Page 2 of Captive Vows (The Dubinin Bratva #1)

GAbrIELLA

I pressed my shoulder blades to the wall and exhaled a long breath. Sitting back in the corner of the dance studio was the last place I ever wanted to be. This was an ugly twist on being a “bench warmer”.

Benches didn’t exist in ballet. You were either in the show or not. You were starring or eking out the best you could manage as a secondary dancer who blended more with the props and scenery than the stage.

Back here, idle and allowed to merely watch instead of dance, I tried to ignore the burn of humiliation that I had been selected as one of the outcasts.

The rejects.

The unwanted.

“Maybe next time,” Amy, the daughter of the studio owner, said.

I turned my head slightly, just enough to glare at her. I couldn’t help it. Timing was everything. Opportunities were fleeting. At twenty-two, I was at the prime age to be excelling as much as I could. To be taking up every chance to dance, audition, and impress.

But not this time. Nope.

I was sitting back here with the few others because I was deemed unworthy.

The dancers still on the floor, practicing and trying to follow the choreography from the guest instructors, were only up there because of who they knew.

It wasn’t a matter of what we knew. It wasn’t a challenge of who had the better skillset.

Having the privilege to dance with these instructors came down to who these people knew.

“It’s not fair,” I whispered to Amy.

She patted my foot. We sat side by side with our legs crossed, but she wasn’t in her tights and leotard.

A car accident had ruined her chances of ever dancing again.

Sitting like this with her knees apart and ankles crossed was a feat for her.

Regardless of her inability to dance any longer, she remained a true friend at the studio, a supportive person when I had no one else.

That’s the whole problem.

I had no one. I came from nowhere.

“No, it’s not fair. But maybe one day, that will change,” she said quietly as we watched the lesson carry on for those who were “good” enough.

I didn’t have the same kind of faith and hope she enjoyed. When would anything change? I was born in a shitty neighborhood. My mom was killed in a drive-by. My dad was a loser deadbeat.

No money. No prospects. No future.

I winced, watching one of the dancers totally botch a step and leap that I could do in my sleep.

Every one of the dancers up there had wealthy parents to afford all the classes and private instructors they could find.

The men and women on the floor were the rich and privileged ones who got to go to fancy camps and courses to further broaden their skills.

They knew the right people in the business.

I, on the other hand, knew Amy and her mom, the owner of this small studio.

I taught myself a lot from YouTube videos and tutorials, dancing in my tiny bedroom.

I got these classes only because I did all the housework for my dad and I bartered with him to pay for these classes. That was all I had going for me.

So, yeah, it was freaking hard to watch others get ahead when all I’d ever dreamed of was to dance. When all I’d ever wished for was to lose myself to the magic of being on the stage and moving my body like a form of art.

“It’s just ’cuz they knew these people from that group,” Amy whispered, on my side.

She wasn’t wrong, though. These classmates of mine were only getting ahead because they were familiar to the guest instructors.

As frustrating as it was, I tried to look past the envy and figure out a solution.

Being scrappy was how I’d taught myself to live.

Without much money and nothing else to lean on as far as a supporting and loving home, I’d had to be resourceful.

I’d formed a deep dedication to working my ass off for what I wanted.

Maybe this wouldn’t have to be so different.

Paying attention to a pathetically hopeless redhead with the worst form ever, I noticed how much the guest instructor smiled at her. How he watched her. How he checked out her ass in that pink leotard. She could barely fill it out, too flat overall.

Dancers tended to have a small percentage of body fat, but I was secretly thrilled I could hang on to my assets while being fit.

Maybe I could be familiar with some of these instructors too…

During the entire class, I let myself dare to dream. To scheme as well. By the time the “chosen” ones were done with their lesson, I couldn’t think of a reason I shouldn’t go through with this impulsive brainstorm that had come to me.

I could smile and flirt with that instructor. I could get his attention on me—on my body, at least.

If I couldn’t have the means to get to know these elite instructors and be familiar with the staff who could grant me permission to be included in more advanced lessons like this one, then I’d need to use what I had. It was one more way to think outside the box. And that was what I’d do.

“What’s that one’s name?” I asked Amy with a sly smile lifting my lips.

She furrowed her brow as I pointed out the one I’d watched the most. Tall, thin but muscled, and with a roguish mohawk cut that made him look edgy.

“Why…?” she asked slowly, suspicious of me.

I shrugged. “No reason.” Done with taking my ballet shoes off and stowing them in my bag, I slung the small sack over my back. I wrapped my fingers around the thin straps, almost like it was a shield to give me protection.

Hitting on a guy wasn’t something I ever wasted my time on.

Flirting with an instructor had never crossed my mind before.

In all the years I’d succeeded in getting my dad to pony up money for some dance classes, I’d been a diligent, obedient student.

I’d listen to their every word, intent on doing my steps right.

I’d watch them for how they moved and used their muscles, eager to replicate their gracefulness.

Checking out a dude on the dance floor had never been an option. But hey, I’d do whatever it took.

“Oliver,” Amy said at last, still eyeing me like she didn’t like what I had in mind.

“And he’s in charge of picking who can go for the preliminary auditions in the fall?

” I asked, smiling wider. The thought of actually auditioning to go to school for ballet excited me.

It was a long shot. It was a pipe dream.

But it was my dream. Dance was my life and it was all I’d ever wanted to do.

That was why instead of accepting a teeny scholarship for a nursing community college outside the Bronx, I got a part-time clerk job at a store so I could perfect my dancing on my own.

Amy winced as she reached out to grab my arm and stop me from going toward Oliver. “Yes, he is. But, Gabby?—”

I stepped out of her reach, grinning fully. With a wink for her, I hoped this mischievous feeling could carry me into successfully seducing him.

