Page 35 of Lyrical (Academy of Stardom 2)

My heart squeezes as my gaze settles on a pair of black, high-top, Adidas trainers with three white stripes up the side. As a kid I’d hankered after a pair, often talking about the beauty of this particular trainer and how cool they were. I would go on and on about them to anyone who’d listen, mainly Zayn as he was into fashion as much as I was. Now here they are. With my throat thick with tears, I pull off the dance sneakers and grab the trainers. Tucked inside the left foot is another note and this time when I read it, there’s nothing I can do to stop the tears from falling unbidden down my face.

Pen,

Do you remember how you used to talk about these trainers? Because I do. I remember everything. I remember wanting to be able to buy these for you, and I remember vowing that one day I would. These past few weeks I’ve been reminded of how it felt to be your friend and when we kissed in the studio yesterday, I remember how it felt to be loved by you. I told you it fucking hurt when you walked away, and it did. But I don’t give a shit about any of that anymore. Do you hear me, Pen? I don’t give a fuck what made you leave, only how to fix this distance between us.

I’m here when you’re ready to talk.

I won’t push you, but I’m not backing off either.

The others can do what they want.

You were mine first, so it’s only right you’re mine first again.

Zayn.

My tears blur the ink, and I swipe at my eyes roughly. It takes me another ten minutes of sitting on my arse in my hallway crying like a baby before I pull myself together and unpack the food Zayn bought for me. After scarfing down a pasta dish covered in a thick tomato sauce with mushrooms and bacon, I shower and change. Selecting a pair of knee length leggings from my new hoard, a black crop top and a loose green vest to wear over it, I pull on my dance sneakers and head across the hallway to Zayn’s flat. There’s only a few minutes until we all need to meet for practice down in Studio Two, and I wanted to thank him in private.

With nerves fluttering inside my belly, I knock on his door. A few erratic heartbeats later, it swings open. Zayn’s talking softly into his mobile phone and his eyes smile at me whilst he continues to converse with whoever is on the other end of the line. He motions for me to enter, closing the door gently behind us as I step inside.

“It’s been taken care of,” Zayn says into the mouthpiece as I hover awkwardly in his hallway. I jump when he places his hand on the base of my spine and guides me into his main living area.

“Take a seat,” he mutters to me. When I look from his unmade bed to the chair covered in clothes, he pulls an apologetic face and rushes over to the armchair in the corner of the room, gathers the clothes thrown over it and chucks them onto the still unmade bed. His room’s a mess and it makes me smile inside. Zayn was never tidy. I guess some things haven’t changed after all. Zayn scowls suddenly, clearly not happy with whatever’s being said on the other end of the line.

“I told you, it’s sorted. Speak to you later,” he grits out, clearly pissed off. Flicking off the call, he chucks his mobile phone onto the bed.

“I came at a bad time…” I say, not sitting down. My hands absentmindedly run over my hips, my fingers reaching for the hem of my brand new top. Why am I so damn nervous?

“No! It’s fine. Sit down, Pen. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Sure.”

I sink down onto the armchair, flattening my sticky palms against my thighs. Zayn perches on the end of his bed and rests his elbows on his knees. He waits, watching me whilst my gaze roves over his bare arms and the tattoos that wind up them and disappear beneath his loose V-neck t-shirt. My gaze travels along his wide shoulders to the smattering of hair I can see peeping up behind the v of his t-shirt, then back down his arms to his hands dangling between his parted legs. I can feel heat bloom beneath my skin, remembering how his hand had cupped my mound, how his fingers had brought me to release. He coughs, covering a soft laugh as my gaze snaps up to meet his.

“Thank you,” I blurt out.

“You’re welcome, Pen.” He gives me a lopsided smile, his chipped tooth peeking out at me from between his plump lips. My words get trapped in my throat and I have to mentally give myself a shake as Zayn takes the opportunity to admire the outfit he brought me. Well, at least I think that’s what he’s admiring, though the expression on his face tells me it might be more than that. “Everything fit okay?” he asks, his eyes lifting up.

“They do. They fit perfectly…” I falter at the look in his eyes. I don’t see hate anymore. I see possibilities and a heavy dose of lust. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. Just accept the gifts. You deserve to be wearing the best gear. You’re a star, Pen. You’re a fucking phenomenal dancer…” He frowns, his plush lips pressing together in a hard line.

“What?” I whisper.

“Grim. The club. Did you speak with her?”

“Yes.”

He nods tightly, a muscle jumping in his jaw. There’s a sudden fierceness in his gaze and I realise he still thinks I’m going to be stripping at Grim’s club. “I didn’t want that for you, Pen. I swear to fuck, I didn’t. I guess this was my way of trying to make up for it.Fuck!” he shouts suddenly. “I keep fucking going over and over it in my head. Was there something more I could’ve done? I don’t want you bare for anyone. It twists me up inside knowing those fuckers will be watching you remove your clothes, knowing they’ll see you fucking naked like that. It makes me want to kill a bastard. No. I’m going to sort it out. You ain’t doing that shit.”

“Wait! Calm down, Zayn, you’ve got it wrong. Grim wants me todance, not strip,” I say emphatically.

“What?”

“Grim doesn’t want me to strip. She wants me todance. I’ll be starting the night of Dax’s fight.”

His shoulders drop, relief washing over his face. “Thank fuck,” he exclaims.

“She’s going to pay me a wage. A good one. I won’t be needing any more handouts,” I say without thinking. Zayn frowns, his mouth popping open to speak but I cut him off, cursing my stupid mouth for running away with itself. “That wasn’t what I meant. I’m grateful for all the food, the clothes. I am. But everything I’ve ever been given—which, let’s be honest, hasn’t been much—comes with a caveat. My mum never did anything nice for me, but even when she passed on hand-me-down clothes or second-hand stuff it always came with a stipulation. To clean the flat from top to bottom until my fingers were raw from the bleach, to run errands. Even to grab her damn cigarettes because she was too lazy to get them from the convenience store herself. So, I can’t help but wonder what you want in return,” I say softly, holding my breath as I wait for him to disappoint me and hoping to God that he doesn’t.

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