Page 21 of Off Balance

With Cameron in front of me, I mimic each arm position. This part is both easier and worse than the feet. The motions are easy to copy, but I know I look ridiculous with my arms raised up in a circle above my head. Cameron makes sure my posture is right, and that the pose extends out from the center of the body, all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes. I see what he means when he holds the pose, but when I do it, I'm pretty sure I look ridiculous. Still, true to my word, I try my best, even if it's a bit clumsy.

By the time we're done, Cameron is smiling. "You impressed me."

"I'm terrible."

"You really are,” he says, laughing. “But you actually did it. You tried, and not some half-hearted effort to look manly in front of your friends, either. You actually tried."

"I said I would. And I don't give a fuck what they think."

Not to mention none of these people are my friends. I don't have any friends anymore, not since I walked away from fame. Not one person has called me since I left Las Vegas, outside of my agent. All my relationships were superficial.

With one look at the way Cameron watches me, like he wants to see under my skin to get to the truth, I think that he might be the most real person I've ever met.

CHAPTER 5

CAMERON

When I arrive for the third session I'm supposed to have with Dom, my stepdad stops me before I can get started. I'm in a shit mood, and this is the one part of my day I've actually looked forward to, so I don't give him my warmest reaction to being interrupted.

It's been a grueling week. Fitting these lessons into my already busy schedule is manageable, but it takes away from what little free time I have. Although, that might be a good thing, because I've barely had to look at Emile all week. He knows I'm upset, and he has to know why, but he hasn’t said anything to me about it. He's just as hard on me in rehearsal as always, if not more so. This morning he snapped that mysaut de chatwasn't high enough, and he made me do it over and over again in front of everyone, pointing out every flaw. When I was finally dismissed to get a drink of water, I overheard someone whispering that I must not have sucked him hard enough, and I barely made it through the morning session without breaking into tears.

My hackles are already up, and because of that, I automatically assume that whatever Dwayne is interrupting us with will besomething bad. Does he think the ballet training isn’t working, because it's too soon to see any real results.

Dom isn't here yet. Did he quit? Does he hate having someone everyone sees as smaller and weaker than him boss him around?

Honestly, maybe it's for the best. I've been getting a little too attached to the big, clumsy oaf and the annoyingly endearing way he tries so hard to please me. It puts me in a weird headspace, where I forget he's supposed to be my uncle. Mystraightuncle.

Despite fooling myself into thinking those looks he's been giving me were more than friendly, I overheard my mom and Dwayne talking about his ex causing drama in the tabloids again. Of course, I immediately got on the internet to find everything I could about her. It seems like the media wants to paint her as a victim of Domenick Connor's infamous womanizing ways, but the way she's acting and talking shit about Dom is very telling. Especially since I haven't found any evidence that he's even tried to defend himself or talk poorly about her in retaliation.

Then again, my affection where he's concerned could just be another facet of my delusions.

Too nice. Too complimentary. Too endearing. Too straight. Too connected on a familial basis.

Bad, Cam. Bad.

I'm confused when Dwayne leads me upstairs instead of to his office. I'd almost forgotten that the gym has a second level. When he bought the place, Dwayne mentioned turning this into office space, or perhaps loft apartments.

"It's still a bit of a construction zone up here," he explains as we head down a hallway. The stripped floors are bare and the walls are nothing but unfinished, sanded drywall. "I haven't really decided on a decor theme. Your mom's gonna help me with it, but if you have ideas?—"

"Not that kind of gay," I say flatly.

"Oh, of course. I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

He trails off, and I sigh. That wasn't fair. I know he didn't mean anything by asking about ideas for the decor. If anything, Dwayne has been the most supportive straight person I've ever met outside of my mother. In fact, when he started dating her, he referred to me using they/them pronouns until I finally broke down and let him know I identify as a man. I gave him a lot of hell for making assumptions based on my chosen career as a ballet dancer, and the perception of my more feminine aesthetic. I knew he meant well, and his attempt to be respectful was actually amazing, but I enjoyed making him squirm. I still do, but it's usually a lot harder to fuck with him these days.

"I know you didn't mean anything by it. I was just being an ass because I'm in a bitchy mood," I say with a huff. "It looks great so far." I reach for anything I can think of to fill in the awkward tension I created. "I like the exposed brick. Maybe leave that?"

Dwayne gives me a warm smile that is absolutely not breaking through my tough exterior. "Yeah," he says, nodding. "I like it too."

"Definitely ask mom," I tell him. "She's the one you want making choices like those."

"I'll run it by her and get her opinion for sure."

He stops and thumps loudly on a door. Does somebody live up here?

After waiting for less than a full minute, Dwayne beats on the door again. Finally, it swings open, and Dom's imposing figure fills the entire frame. He's on the phone, his facial features contorted with anger at his brother's obnoxious knocking. He's pissed about something. Pissed and half naked, wearing only a pair of low-slung grey sweatpants. The kind that look super soft and hug the body just right. The kind that aren't quite thick enough to hideanything. My eyes are wide at the clear imprint of an appendage that I keep getting hints about. I can't decide if I'm feeling jealous or sorry for whatever lucky cervix that thing is wrecking.

"It's about ti?—"

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