Whatever it took.

Because instead of dreaming about auditioning and getting into school for ballet, I’d need to start smaller.

Just this morning, I argued with my dad about these lessons at Amy’s mom’s studio.

He whined and bitched about not being able to afford them anymore, and that was such a load of bull.

I didn’t ask for anything. I didn’t beg.

I didn’t covet materialistic crap. I asked for nothing while I did all the housework.

On top of that, I gave him some of my money from my part-time job.

These dance lessons were the only things I couldn’t sacrifice because dancing was just a part of who I was. It was in my blood.

If I can get Oliver to notice me, maybe that’ll be my in. And if I have an in, Dad can’t just make me stop.

With every step I took to reach Oliver as he left the room, I tried not to look like a stalker. Unfortunately, I felt like one. I felt like a manipulative fool. But that was how stuck I was. That was how far I was from reaching my dreams.

Desperate times sure did call for desperate measures.

Here goes.

I smiled as I bumped my shoulder into his, hurrying to catch up to him and make contact.

“Oh, hey.” He smiled kindly, looking me over as he caught me from the collision.

“I’m so sorry,” I replied. “I’m just so eager to get out of here.”

Shit. What? What did I say that for? That’s going to make it sound like I don’t want to be here when I do.

“I mean, I’m just so sweaty.”

Oh, God. That’s gross. He’s going to think I smell.

“I was on the floor for an hour before that lesson started.” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder, as if he wouldn’t know what I was talking about.

Lame, Gabby. Really, really lame!

“An hour.” He smiled, lowering his gaze to my chest. “Impressive.”

Wait. Is he talking about my dancing for an hour or my boobs? I was trying so hard. Keeping this stupid, hopefully sexy smile on my face. Thrusting my tits out. Leaning close. Running my hand down his arm. Giggling. Was I trying too hard? Was I too obvious?

God, I’m so bad at this. I was bound to scare him off.

“And I bet this is impressive too.” I put my hand on his chest and trailed it down toward his crotch.

I’d never done something so forward like this.

Touching a guy fell into the realm of dancing.

When with a partner for the sake of the choreography, I’d be near a guy and brush against him. But this?

Am I doing this right?

It seemed like it. He stepped closer. Then he glanced around as if wanting to make sure no one was watching. As if he wanted to prolong this naughty privacy with me.

“Oh, yeah?” he asked, his voice low and husky.

Uh-oh. I hadn’t considered this idea of mine could work too well. I didn’t want to sleep with him. I didn’t even know him. Already, regret was kicking in. This was too complicated. Too risky. Too dumb of a desperate idea.

“Yeah,” I replied. I was in this far. I had to keep it going now or I’d look like an imbecile.

He stepped into my space again and put his hand on my hip. Again, that was nothing new. Partners rested their hands there for a segue into a jump. But this wasn’t dancing. This was me trying to flirt to get ahead…

And it might be working.

I wanted his attention, and I definitely had it now. He licked his lips, staring at mine.

Fuck. Is he going to kiss me?

That would make this real.

That would push this too far.

“How about we get out of here, then?” he asked, pulling me toward him. “We can get out of here together and get sweaty… together.”

Oh, no. No. Let’s, um, let’s not?

“Uh…” Now what do I do? I didn’t want to actually have to do anything with him.

I didn’t want to get involved with anyone at all.

If and when I did, it’d have to be someone who’d at least get a spark of interest burning in me.

He didn’t. I was only trying to use him, and I only now saw how stupid that was.

I bit my lip and hesitated.

He rolled his eyes and retreated. An expression of annoyance crossed over his face. “Knock it off.”

“Huh?” He’d seemed so interested and now he was so instantly cold. “What?”

“Stop.” He shook his head, like he pitied me. “I’m not interested.”

I opened and closed my mouth, torn between relief that he wasn’t sincerely pursuing me or expecting anything from me and disappointment that I’d failed. I supposed I hadn’t. I wanted to get his attention, and I had. But not in the way I imagined it would go.

“You’re way too young for me.”

I furrowed my brow. I hadn’t actually wanted him, but did he really need to say that ? He was maybe a few years older than me. How did that count? How dare he make me feel inferior like that.

“I don’t know what kind of stupid game you’re trying to play, but take this piece of advice.” He stepped back again, eyeing me up and down with more disdain. “Don’t. Don’t play games with people in power who can call the shots.”

Fuck.

That sounded like a threat.

I frowned and moved back from him.

The last thing I needed was for him to spread word that I was trying to sleep with instructors to get ahead. Or not. Whatever.

My heart ached as it thumped fast. Panic crept over me, and I wished I could press rewind on this whole incident. “No, I?—”

He shook his head and left, turning to look at me over his shoulder. “Forget it, kid.”

Kid?

Anger replaced the panic. How dare he call me a kid ? Like I was a joke, an immature idiot who’d never succeed.

Gripping the straps to my drawstring bag, I gritted my teeth and turned to leave. Humiliation warmed my cheeks. Fury quickened my breath and pushed me to flee.

I’m so stupid. Why did I think that would work?

Oliver’s words delivered a sharp blow as I hurried home. His mocking rejection was just another reminder of how powerless I was to go for my dreams. How hopeless I was to be a dancer and get into Juilliard.

I narrowed my eyes as I walked the familiar sidewalk, furious and frustrated with the world.

Frustrated with everyone in the world, too.

Especially men.

No man was good. Not my father. Not punk-ass Oliver.

No one.

Just like I had no one but myself to rely on for a decent future of any kind, with or without dance to brighten the dark days.