Page 38 of The Jock
“Cool venue.”Can I come? Can I watch? Would you hate me if I came?He opened his mouth—
The front door banged open. One of these days, that door was going to fly off its hinges or, more likely, bust through the drywall when one of the guys flung it open like that. Wes rolled his eyes andthunked his head back, sighing. By the pairs of elephant feet thundering through the downstairs, he guessed at least four of the guys were home.
Justin was like a cat who’d sensed a dog, all stiff and on guard with his hackles up even farther than they already had been. He glanced once at Wes and then headed for the door, calling out a “Bye” over his shoulder. He almost blurred, he moved so fast.
He heard Colton’s surprised, “Whoa, hey” on the stairs and Justin’s cold, “Just dropping something off for Wes” in return.
“Oh, cool. I didn’t know you were Wes’s friend,” Colton said. Like the women at home would say, bless Colton’s heart, he could make friends with a telephone pole.
“We’renotfriends,” Justin said. His footsteps pattered down the stairs. “I only know him from class.”
Wes closed his eyes and crumpled the photo in his fist.
Chapter Twelve
Starlight winkedby Wes’s head. Jupiter spun inside Saturn’s orbit, the two planets twirling on invisible fishing line through a dazzling array of tiny LEDs strung in lazy arcs beneath the dome of the planetarium. The room was dim, the walls lit with a deep indigo glow, the color of crushed sapphires. A small, round stage was set up in the center, and the audience mingled on the outer rim of the circle of seats before the performance began.
Wes clung to the wall by the emergency exit, keeping his head down. He glanced up every minute or so, scanning the room to see if the performance was about to start before staring down at his phone again. He had his ball cap pulled down, and even though it was still warm, he wore his green canvas jacket with the collar turned up. He’d almost gone out and bought a pair of reading glasses to try to disguise himself, give him one evening of anonymity. One night of peace.
His hands were clammy, and he’d already sweated almost entirely through the program. He rubbed his palms down his jeans, then rolled up the program and shoved it into his back pocket. He knew the important details, anyway. Justin was dancing in the second and fifth performances. A duet and then a solo.
The lights dimmed, finally, and the audience moved toward their seats. Wes snagged the closest one to him, still in the back, as close to the exit as he could get. He caught a group of girls looking his way, and he stared at the floor, his hands laced behind his neck, trying to block his face with his elbows, until the overhead lights turned all the way off and only the LED stars lit the stage.
He couldn’t follow the story that was supposed to accompany the evening, not without Justin to break it down for him. He gave up a few minutes in and just watched.
The music came from a live string quartet, and it started delicate and airy before dropping into a deep, rumbling bass that quaked the floor beneath his boots. He watched the first dancer, a lithe, muscular woman, leap and spin and arch her way across the stage until she folded into herself on a quivering high note to end her routine. The lights dimmed even further, even the LED stars darkening before the next dance. A vibration from the bass and the cello sent tremors through Wes’s bones until every hair on his body was standing on end.
The stars glowed brighter, and there was Justin with another male dancer, wrapped chest to back, necks intertwined, bodies flush. Justin was in a skintight black dance suit, his eyes painted with rectangles of orange that swept up toward his teased and sky-high hair.
Wes’s teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached as Justin and the other guy started to move.
He didn’t breathe, not through the first half of the dance. How could he, when Justin was writhing and whirling in this guy’s arms? When Justin looked like he’d stepped out of the depths of Wes’s psyche? Like he was Wes’s lust and his pure id made manifest. Wes’s heart pounded, and his fingers dug into the denim over his knees.
Justin danced like a man possessed. This wasn’t a delicate dance. It wasn’t gentle. He was raw, furious in his power, a counterpoint to his elegant partner dressed in white. Justin’s movements were perfect, exacting control balanced on the knife-edge of intensity. When he spun, Wes got dizzy like he’d just twirled the same uncountable number of rotations. Justin tipped out of the spin, bounced off his partner, then tumbled into an easy flip and another spin before arching his spine and lifting one leg, head tipped back.
Wes’s fingernails bit into his jeans so hard he bent one back.
Justin fell into his partner’s arms and the lights snapped off.
The audience cheered, but Wes couldn’t move. Not right away. He had to uncurl his fingers one by one before he could raise his hands and clap. Dizzy, his lungs aching, his vision swimming, he sat back and let the other dancers blur past him until Justin returned for his solo.
This dance was more delicate. The music started slow and dreamy, and Justin’s dancing matched it. Airy, with long, languid moves. But the tempo increased, and the bass started sneaking in, and Justin’s dancing became sharper. Harder. Full of power. He was showing off a different skill set in his solo. Grace. Flexibility. Good God, flexibility. Wes had no idea Justin was that bendy. And then, passion.
Justin ended up in the center of the stage near the end of his dance, as the music was crescendoing. His gaze locked on Wes, suddenly, his eyes spearing through the center of Wes’s soul so intensely Wes reared back.
But no, Justin wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at the emergency exit sign over Wes’s head. Wes figured that out after Justin started a series of spin moves, rising from the flat of his foot to nearly the tips of his toes in a continuous spiral that Wes swore Justin had said was the hardest move in all ofSwan Lake. Fouettés, Justin had said, as the black swan had spun and spun and spun.The dancers pick a focal point when they spin, he’d told Wes.They keep their eyes on that point so they don’t lose focus.
Justin ended his solo with a sky-high leap, landed in a lunge, threw his head back, and stared up at the dome overhead. His eyes were scrunched up as agony twisted his face, his arms thrown wide in his final pose. His chest heaved, shoulders rising and falling, and he blinked at the LEDs, their starlight catching the shine of tears at the corners of his painted eyelids. Wes’s heart seized.
Then Justin rose and bowed, his face transformed into a careful smile. The audience roared, the applause thunderous.
Wes stayed frozen in his seat. That hadn’t been dancing. That was something more than dance, more than fancy footwork and clever choreography. Wes didn’t know much about dance, or art, or fine, fancy things, but he knew—knew—that he’d just seen something beyond incredible. Justin had danced his damn heart out. Danced his soul out.
He barely saw the rest of the performance. His mind was replaying Justin’s solo. He remembered all that focused energy, and Justin’s intensity. He remembered it wrapped around him, and over him, and above him. Remembered Justin and him entwined, closer even than Justin’s duet partner had been. Who was that guy, anyway? Jealousy sank through Wes like an oil slick.He’s the guy at Justin’s side. Unlike you.
When the lights came on at the end, the audience rose in a standing ovation, clapping and whistling and cheering. The dancers were in a company line, bowing together, waving and smiling and blowing kisses. Wes, slow to react, slow to stand, spotted Justin as he was taking his third bow.
He saw Justin’s duet partner wind his arm around Justin’s waist. Lean his head against Justin’s, and smile.
