Defiant Princess (Boys of Oak Park Prep #2) - Callie Rose Page 0,79

I’d first started to put the piece together, it had ended with fire and fury, with sharp, brutal motions and a sudden, violent stop.

That didn’t feel right anymore. I could still do the movements, obviously, and they worked well with the piece. They were dramatic and attention grabbing. But the problem was, I wasn’t filling them the same way I’d used to. When I had first composed the piece, it’d been easy to find the fury in myself, to let it pour out of me through the choreography.

But now, even though the movements hadn’t changed, the drive behind them had dwindled.

The fury was ebbing.

I tilted my head up toward the studio ceiling and let out a long breath. The audition was in a week and I really didn’t have time to fuck around with new choreography. But I wanted it to be perfect.

Looking back down, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror, taking in the long, lean legs, slim waist, and brown hair tied up in a messy bun. The girl in the mirror stood tall, strong but not unbreakable, fierce but not cruel.

She wasn’t perfect, but she was… me.

Keeping my gaze on that girl, I tried out a couple of experimental movements, not judging, just letting my body move through space however it wanted to.

That’s better. Maybe something like—

The door opened behind me, and I turned quickly, my pulse picking up. It was stupid, but I’d almost asked Finn to come with me today. Being alone in this room still made me a little nervous after Oliver, although I refused to let it stop me.

But as I caught sight of the boy who’d stepped inside, my heart rate slowed again, pounding hard a few times like a racehorse skidding to a trot.

It was Finn.

He grinned at me, ducking his head. “Sorry. I’m not here, I’m not here.”

Holding up a hand to block his face like a celebrity avoiding paparazzi, he slipped into the room and sank into his usual spot against the wall by the door.

I stopped and put my hands on my hips, breathing hard. I’d been working for the past couple hours, and a light sheen of sweat covered my body, the tendrils of hair that had escaped my bun sticking to my skin. “No, you are here. What are you doing? How did you even know I was in here?”

He arched a brow. “You’re pretty predictable, Legs. I went by your dorm and you weren’t there, so this was my next guess.”

“Predictable.” I squinted at him. “I’m pretty sure you just called me boring.”

“Not that! Never that.” His twin dimples appeared as he smiled again. “How’s it going? You feel like you’re ready?”

I’d told him about my audition a week ago. It’d been somewhat accidental. He’d gotten me talking about what I hoped to do in my dance career, and before I knew it, I’d let slip that I was planning to audition for a spot in the Pacific Contemporary Ballet. I had sort of planned to not tell anyone, just to keep that extra pressure off myself, but the second I mentioned it, Finn’s eyes had widened with excitement.

I waggled my head from side to side, rolling my shoulders. “Mostly ready. I’m thinking about changing the ending. I don’t know if it works anymore.”

“Huh.” Finn nodded his head thoughtfully, although I knew he didn’t have any idea what I was talking about. He understood dance the way I understood football—he knew what it meant to me and could appreciate the skills it took, but the specifics escaped him. “Well, whatever you come up with, I’m sure it’ll be great.” Then his brow furrowed. “Hey, your audition is next week, right?”

“Yeah. Thursday.” It was during the day, but I’d gotten permission to miss class so I could attend. I couldn’t afford any more unexcused absences.

“You want a lift?”

I blinked. “No, you don’t have to. It’s all the way down in L.A. You’d miss all your classes.”

“I don’t mind.” He shrugged. “And I think we’ve already established I like driving you around.”

“Yeah, but aren’t you having a hard time in American Lit? I don’t want you to get behind because of me.”

“I’m not—” His face dropped, and he scrubbed a hand through his hair. “It’s fine.”

“Finn.” I walked closer, passing the small pink stain on the floor from where Cole had beat up Oliver. It’d become a permanent fixture by now; I used it as a marker when I was working on steps. “If you