Hitting to Win (Over the Fence #2) (3 page)

A
nother night in the studio
, nothing unfamiliar there. But the tiny gnats of anxiety buzzing around my stomach, those were new.

Usually I am uninhibited in the studio, I was even calm on stage. As long as I had my pointe shoes, the music and a part to dance, the world all but vanished. Five hundred people could be sitting out in the audience and I wouldn't feel one butterfly.

But throw Miles into the mix and I was a nervous wreck.

After he'd found me in the studio Tuesday and made a plea for me to stay his partner in the competition, we'd agreed to meet for our makeup lesson, because of the Saturday fiasco, on Thursday.

Minka wasn't extremely pleased that I'd capitulated to him. But I wasn't like her, didn't think like her. I gave everyone the benefit of the doubt, it was my nature. I knew Miles had gone through a rough time, that he was a bit damaged after his breakup. He was still a good person.

Low tan heels replaced my pointe shoes today. After re-reading the email sent to all Dancing with the Greeks contestants, I learned we'd be performing a tango for week one. Which was less than a week away. My tango was decent at best, and I didn't even want to start worrying about all the dance basics I'd need to teach Miles.

And just thinking about my body wrapped around his in such an intimate dance set my skin ablaze.
I know you've been into me for a while.
It was the phrase of his from that night that I never could get out of my head. Sure, I'd never tried to hide my interest in him, but I didn't think I'd made an overly desperate moves.

He'd made it known that he in no way returned that interest or those feelings. So, I'd try my damn hardest to be the best partner I could be. And, maybe somewhere in there, we could form a friendship.

Plugging my phone into the studio's stereo system, I scroll through and find an upbeat, relaxing playlist. Stepping back into the middle of the room for some stretching, I note the time. Miles is two minutes late. My right arm bends at the elbow over my head, my hand reaching down for the small of my back. I hold it there for fifteen seconds, and then switch to my left arm.

Inspecting my outfit in the mirrored wall, I consider it proper for what we need to carry out today. It's my usual uniform with a slight variation. Black leotard with my black hair pulled into a tight bun at the top of my head. Those were the staples. But today I'd added a maroon dance skirt and the low heels. It mimicked what I would most likely be wearing this week. The fashions were one of the most talked about aspects of the competition. I made a mental note, while sliding into a middle split, to talk to the design student who had been designated to make our costumes.

The door flung open hard behind me, hitting the wall and causing the mirrored wall to shake. I didn't even look up. Like I said, tardiness peeved me like nothing else. "You're late."

"Uh...hi." Glancing up, I see Miles partner unabashedly checking out my ass, which is prominently displayed in the air as I stretch out.

"I take two things very seriously. Dancing and punctuality. Please try to remember that while we're working together." I slide my legs forward, coming into a sitting pike position and folding the upper half of my body over my lower half.

"Yes, princess." I hear Miles grumble. He comes to take a seat next to me and mimics my movements.

As we silently stretch out, I take the time to sneakily stare at him. I know I'm working towards friendship, but I can't help it if this blonde giant makes my insides feel like melted chocolate. He's just so dreamy looking, my heart turns into goop whenever I lay eyes on him.

We're sitting kind of close to each on the wood floor, and I can smell the woodsy, peppery fragrance wafting off of him as I stretch my calves and ankles. I almost sigh as the undertone of spiciness from his, no doubt, expensive body wash reaches my nose. Miles is, after all, a Farriston. He'll only have the best of the best products.

His blonde curls are damp, haphazardly springing this way or that as they dry. He's donned a simple blue t-shirt and black basketball shorts for our practice, and he's added plain white sneakers to finish the look.

"Ok so today, we are going to learn some basic steps and techniques. You'll learn to lead, we can try a box-step, and  then we can sit and discuss some music selections for our tango. Sound good?" I stand, going to hit another song on my playlist, make my way back to the middle of the room, and smooth my skirt. We have to make quick work of catching up since we're already behind, and I have absolutely no idea what, if any, dance experience Miles has.

Something tells me I am not going to like having to teach him. His ego is big enough for two people. Or maybe four people.

"Whatever you say, boss."

The beat starts up, and I set my arms into position as if I had a partner.

"Okay, let's practice alone first, facing the mirror. With your left foot, step forward, and then bring your right up to meet it. Then, step your right foot to the side, have your left join it. After that, bring your right foot back, have your left join it, and then move the left foot to the side, bringing your right to meet it. There you have, the 'box' step!" I demonstrate as I talk, keeping my eye on Miles. He completes the easy step with no problem, and after both syncing up with the beat, alone, for a couple more boxy go-rounds, I think we are ready to try it as partners.

"Alright, let's try it together." I face him, my heart giving a weird bu-bump at my body's proximity to his. I swallow, more nervous than I was a second ago. When I take his arms, which he loosens begrudgingly for me to position, and place them in the correct spots on my body, I feel slightly dizzy.

