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He is looking right at me now, pale eyes almost glowing in the low light, and I inwardly flinch at the resignation on his face. A part of me wants to push back, to deny the accusation, but he is right. I do not think it is a piece of music fitting to him. To his historic performance.
“I do not hate the music,” I clarify, carefully choosing each of my words. “The Allegro Vivo is beautiful and moving.”
His sigh is loud enough to be heard over the music. “You told me what you think of my routine earlier, Javier. Why stop now?”
“Have you heard of Ahmed Alabaca?”
“No.”
“They are a contemporary composer.” I point to the door. “Could I play one of their songs for you?”
The light catches on his teeth as he bites down on his lower lip. When he nods, I get up, and return shortly with my speaker and iPod.
I watch Aleks as the meandering piano begins, and see his eyes widen as the thready, ethereal violin melody soars. The piece has just the right amount of dissonance, each tiny breath of resolution followed by another trail of unpredictable beauty.
When it comes to its quiet end, I sit back in my chair, hands folded over my belly, and wait for Aleks. He turns to me, eyes alight. “Holy shit,” he says, voice hushed. “That was incredible.”
“It is one of my favorites.” And then, because it is late and the darkness surrounds us like a blanket of anonymity, I add: “It seems fitting for you to dance to something so beautiful, and so singular.”
He doesn’t reply.
Chapter 5
Sounds Like a Nightmare
Aleks
I can’t do anything right.
I thought that maybe the new music might help. Javier was—annoyingly—right, the piece is hauntingly beautiful, and uncannily perfect for my current routine. But even the better music hasn’t fixed whatever is wrong with me.
I’m terrible. I can see the disappointment on Javier’s face as I break the surface from another run through of my routine.
It feels impossible to focus. I don’t think I’ve swam this poorly since I was twelve and had to practice after being up all night with a stomach bug. With every mistake, every wrong move and silly error, I feel my grip on my confidence slipping.
The water of the practice pool is almost hot against my skin, and my whole head throbs from how tightly I cinched down my vocal filter.
Treading water with my webbed hands, I wait, avoiding looking up at the man whose presence on the side of the pool is impossible to ignore.
“Your jumps are too low,” Javier begins. I hate how kind and understanding he sounds, even as he criticizes me. I hate it almost as much as I hate how good the man looks in those short board shorts and a linen button up shirt. Seriously, between his thick thighs, his heavy, hairy chest, and the bulge between his legs when he kneels down on the edge of the pool, it’s like he’s trying to send me into heat.
Not like that applies to me anymore, but still. Even transformed, I feel myself getting hard, my hole slicking just watching him.
No. Fuck this guy. Fuck him and his body and his unyielding nature.
You agreed to let him coach you, I remind myself, but I’m too pissed to listen to the more rational side of myself. “I’m tired,” I snap.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you sleeping?”
I don’t know how to tell him I didn’t sleep well last night. How just knowing he’s there under the same roof has me on edge. “It’s not that,” I say instead.
Javier looks at me with the same measured stare. “You are not weak, Aleks,” he says.
“I know,” I say, even though my arms feel like rubber and the muscles in my tail burn.
