“Robin Hood,” he says softly.
“W-what?”
I turn toward him and he has the most insufferable look on his face.
“Robin Hood. I’d like to learn a dance from theRobin Hoodballet.”
Air hisses from between my teeth. “That’s not what the company is working on.”
He grins.
“What do you really want, Jackal?”
He blinks, never taking his eyes off of my face, then his gaze drops. Slowly…slowly he takes in the rest of me, his eyes climbing my skin like hands.
“You can’t have that,” I say.
I want to back up, back away from that look, but I stand my ground.
His laugh echoes across the studio. “So presumptuous.”
I eye him for a good minute before he finally sighs.
“Should we get started then? Or I can talk to Gina,” he points in the direction of Gina’s desk in the lobby, “about your hobby. Whatever you like.”
I march toward the bar and gently lay my hand on it, caressing the metal with my fingertips.
“We start here,” I say. “Get thy stupid smile off thy face and come warm up.” My grandfather got a kick out of theRobin Hoodmovies; Jackal’s reference fills me with nostalgia.
“So she does have a sense of humor.”
If Jackal wants to dance, I’m going to show him exactly how hard we work. No mercy. He’ll be lucky if he can walk tomorrow. He tears off his sweatshirt, revealing a tight-fitting tank underneath. He’s muscular—knotted shoulders, tapered waist, arms that would have no trouble lifting me in a pas de deux. I’ve seen this body on other male dancers; if he wants abravofrom me, he won’t get one.
“It starts right here,” I say. This is my speech. I deliver it every year to the person standing in Jackal’s place. “Every dancer begins here at the bar: humbly…hardworking.” I don’t look at him when I take my place. “Hand on the bar like this,” I instruct.
When I look up, he’s already in first position, his face serious as he waits for his next instruction. In the early morning, this part of the studio gets the best light, the sun piercing through the windows of the skyscraper next door and dappling the floors with a hazy, honey glow. The glow sits around him, giving a halo to his whole body. A predator shouldn’t glimmer like that, it’s dangerous. And why do I think him a predator anyway? According to the Regions’ new conscience—Gwen Allison—the End Men have no choice in the matter. Which makes Jackal more of a zoo animal than a wild one. I ignore the messy hair, the rough stubble on his jaw, and the soft lips that unfairly belong to a man. A man. My eyes fall to his sweatpants, wondering…
I begin with a series of warm-ups, my face stern, void of anything but focus. He imitates my movements perfectly as I talk him through each one. By the time we’re done warming up, I’m so irritated with him. My shoulders are tense like two tennis balls—the opposite effect a warm-up is supposed to have.
“What?” He has the tiniest hint of a smile on his face. I almost answer him.
“Let’s get started.” I move to the center of the room. “I don’t know if you’re ready for something like this. Usually these lessons are for someone with a ballet background—”
“I’m ready.”
I turn from him, my teeth grinding together. Arrogant. And then I clap my hands once, signaling the sound system to life. “Start the music.”
After thoroughly running him into the ground, I turn off the music to signify that we’re done and put my hand on my hip.
“Well, that was…” I pivot around and busy myself with the Silverbook.
“Electrifying?” he finishes, breathless. “Awesome? The best you’ve ever danced with?”
I flash him an annoyed look and he waves his hand for me to continue.
“What? What was it?” he asks, his expression hopeful.
“We’re done here. See yourself out.”