I try my best not to sound breathy when I count us down. "Hold these arm positions, and box step in two, four, six, eight..." And we're dancing.

Miles is fluidly box-stepping us, his thick, brawny arms controlling my body's movements expertly, gently. Wait a minute...

As we move into our next side-step, his arms guide me into a graceful turn. Well, it was graceful. Until the utter shock of it causes me to trample over my own feet. I go crashing to the floor, a move I haven't made in quite some time. When you dance as much as I do, you hone your skill and technique to prevent such things.

My butt makes contact with the floor in a loud thump that echoes off the studio walls.

I stare incredulously up at Miles, who is now towering over me, his lip curled up on one side in a smug leer.

"Wha...how come you didn't catch me?" My tailbone is starting to tingle. Great, I know that will be sore tomorrow.

"You're so prissy, you know that? Acting the part of the little dance teacher. You didn't want to ask if I had any experience?" Miles regards me with distaste, as if I'm something sour he needs to spit out.

But I had just assumed he had no experience. That was wrong of me.

"I'm sorry. It was wrong to be so presumptuous, and for that I apologize." He clearly isn't offering me a hand, so I gingerly try to pry myself off the floor. My lower back protests in pain.

Finally, he gives and angry huff, pulling me to my feet when he sees me struggling. "I'm a Farriston, not that I would think you'd forget that. Ballroom dancing is as ingrained in my blood as place setting use is."

"Well, then, you do know, as a ballroom expert, its important never to drop your partner?" I don't know if he realizes my hand still trapped in his, but my pulse is skittering like crazy at my neck from his touch.

"I had to get one in there. Just to make sure you know where I stand. You might play the queen outside that door, but in here, we're equals. Partners, if you can call us that yet."

I wonder if I'll ever get the point where my heart is numb to his insults. I hope. For right now, they sting my chest, as if his words are laced with tiny pieces of shrapnel.

"I understand. So, let me ask. Do you know how to tango?"

"Of course. What kind of ballroom student do you think I am?" He crosses his arms in front of his chest.

"Okay, great. Well, since we have more time than I thought we would, maybe we should start working on our theme and steps for this dance?" If he sulks through this entire six-week competition, it might be enough to push me over the edge. I may be the sweet one, but push me hard enough and I'll go all Minka on your butt, pronto.

"Fine. Let's just work with Argentine tango so we can add a lift. We want to go balls to the wall, right? Come out as the favorite? We'll add a swivel or a turn here or there, and we're good."

I was stunned into silence. The fact that he even knew how to dance the tango was mind-boggling. But that he knew the difference between the three forms? I was gobsmacked.

He must have noticed my unhinged jaw. "What, you're the only one who can know about dance, princess?"

The princess thing was irritating me. Note the being pushed to far sentiment. "Why do you keep calling me that?"

"Because you are. You carry yourself like you're higher than everyone, so nice and cheery. And you clearly have gotten everything you've ever wanted. Your parents probably kneel at your feet." He scoffs, giving me that sour look again.

I just smile. "So I'm a princess because I'm nice to people? That seems silly. And as for your other point, I have been handed a lot. But it doesn't mean I don't work hard. Can't the same be said about you?"

"You don't know me, you don't know about my life." Miles practically bites the words out. "Can we just practice? Christ."

I oblige, giving him a minute to cool down by going to select a dramatic, rhythmic beat off my playlist. Moving back towards him, I get into position.

I can almost hear my veins pulsing with blood as my heart rate picks up. The first position in tango is the embrace. He's going to embrace me. Miles is going to embrace me.

And then he does. Our bodies are pressed against each other, nothing separating us but the thin material of my leotard and his flimsy t-shirt. I can feel my nipples harden, there is nothing I can do to quiet that response. I slowly bring my head up. It’s supposed to be up. But I know the minute I gaze into his eyes, I'll lose my breath, and I don't want him to see that.

I do it anyway, bring my eyes level with his heterochromatic stare dismissing all the air in my lungs. We stand, pressed against each other, as the song fills the air around us. Neither of us breaks the connection, and it feels like I've been struck by lightning. My nerve endings are out of whack, fried, sending signals to the wrong places in my body and making me feel loopy.

I can't read the expression marking Miles's face, but I hope to god he's feeling this too.
Bad enough I have to sit here with you.

The thought wrenches me from the moment, and I can't help it that my voice comes out in a throaty whisper when I begin to count. "And two, four, six, eight..."

We glide across the studio floor in a basic eight-step tango. At first, our moves are a little disjointed, each of us getting used to the other's physique, the way the other's figure moved. Even though Miles is the size of mammoth, he's surprisingly light on his feet. I'd even go so far as to say graceful, but never to his face.

