t want to be stuck in the District my whole life.
Rome maybe. Or Paris...
Bonjour, je m'appelle, Cassidy Slater.
Ciao...
On top of that, I teach two senior dance classes on Monday evenings. My students pretend not to fondle each other while they waltz and I pretend not to notice. I also offer personal classes and have a few advanced students that I coach on Sunday mornings.
Dillion is one of them.
None of this pays much. It works out to be just enough to cover the electricity, WI-FI, costumes, props, alterations to the studio, and maintenance, while leaving about $50 a week left over for personal stuff. But it's not about the money. Dad just really wants me to contribute to the costsassociated with my business even though my parents are pretty rich.
I think they're rich...
We don't discuss money in my household.
Dillion arrives not long after I switch the lights on and start to warm up. After an hour of practising lifts, he places me on the ground with a sigh. "You're so easy to lift."
"Oh, stop it." I shake my head. "I was able to balance very easily. That was a great lift."
He scoffs. "That's because you're amazing! Not because I'm any good. When I'm holding you, you're like an extension of me. You're so light and easy to manoeuvre. The girls at my studio are just not as good as you."
I make my way over to the foam mats. Sitting down, I begin to stretch out my hamstrings. "Well then, you'll need to get better to accommodate them."
Dillion meanders over and sits beside me on the mats, pressing his chest to his thighs. "You're incredible at what you do, Cassidy. You're good even after a night on the piss. Your movements look so natural. You don't even look hung-over this morning."
I sit up and cross my legs. "Well, they only look natural because I spend like fifty hours a week practising, but trust me, I'm hung-over today. I'm faking a lot of it." I giggle and try to be reassuring. "Listen, you're a good dancer, Dillion. That one-handed presage lift you just did was really strong, but you need to get out of your own head."
"I know," he moans. "I just can't think straight today."
"I can tell. Your mind should only be on me." I study him as he stretches. "Your mind should be on my body and yours."
"It is," he mutters.
"Well, good."
A deep mechanical growling sound from outside grabs my attention, and I frown at Dillion. "Is that a motorbike?" I jump up and rush towards the porch. The noise is rhythmic and intense as I open the door and step outside onto the deck. Leaning around the side of the studio, I watch a red bike and a big, black four-wheel-drive park up on the grass beside our pool. Flick and Stacey bounce from the back seat of the four-wheel drive as Xander and Max jump out of the front.
Oh my gawd.
And I'm back inside as fast as I can, closing the door behind me. "Frick."
Dillion is standing at the entry. "Who is it?"
I try not to smile because I'm painfully obvious. "Um, some of Flick's friends, I think."
