In the Air (The City Book 1) - By Crystal Serowka Page 0,14
else. I peeked back out from behind the curtain, jumping back when I saw his eyes staring dead into mine.
"Natalia? What are you doing here?" He walked toward me with a puzzled look on his face. Without giving me a chance to answer, he continued, "You weren't spying on me, were you?"
As he reached me, I noticed that he didn't seem as drunk as he had thirty minutes ago. His blue eyes were bloodshot, but other than that, he seemed completely sober.
"I wasn't spying on you, I–"
He cut me off before I could finish. "Don't even worry about it, doll. I'm used to people trying to get a behind-the-scenes look at my routines." His index finger pointed to the curtain I stood next to. "You really have no reason to hide from me."
A behind-the-scenes look at his routines? Was this guy serious?
"I wasn't hiding! If you had let me finish, you would have heard that I was here before you!" I realized I was raising my voice, but his accusations were ludicrous.
"Then why were you hiding behind a curtain?" he asked. "You know what? It doesn't even matter." He started to walk away, but stopped when he heard my voice.
"What if I was spying on your routine? Can't take a little criticism?" I had a good feeling my question would get under his skin. A person who was shallower than a puddle with an ego the size of the Pacific Ocean was bound to become perturbed when their deepest fear was found out.
Samson turned around with a scowl. I heard his heavy breathing over the soft music.
"Critiqued? By you? Listen, sweetheart, you may be good, but you're not up to my level." Samson jerked his body around and began walking to the front of the room.
"Oh yeah? Want to wager on that?" I yelled.
"I don't make bets anymore. I always win," he countered. A smile formed on his lips, but his eyes turned villainous. "Just to make it fair, why don't you show me what you auditioned with to get here?"
It just so happened that the piece I auditioned with had the power to derail him. "Okay," I said simply.
The same song from earlier was playing on loop. It was such a delicate piece, but the tension in the room was depleting any sort of beauty it held. I walked to the stereo, turning off his song and replacing it with my own – "Falling," sung by a favorite musician of mine, Jeffrey James. As the music began, I glided across the floor, knowing his eyes were studying me. I was aware he would analyze my every move, so I had to do my best. As I prepared myself for my grand jeté, I looked over at Samson and winked, hoping it would piss him off. Landing perfectly, I melted into my next step. I knew that if he and I were to have actually taken bets, he would've been walking away without his cocky, self-absorbed attitude. When I finished with a triple pirouette on pointe, I looked to the ceiling, the knowing smile remaining on my face.
I gazed at Samson, who was now leaning against the back wall, his ankles crossed. The smug look that I was now well acquainted with spread across his face.
"So, that's how they train ballet dancers in Iowa?" he asked.
"Excuse me?" The happiness I held from my performance dissolved and was immediately replaced with anger. The unimpressed look he wore reminded me of my mother. My temper grew thinking of how dissatisfied my dancing had made her, and now Samson was acting the same. "What the hell is your problem? Why don't you take a look around and realize that people aren't bending down to kiss your feet." My cheeks began to flush and I knew that in no time, I'd have red splotches all over my face and chest. "And by the way, I'm from Illinois!"
"I just thought you'd want a few pointers from your partner, but it looks like you're the one that can't handle criticism." Samson sauntered over to me with a devious look in his eyes. "Practice with me." When he grabbed my waist, I tried pushing against his chest to release his death grip.
"Let go of me, Samson!" My anger erupted. When I was finally able to untangle his hands and push him away, I briskly walked to the back of the room to grab my things.