We cross the floor several times before coming to a stop when the music ends, Miles holding us in position for five seconds as if practicing an ending pose. Then he drops my arms completely, bringing his back to the safety of his own body.

My heart is beating too fast, and it has nothing to do with the way we performed those steps. I put all my hope into the prayer that my cheeks are a normal color.

"That wasn't bad..." Miles claps his hands once, looking, if I must say, a bit pleased.

"Is that an almost-compliment?" I smile, laughing.

"Don't get used to it, princess." His usual glower returns to his face. "Alright so, practice Saturday?"

He has no intention of getting to know me. Or spending any extra time with me. The thought wounds me, but it shouldn't. He's made everything plain as day.

"Yep. I'll email you about songs and costumes. How do you feel about Man of La Mancha?"

Miles just rolls his eyes.

T
he crack
and hiss of the beer can as it opens sends a satisfying tremor through my pores. There is nothing I need more now than this third, no, make that, fourth, beer.

Sitting on our couch, post-Friday classes but pre-Friday night parties, I've tried to forget the way Chloe's silky skin felt under my fingers Thursday night.

Its been consuming my mind for thirty-six hours, all of that delicate, bronzed skin under my hands. And her smell, I can’t get that fucking heady combination of cinnamon and vanilla out of my nose. Its like she marked every inch of me with her smell, I can’t escape it.

That fucking princess.

I take a hard swig of the ice-cold IPA, trying to focus on the afternoon game gracing the television screen. There is nothing better than baseball and beer. Besides maybe a good woman. One who wouldn’t open her mouth or direct bright, sunny smiles at you.

Her niceness was irritating. Every insult I threw at her seemed to repel off of her, coming back onto me and making me feel doubly shitty. She was definitely one of those people who thought therapy helped. You could just tell it about her. Its like she was trying to figure out my head, treating me with kid gloves. I loathed it.

But for one second there, just an instance on Thursday night, I’d been ready to take her against the studio wall. When our eyes held as her slim form was pushed up against me, I’d felt like an animal. I was ready to tear at her tiny leotard and expose those hardened nipples, the ones I could feel brushing against my chest. I was stiff as a board just thinking about it.

“Fuck.” I growl at no one in particular.

So I wanted to fuck her. That wasn’t anything special. She was a chick, a good-looking one at that. It didn’t mean anything. I just had to get through this dumbass dance competition.

Dancing. I hadn’t done it in so long, but you know what they say about riding a bike. Bet the guys didn’t count on me having skills when they’d voted me in as the Kappa Sig contestant. But I had them alright. My mother had me in those stupid classes until I was fourteen.

That’s when I was offered a spot on the high school varsity baseball team as only an eighth grader. It would take over my life, consume everything I’d had going on before. I told my parents if they didn’t let me do it, I’d off myself.

They’d given in to my love of baseball, that time. I didn’t know how much longer that was going to work.

The front door opened, the rusty hinges protesting in a squeaky groan, and the TV shook on its stand as Owen stomped in with our other roommate, Clint Bellows. I stayed on the couch, hoping they’d bypass me to go their own rooms. I loved my friends, they were the brothers I’d never had, but lately I wanted nothing to do with them.

“Hey, bro, what game is this?” Too late. Clint sat down on the right end of our large grey sectional, the cushions sagging under his weight. He was a hefty dude, but for some reason, he’d been trying to work the weight off with two-a-days.

I ignore him, instead downing the rest of my beer in three long gulps. I chuck the empty can over my shoulder at the recycling bin sitting in the corner by the door.

“What number ya on there, buddy?” Owen’s checking up on me again.

“You’re not my fucking father. I know you’re all shacked up now, but doesn’t mean you have to act whipped when Minka’s not around.” I am a prick.

“Watch the way you talk about my girlfriend, Farris. We get it, you’re a tough prickly son of a bitch now. If you don’t want to see us, why not just move out?”

Why didn’t I leave? Because…deep down, I wanted someone to fight for me. Fight with me. Do something to show me that I was important to them.

“Maybe I will, dick.” With that, I get up, walking to fridge and grabbing another cold beer.

“How are things going with the dance competition twinkle toes?” I hear Clint snickering like a fool.

Walking back in and reclaiming my spot on the couch, the pop and fizz as I open the can sends another delicious tingle down my spine. “You mean with the princess? Its fine.”

“Who’s princess? I thought you were dancing with Chloe…” Owen’s confused expression causes me to sneer.

“Princess is Chloe, dumbass. Mrs. The Sun Shines Out of My Ass. Whatever, she’s good though. But don’t tell her I said that. I think we have a shot to win. And I have a shot at not getting kicked out of Kappa Sig. Which also means I have a shot of not getting beaten to death by my father.”

On my left, Owen straighten’s up where he’s sitting on the couch. “Hey man, that’s not funny. Does your dad really hit you?”

