“Zayn, you’ve had my back all this time. I owe you. Tonight, I’ve got an extra special gift for you,” he’d said with a fucking wink and a smile.
I figured he was talking about a new ride.
Not this.
The music adds to the potency of the moment. The beat of the snare drum pounding in time with my bastard heart. Hozier, might not produce music that I usually listen too but he sure as fuck knows how to write a song that gets your blood pumping.
I’m itching to move. To let go. Really let go.
I lost my passion for dance the night Pen walked away from us.
We all did.
The only one who continued to dance was Xeno and that wasn’t because he wanted to, but because he had to. Now, as Pen stares at me with a rage befitting the music flooding my senses, all I want to do is dance with her just like we did when we were kids. She’s lit a match between all of us. Xeno can deny it all he wants, but I know him, and he wants Pen as much as the rest of us. Fuck, if I thought she wanted it, I’d take her here and now.
“Pen…” I murmur, my fingers curling into my trousers so tightly I think my knucklebones might just rip through my skin.
Her eyes glisten in the dim lighting. I see the rage brimming on her lashes, but she holds back her angry tears. She’s so fucking strong. She always was. I hold her gaze, forcing myself to take on her wrath. This is the first time since she danced in the studio that she’s allowed us to see her. And, boy, do I fucking see her. When she rests her hands on my shoulders, and leans over, I bite down on this feral need I have to take her. Gritting my jaw, I hold back not because I don’t want her, not because I’m afraid to finish what we started all those years ago, but because Pen hasn’t agreed to this. She doesn’t want me to fuck her and to give in to my base needs. There’s a pang in my chest that has never, ever fucking gone away when it comes to this woman. To fuck her now like this would be rape. Plain and fucking simple.
I’m not that kid she once knew. I’m not a good man. None of us are.
But I sure as fuck am not a rapist.
Her fingers squeeze tighter as her lips graze across my ear. “You cannot take what isn’t freely given, Zayn Bernard. You fucking disappoint me.”
And even though her words sting, her naivety floors me because I could take, I just choose not to. With one last fleeting look, she steps up onto the table, then takes my fucking breath away.
3
Pen
My anger is loud.
My rage is a beast that dances with the intent to maim.
My steps are ruthless, timed to perfection with the thumping beat of the song.
My bleeding heart knits together with every thrust of my hips, every flare of my arm, every turn of my head and kick of my leg.
My soul screams like a warrior as I use the table as my platform and dance as my weapon.
I’m not a victim.
Not tonight.
Fuck that.
Dax might knock his opponents out with lethal punches and kicks.
Zayn might slash his victims with the sharpened point of a knife.
York might crucify his enemies with fists that break bones.
Xeno might torture his adversaries with something far worse.
And Jeb might ruin lives with threats to the ones I love.
But tonight I’m fighting back.
Fucking like animals in front of each other isn’t a display of dominance. It’s for the weak, the vain, the narcissistic. I’m going to show everyone here what it really means to be powerful, because that’s why they’re here, right? Instead of, ‘my gun is bigger than yours’, it’s ‘my cock is bigger than yours’. Even The Belladonnas have played into that mentality and it’s bullshit. Fucking bullshit.
Tonight, all eyes are going to be on me.
But it will be on my terms.
They can look, they can want, but they sure as fuck can’t touch.
I’ve had to endure years of my brother beating me. I’ve had to suffer a lifetime of my mum’s words belittling me. I’ve had to withstand judgement from people who don’t even know me. I’ve had to live the past three years in a permanent state of fear.
This is my chance to take a little of my power back.
The song intensifies and so do my dance moves. I’m freestyling, yes. But this is more than a kid in a nightclub battling against other kids for kudos. This is me dancing for my life, for Lena’s life.
Jeb might have brought me here to be fucked, to keep up appearances, to hide who he really is, but what shows more strength, to follow the crowd or to act in defiance? When I arrived people just saw a vagina fit for fucking, and fucking alone. Grim had looked at me like I was a whore, and so did every other person in this place.
I’m not a whore.
I’m Pen and these bastards can kiss my arse.
By the time I’ve finished I’m going to be wanted by every man and woman in this place, but only owned by one. Jeb, the leader of the Skins. Well, at least that’s what I’ll allow him to think.
Because no one truly owns me.
No. One.
But if I can appease Jeb’s pride, his vanity, and his need to keep up appearances by being a spectacular dancer and becoming something other people covet, then I’d rather that than be used as a whore.
So I dance.
The table is large enough, and stable enough for me to move freely. I’m careful not to look at Jeb or the Breakers. Instead, I look out over the warehouse, my gaze skating over the different tables. Slowly, one by one, I gain the attention of the crowd. The fucking stops and the staring starts. Men tuck their cocks away. Women pull down their dresses and adjust their masks. All eyes are on me.
Good.
My movements evolve from angry tap steps to the fluidity of contemporary dance. The pounding of my feet on the table is replaced with the pounding of my fist against my rib cage as I jerk my whole torso forwards and back showing the Breakers how my heart beats with so much rage that it feels like it’s about to burst free of my chest.
Before long I’m covered in a sheen of sweat as I twist and turn, moving my body in such a way that shows both sensuality and strength. I’m careful not to be too overtly sexual this time. I need to be desired, but untouchable. A rare, precious piece of jewellery brought out to be ogled, but not touched. Like the Crown-fucking-Jewels.
The emotive form of contemporary makes way for ballet and the perfection and poise of such a dance that juxtaposes beautifully with all the imperfect and untamed gangsters surrounding me. I’m using this dance like a metaphorical middle finger to all these bastards. I’m rising above the grime and the grit, the violence and the aggression, and showing them what it truly means to be powerful with grace and beauty.
Most won’t get it, but my Breakers. They will. I’ll make sure of it.
Rising up onto my toes in a demi-pointe, my arms held outwards, I breathe in deep before spinning on the ball of my left foot and kicking out with my right leg in a fouetté turn. My arms spread wide, before I draw back in both my arms and my right leg, my pointed toe touching my left knee. I repeat the move over and over again, thankful for Sebastian, his ballet lessons, and words of wisdom. Thanks to his recent tutelage and hours of practicing alone in a studio, my core muscles are able to hold me steady and I have enough stamina to dance this fight. I dig deep, using that muscle memory, that energy, to showcase what I’ve learnt from him.