Havoc at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #1) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,117

literally nothing about the dance other than the basics that permeate common culture. Mom once had aspirations that I’d be a ballerina, forcing me into classes that I hated from moment one. But then Dad killed himself, and we were too poor for her to entertain her vicarious fantasies.

My breath fogs the glass as Cal fills the room with his presence, claiming the drafty warehouse room like it’s a stage in Paris. My eyes are locked on his lithe form as he moves; I’m paralyzed. I couldn’t look away if I wanted to.

The way he moves, it makes so much more sense now. He floats through life like he's underwater, weightless and fluid. And that dancer's body … well, I guess it really is a dancer's body, huh?

What a beautiful hypocrisy, I think as I watch his scarred, tattooed form move through space like he's commanding it, the black silken shoes on his feet carrying him up to the sky and then grounding him in the same breath. I've been watching the Havoc Boys since second grade, and yet I never knew about any of this.

“Excuse me,” a little girl says, smiling as she scoots past and opens the door to the studio. She's dressed in a plain gray leotard and pink shoes, and I figure she's probably around Heather's age. Callum doesn't stop dancing when she comes in, but he does smile, and gesture for her to start warming up at the barre.

Within a few minutes, there are a dozen little kids in there, stretching and prepping for class. Callum fiddles with the stereo for a minute, dries the sweat from his forehead with a white towel, and then gets to teaching.

The girls run through first position with Cal correcting their form, offering murmured words and gentle adjustments. I should probably leave, but … I check the time and see that I've still got another hour to kill. If I take the bus from here, it'll take ten minutes to get home, tops. I settle in to watch, loving the contrast of Callum, with the ropey muscles in his arms, his ink, his scars … teaching these little girls how to dance.

Something in my chest shifts, and I realize that I know little to nothing about him. Nothing at all. “I felt that way, too, at first. Once you surrender to the dark, it gets easier.” I can't even imagine what he might've been talking about. Clearly, I'm not the only member of Havoc who has unresolved trauma.

After class, the girls (and two awesome little boys) take turns giving Callum hugs, and then slip out of the room, smiling shyly at me as they skip past and head for the locker room.

I consider leaving, but then I realize that Callum's gearing up to dance again, turning on the stereo and moving until his body is trembling and he's soaked in sweat. I notice he keeps putting his hand to his lower back and closing his eyes like he's in pain. At one point, it’s like his ankle gives out and he stumbles, hitting the floor hard and then sitting there with his head hanging down, blond hair covering his eyes.

My heart contracts, and I feel like I'm watching something I shouldn't, so I take off down the hall, grab the bus, and head home.

On Wednesday, Callum takes off for the dance studio again, and I follow him.

This time, he teaches a mixed male/female class of teens around our age. It doesn't escape my attention that every girl in that class—plus a boy or two—are hitting on him. I'm surprised to see him act like a professional, ignoring their advances, and focusing on getting the group to perform a rehearsal that has my jaw dropping.

I don't know much about dance, especially ballet, but as an audience of one, I'm captivated.

The dancers exit the room after class, and one boy pauses to put his hand on my arm.

“Cal wants to see you,” he says, and I feel my throat close up.

Shit.

Caught red-handed.

I slip into the room and find Callum waiting for me, arms crossed over his chest, a slight smile on his face.

“Hello, Bernadette,” he says, watching as I step into the studio, the smell of floor polish and fresh sweat in the air. “Come to see me dance?” he asks, voice neutral but not unpleasant. I shrug my shoulders, glancing at my reflection in the mirror. My leather pants and jacket look so out of place in here. “Take your