I laugh, but it sounds strangled. “Yeah, right. That would mean him ruining a perfectly coiffed inch of his exterior. No, he’d get back at me in some other, more maniacal way. Trust me.” I tilt my head to take a swallow so they can’t see the anguish on my face. The beer feels like broken glass sliding down my throat.

Owen looks a little taken aback. I don’t talk about my father, ever. I’m not even sure why I’m opening up now. Thankfully, he changes the subject.

“About Chloe. She’s not a princess, fucker. Far from it. Just because she grew up with money doesn’t make her a horrible person. Something I think someone like you would know.” He pats my shin which is resting on the couch. “Minka told me that when Chloe wasn’t practicing ballet back home, which she did roughly thirty hours a week, she was slinging dough and waiting tables at her family’s restaurant.”

He gives me that fucking knowing glance that he loves to flash around. Fucking Axel, always trying to get me to take the moral high ground or grow up or some other stupid shit like that.

"Whatever." I pretend to be scrolling through my phone.

"Hey, have you talked to Kelsey recently? Minka has been trying to get a hold of her."

Clint looks at me, Owen's looking at Clint. I snort. "Pretty sure that one's directed at you, lover boy." Clint's ears turn pink when I point at him.

"Shut up, Farris. We're friends, she's a great girl. And yeah, I have, but she's on a three-day safari now so tell Minka she'll probably be back early Monday morning our time."

Friends? Could have fooled me. I wouldn't be surprised if this little slim down of his had something to do with Musketeer number three. Not that Clint would ever express his feelings to her. He was too damn nice.

Speaking of that, I probably wouldn't be talking to him either right now, on account of his cheery disposition, except for the fact that I've lived with him for two years. I'll give him a pass for now. But no way does Ballet Barbie get one.

T
hree hours
later and I'm another three beers deep, when something vibrates under my ass.

Fumbling around, I almost miss the call and hit accept without even looking at the name flashing on the screen.

"Uh...Hello?" It comes out as a cough.

"Son, glad I could catch you."

Fucking hell. If I'd known it was him I would have turned my phone off.

"What do you want?"

My father's irritated sigh comes through the phone. "Miles, we need to schedule the office tour we spoke about in August. I'm going to need you to start showing face here before you internship. The employees are going to want to know their future CEO."

"I'm not working at the company. We've been over this."

He decides to ignore me. "Perhaps I can have Aerospace Money Monthly accompany us on the tour, get some shots of you and I—"

"CHARLES!" I haven't called him dad, or even father, in years. "Get this through your head. I'm not working for Farriston Aviation. I'm not interning, and I'm definitely not becoming a CEO. I want to play baseball. And I'm going to the majors."

Silence resounded from the other end of the line. Then, in a quiet, but tyrannical tone, he spoke. "You are Miles Wenworth Farriston. Of the Farriston fortune. It is your duty and responsibility to your family to finish college, take a job with the company, and work your way up to CEO. It’s what your grandfather did, it’s what I did, and it’s what your brother would have done. Or don't I need to remind you of Jason?"

His words sliced into my heart like the sharp pain of a knife. He's always got to use Jay against me. Fucking prick.

"Don't forget how you have the ability to play that little sport of yours, Miles. Who's money funds that big-time university education you're getting. We agreed, you could play through college. But after that, you're done. Its time to grow up and come home." Charles's words mock me, reminding me that my life hangs on every check he writes.

"I have to go." The beer is making my mind fuzzy, I can't argue properly.

"Get me that date, Miles." And the line goes dead.

I push myself up off the couch, and stumble down the hall to my room. There is so much pent-up rage running through my bones, that I could definitely punch the wall right now. I settle for my pillow, not wanting one of the guys to come running when I smash plaster. I go at it, once, twice. Stamping my fist as hard as I can into the soft down material, imagining my father's blood covering my knuckles.

It was my responsibility, he'd said. What about what made me happy? It had never occurred to my parents to care about that though. We were Farriston's, you did what benefited the family. You fell in line.

My duty was to become the next CEO of Farriston Aviation. The company had been around since 1924, when my great-great grandfather got the brilliant idea to cash in on the new trend, flying airplanes. The technology wasn't as advanced back then, but today? Our company manufactured fuselages, high-lift wing systems, vertical tails. All to the highest paying airlines in the world. And I wanted absolutely no part of it.

I'd agreed to come in as a business major because it would get my father off my back, and allow me to do what I really wanted. Play baseball. But, when I sit through those classes, it feels like my brain is melting, or just permanently switched to autopilot mode. Pretty ironic, huh?

The stuff just didn't interest me. And I didn't want to waste my life doing anything other than what I loved with a passion, because it was gone way too soon. Jay had shown me that.

So that's what I was going to do tonight. Live for the moment, get a little reckless. As long as that didn't land me in jail, who the fuck cared?