Cameron Taylor is an independent, strong-willed girl who happens to have a knack for violence. After completing her junior year at UCLA, she's not looking forward to spending a Summer at home. Besides having a dark past that she keeps locked away fr...
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I'm sore.
Really sore.
It's safe to say it's been a while since I've danced this much and I'm starting to feel it. Since finding out about this mission, I've been practicing nonstop. The directors of the show were told I'm a professional dancer that's filling in for a girl who "mysteriously" got sick. So, of course, I need to look like a professional. I've been to the actual rehearsals this entire week, trying to catch up on choreography. On top of that, I've been dancing in the studio at the facility for extra practice, and training every night to get myself ready.
And now it's all starting to catch up to me.
I feel like I got hit with a bag of bricks.
It doesn't help that Cole was also training with me this past week and insisted on sparring, so now I'm covered in bruises too.
But, as badly as I just want to lay down and rest, I have a job to do.
There are only a few dancers in this show, so we all get our own dressing room. I'm currently sitting on the plush bench that's in front of a large vanity mirror, finishing up my makeup and hair. The tights I have on feel like a second skin but remind me of home. As hard as this week has been, I missed dancing. It's been nice to get to do it again.
I hear the doorknob creak before it opens and I'm already up and standing, ready for a fight even in my pancake tutu.
Once I see it's just Cole, I release a breath and sit back down. Being in the same vicinity as the Russians has me a tad on edge. Note the sarcasm when I say "a tad."
Cole swaggers in without a care in the world and plops himself down on the velvet chair in the corner. He looks me up and down twice before scrunching his eyebrows, yet remains silent.
"What?" I ask shortly, after he still doesn't speak.
His eyes snap to mine. "I'm thinking," he says simply before resuming his observation of me.
"About what?" I ask impatiently.
"I can't decide whether you look beautiful or ridiculous." A pause. Another glance over my body. "Or both."
Despite all my efforts, my cheeks heat slightly.
Oh, fuck no.
I haven't blushed since elementary school.
I quickly turn back around before he can see, but end up meeting his knowing eyes and small smirk in the mirror's reflection.
Dammit.
"It's a ballet tutu. It's supposed to look pretty while showing off the lines of our bodies," I say on a deep inhale.
"Oh, I can definitely see all the lines of your body," he replies with raised eyebrows and that infuriating little mix of a smirk and smile.
