Read Online Dance for Me (Fenbrook Academy #1) - New Adult Romance by Helena Newbury - Free Book Online Page B
Book: Dance for Me (Fenbrook Academy #1) - New Adult Romance by Helena Newbury
Read Free Book Online
Authors: Helena Newbury
Ads: Link
slid into bed and let my mind fill with thoughts of Darrell. Sleep took a while to come but I didn’t mind. I had something solid to hang onto as I lay there in the darkness. Something to focus on.
Fantasize about.
....
Some minutes later, my hips strained upwards, my breath ragged as his mouth devoured my breasts, his hands roving over my ass. My fingers were his fingers, on me and in me... God ...
I fell back against the pillow, sated. I lay there for a second, just relishing the feeling of being a normal girl, of being happy.
Then my fingers grazed the dressing on my thigh, the rough parallel lines of the scars beneath.
I wasn’t normal. I wasn’t normal at all.
I turned over, staring at the wall. The reality of what I did to myself, and why I did it, hit me like a freight train and I had to dig my nails into my palms to stop me sliding out of control. When it passed, though, it left something unexpected behind. A tiny, twisting thread of hope.
What if this was for real? What if, with him, I could be normal? When I was around him, I didn’t seem to panic and slide down towards my memories so much. He anchored me, just as firmly as the punishment of cutting myself—maybe better. Maybe I’d wake up tomorrow and I wouldn’t need the cigarette case.
Maybe.
***
The next morning, I figured I’d better stick to my routine, even if I wasn’t going to cut. Too much change, too soon, couldn’t be good, right?
My one deviation was to knock on Mr. Kresinski’s door and pay him my rent—early. He was overjoyed at not having to chase me, and I figured it would buy me some slack if things went wrong in the future. I had no idea how long the arrangement with Darrell was going to last—or what it might turn into.
I got to the restroom while it was still empty, then sat there on the toilet seat for ten whole minutes debating whether to do it or not.
I didn’t want to, but then I never wanted to. It wasn’t a want; it was a need.
I thought of Darrell and felt like I’d be okay without it.
Then I thought about the corridors. The way everyone would push against me, between classes, not knowing who was in their midst. The long hours of practice, lined up with the other dancers—the real dancers, the ones who weren’t fakes. The tension...dear God, the tension of feeling that, at any moment, someone was going to announce what I’d done and everyone would discover the sort of person I really was.
I ripped down my jeans and swabbed at my thigh with an alcohol wipe. When I cut, my vision was blurry with tears and I went deeper than I meant to. Blood swelled and trickled and I swore and sobbed, blotting it with toilet paper. But even though I had to fix it, even though the line was ragged and torn next to all the neat ones, it still worked. I could feel the floor under my feet, feel my breathing returning to normal.
I slapped a dressing over it, looked down at myself and then cried again—big, hot tears. Because I knew that the thing I had with Darrell, whatever it was, would be gone in an instant if he ever found out.
***
By lunchtime I’d got things into some sort of shape in my head. OK, so I had a problem. But I was functional, right? I got by. As long as Darrell didn’t find out, everything would be fine. Better than fine. Things could be great.
A little voice inside me told me I was kidding myself, but I crushed it.
The cafeteria at Fenbrook is your standard college eatery: trays of sodden mash potato, unidentifiable gray meat in sauce and wilted greens, long tables, cliques and noise. Only at Fenbrook you’d regularly see dancers in tights and tutus, grabbing a bite between rehearsals. Or a musician with his sax or guitar or violin next to him, watched as carefully as a favorite child. Or actors running lines while they ate, little snatches of Macbeth or Mamma Mia or CSI mixing together.
Clarissa and Jasmine were sitting across from me, which made it feel a little like an
Fantasize about.
....
Some minutes later, my hips strained upwards, my breath ragged as his mouth devoured my breasts, his hands roving over my ass. My fingers were his fingers, on me and in me... God ...
I fell back against the pillow, sated. I lay there for a second, just relishing the feeling of being a normal girl, of being happy.
Then my fingers grazed the dressing on my thigh, the rough parallel lines of the scars beneath.
I wasn’t normal. I wasn’t normal at all.
I turned over, staring at the wall. The reality of what I did to myself, and why I did it, hit me like a freight train and I had to dig my nails into my palms to stop me sliding out of control. When it passed, though, it left something unexpected behind. A tiny, twisting thread of hope.
What if this was for real? What if, with him, I could be normal? When I was around him, I didn’t seem to panic and slide down towards my memories so much. He anchored me, just as firmly as the punishment of cutting myself—maybe better. Maybe I’d wake up tomorrow and I wouldn’t need the cigarette case.
Maybe.
***
The next morning, I figured I’d better stick to my routine, even if I wasn’t going to cut. Too much change, too soon, couldn’t be good, right?
My one deviation was to knock on Mr. Kresinski’s door and pay him my rent—early. He was overjoyed at not having to chase me, and I figured it would buy me some slack if things went wrong in the future. I had no idea how long the arrangement with Darrell was going to last—or what it might turn into.
I got to the restroom while it was still empty, then sat there on the toilet seat for ten whole minutes debating whether to do it or not.
I didn’t want to, but then I never wanted to. It wasn’t a want; it was a need.
I thought of Darrell and felt like I’d be okay without it.
Then I thought about the corridors. The way everyone would push against me, between classes, not knowing who was in their midst. The long hours of practice, lined up with the other dancers—the real dancers, the ones who weren’t fakes. The tension...dear God, the tension of feeling that, at any moment, someone was going to announce what I’d done and everyone would discover the sort of person I really was.
I ripped down my jeans and swabbed at my thigh with an alcohol wipe. When I cut, my vision was blurry with tears and I went deeper than I meant to. Blood swelled and trickled and I swore and sobbed, blotting it with toilet paper. But even though I had to fix it, even though the line was ragged and torn next to all the neat ones, it still worked. I could feel the floor under my feet, feel my breathing returning to normal.
I slapped a dressing over it, looked down at myself and then cried again—big, hot tears. Because I knew that the thing I had with Darrell, whatever it was, would be gone in an instant if he ever found out.
***
By lunchtime I’d got things into some sort of shape in my head. OK, so I had a problem. But I was functional, right? I got by. As long as Darrell didn’t find out, everything would be fine. Better than fine. Things could be great.
A little voice inside me told me I was kidding myself, but I crushed it.
The cafeteria at Fenbrook is your standard college eatery: trays of sodden mash potato, unidentifiable gray meat in sauce and wilted greens, long tables, cliques and noise. Only at Fenbrook you’d regularly see dancers in tights and tutus, grabbing a bite between rehearsals. Or a musician with his sax or guitar or violin next to him, watched as carefully as a favorite child. Or actors running lines while they ate, little snatches of Macbeth or Mamma Mia or CSI mixing together.
Clarissa and Jasmine were sitting across from me, which made it feel a little like an
Similar Books
