Page 1 of Off Balance

PROLOGUE

I hate this.

I hate fancy people and fancy clothes. Especially if I'm expected to also wear said fancy clothes. I hate that I've obviously outgrown the waistband on these ridiculous suit pants, which only serves to remind me how much work I have ahead of me to get back in shape.

"Quit fidgeting," Dwayne hisses, elbowing me in the side while we wait for the bartender to pour our drinks. I reach for my wallet, ready to pay out the nose for the good stuff they're serving at this well-to-do event, but she shakes her head and winks as she passes me the glasses. Her eyes trace over my too-tight suit before glancing at me seductively through her eyelashes. Her perfectly white, straight teeth peek out between red painted lips. I watch them move as she tells us to enjoy the show. Her gaze lingers as Dwayne pulls me away from the bar.

"Don't even think about it, little brother," he mutters as we make our way through the crowd that is filtering their way to the theater.

"Think about what?" I say, looking down at him pointedly and reminding him which one of us is "little". He's only eleven months older than me, and I'm a good five inches taller and have probably eighty pounds on his thinner figure.

"It might have been a while since we've gone out together, but I remember how you can be. If I don't stop you now, I'll find you in the coat room later. The last thing we need right now is a tabloid scandal."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I say as I chance a look over my shoulder to see if she's still watching us. She's turned her attention towards another guest, passing them flutes of champagne with a wide smile. She's definitely attractive.A little tussle in a coat room might make me feel better about being forced to come to the ballet and get side-eyed by a bunch of stuffy rich snobs.

When I turn back to Dwayne, he's got one eyebrow raised over an unimpressed facial expression. When he makes that face, he looks like our mom. He takes after her, with softer features that make him seem friendly and approachable. I, on the other hand, favor our father, who always reminded me of The Hulk when we were growing up. Even when in the best mood, he was hard and intimidating. Like him, I have to school my facial expressions to not seem like I'm perpetually angry. The scar across the bridge of my nose, the reminder of the injury that took me out of fighting almost ten years ago, doesn't help. Still, I never had any issues attracting the ladies.

"You realize the drinks were free, right? She wasn't flirting with you." It's my turn to raise an eyebrow. "Okay, she was definitely flirting with you. But behave yourself. I don't want to embarrass Cameron or get him into any trouble." He doesn't break his hard gaze until I lift my hands in surrender.

"I'll be a good boy, daddy. I promise."

The usher who takes our tickets flushes at my words, and I fight to keep an innocent expression. Dwayne runs an exasperated hand over his face and gestures for the usher to lead the way.

"Oh, wow. Great seats," Dwayne remarks as the usher leads us to a box at the side of the theater. We're sitting close to the stage, close enough that I can hear shouts and voices coming from behind the heavy curtain.

The seats fill, and a hushed silence fills the room as the lights go down. Everyone watches the stage expectantly, but nothing happens for several minutes. The curtain hiding the stage from view sways once, as if someone or something disturbed it, but it remains in place. I've never been to a ballet before, so I don't know what to expect, but judging by the audience's reaction, this isn't normal. A hushed whisper grows into a low murmur. Several people stand or flag ushers over, gesturing unhappily as they inquire about the wait.

Dwayne leans over the banister, trying to overhear what's going on. When he sits back up, he shrugs. "I hope everything's okay."

Slouching back in my seat, I finish off my scotch while thumbing through the playbill. The leads have photos and bios next to their character listings. I snort a little at the headshot for the lead male dancer.

"What?" Dwayne asks, amused. He leans towards me to see what I'm looking at.

"This guy looks like a douche." Honestly, they all look douchey, but this guy takes the cake. He's looking away from the camera, but it's very clear he knows it's looking at him. He couldn't look stiffer and more posed if he tried. His black hair is gelledto perfection in a preppy, vintage part. It's his facial expression that makes me automatically dislike him, though. It bleeds arrogance, with his long, straight nose in the air and an affected attitude of being better than everyone else. His bio reads like a pampered prince who thinks very highly of himself.

Dwayne makes a sound of agreement. "Oh, that guy. Cameron's told me about him. Real piece of work. According to him, he's incredibly rude and treats everyone around him like scum. The company lets him get away with it, though, because he's apparently incredibly talented."

"We'll see about that," I say.

"Look," Dwayne says proudly, "here's our boy." He flips over the pages of my playbill towards the smaller cast members.

There's no picture or bio, but my brother’s new stepson’s name, Cameron Rae Stevens, is listed in bold as one of the secondary cast members. Dwayne beams, and I can't help but smile back at him. He's been married to Cora for just under a year, but he's been desperately in love with her since the first day he met her almost three years ago. She was the one that encouraged him to finally open his own boxing gym.

I've met Cora a few times, but I've heard very little about my brother's stepson outside of Dwayne's struggle to connect with the standoffish boy. My brother has gone above and beyond to help and encourage Cameron to follow his dreams, but can't seem to find a way to bridge the gap to a semi-friendly relationship.

Finally, the lights blink a few times before the theater plunges back into complete darkness. Everyone rushes back to theirseats. Quiet applause breaks out as the curtain rises over a dark and empty stage.

The music is slow and somber, building with the slowly brightening lights that cast streaks of deep orange and pink across the stage. In the very center of the stage, a figure is bent low to the ground, curled around themselves. The dancer unfurls their body as the music and light grow stronger. I think the music and light are supposed to be waking the dancer, but it almost feels as if it’s the other way around. Like the whole world has been asleep until this otherworldly looking young man stretched his body and welcomed the artificial day.

I'm immediately transfixed.

I hear Dwayne gasp and mutter in disbelief as the dancer makes his first turn towards the audience, but I can't tear my eyes away to see what's distracted him. I can't tear my eyes away from the man on stage.

It's as if the music and slow pulsing lights are coming from him, controlled by the movements of his lithe body.I am likewise controlled by every extension and stretch of his willowy frame, finding myself leaning in whichever direction his body moves. I’ve never seen anything as graceful as his limbs, seeming to extend from his soul rather than the center of his body, where his taut abs ripple.

Knees pressed against the banister, I'm at the edge of my seat to attempt to get closer. I hungrily take in each inch of skin and tight muscle on display. The nude tights he's wearing leave very little to the imagination, and I wonder if he's meant to look naked. My fingertips tingle and blood rises to just below my skin, making me feel flushed and dizzy. I hold my breath with each contortion, spin, and leap. I can't even hear the music anymore.He's dancing to the rhythm of my heart beating. Or maybe my heart is beating to the rhythm of his dance.

As his solo ends and he folds himself down again, my eyes strain to keep him in view as the stage plummets into darkness again. I don't know how long the solo was, but I feel like I've both been here forever and for nowhere near long enough. My chest is moving with his rapid breaths from the exertion of the routine, and I'm sweating through my stifling suit jacket. When I can barely make out his form anymore, I press closer to the banister, wanting to reach out and wrap my hands around him. I don't want him to go. I don't ever want to stop watching him move the way he does.

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