Page 19 of Painkiller (Sin Records #3)

W alking into the studio, I barely acknowledge the receptionist. Muscle memory leads me toward the changing room. My mind is a mess.

Despite being my friend’s brother, I’d never seen Jagger before a few days ago.

How is it, now, he’s suddenly everywhere?

He was in my apartment complex! He was on my floor, coming out of my neighbors’ apartment.

It’s beyond bizarre and needs to stop because the way I really felt seeing him come out of that apartment…

Every damn time I’m around that man, I feel…

off-kilter. It pisses me off because there’s no reason for him to affect me like he does.

Sure, I’m attracted to him. He is hot as sin.

No woman breathing could look at him without needing new panties.

But he’s not the only attractive man I know.

I’m surrounded by them. Toned dancers, the men at the club, friends of Casey’s I’ve met. There’s no shortage.

But not once have any of them left me feeling disoriented and unsettled until now. It’s not just attraction. It’s gravity. I don’t like being pulled by anyone, but I don’t know what to do about it.

I should be angry that he made me look foolish. He knew it was me the entire time. Every time I think about it—the way he gripped my hips or how my nipples hardened and my core dripped—mortification trickles in. Then at the ballet…

Ugh. I could throttle him. I knew him, too. Not just as Jagger Davis, but as my friend’s brother and my sister’s ex, even though he insists it wasn’t like that with Phoebe.

The thing is, I saw pictures my sister posted of her and Jagger together.

It might have been just fun and games for him, but I could see it in her face.

For her, it was much, much more. And as attracted as I am to him, I don’t want another incident like the one that caused the rift between us in the first place.

What I should’ve asked him was why he chose that moment—today, to say something. Or at all. Let me live in oblivion.

While I don’t understand the effect he has on me, I don’t have time to figure it out either.

And it doesn’t matter how attracted to him I am.

The list of reasons I can’t do anything about it is a mile long.

The top of which is that I have too much going on in my life to add any other complications.

And something tells me Jagger Davis is more than a little complicated.

But I cannot get the way he pulled me between his legs—onto his lap out of my head. Or the way his large hands gripped my hips, holding me in place. My chest pressed against his bare one. The heat emanating from him. His mouth on mine. The smell of oak, vanilla, and sweat…

My body remembers when all I want is to forget.

“Earth to Poppy.” I turn and find Casey staring at me with a smile. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep the blush from rising to my face. “I was just wondering if you’re going to put the shoe on or hold it all day?”

Looking down my body, I realize I’ve changed into my leo and tights without conscious thought. One ballet shoe is on while the other dangles from my fingers. And my core is throbbing.

Get a damn grip, you little slut. Jagger is not what you want or need in your life.

“I’ve got a lot on my mind,” I say as I slip my other shoe on. It’s the truth, right? Everything is chaos for me right now. Even if that wasn’t where my head was at. Which proves Jagger is a problem. I need to focus on what’s important.

But it’s hard to forget him when a reminder is sitting next to me.

“Anything you want to talk about?” she asks as she redoes her bun. “I’m an excellent listener. It would give us an excuse to grab lunch or something.” Her blue eyes shine, radiating hope.

I doubt I’ll share anything, but I really could use a moment to breathe.

Time isn’t my friend, but so far, I haven’t been asked to work at the restaurant today.

It’s been months since I stopped long enough to engage with other people—Jagger does not count.

And Casey might not seem like the best choice if I want to avoid him, but I don’t think she’d invite him along. She never has before.

But I can’t afford it. If not for Jagger, my breakfast this morning would’ve been breathing the pastries at the café, not eating them.

A heavy sigh passes my lips, and I shake my head.

“I can’t, Case. I wish I could, but I—” Dammit, I don’t want to admit I can’t afford to have lunch, and she doesn’t know I have another job. “I have a date.”

The disappointment that flashed in her blue eyes when I turned her down vanishes, getting replaced with excitement. “Your boyfriend?”

“Um, yeah, my boyfriend.” I should’ve just said no, but now the lie is rolling. Again. My smile matches hers, but inside I’m cringing so hard, I’m surprised I haven’t shriveled up. One day, all these lies I never meant to tell will drown me.

Like now.

“You’ve got to introduce me.” She looks so eager at the prospect.

“I know we haven’t known each other long, but I’ve never even seen you with a guy.

Oh! We could double date. It would be fun.

I’ve never been on a double date before.

It’s too weird because both of my friends are with my dad and uncle. ”

Great. The guilt keeps growing because she only has two friends?

I knew she struggled to make them, but I didn’t expect her to say that.

My reaction must be on my face because she quickly raises her hand, waving it in the air, playing off her embarrassment despite her flushed cheeks.

“I mean, the wives of Sons of Sin members are nice to me,” she continues with a smile.

“They call themselves my friends, but if it weren’t for my dad, they wouldn’t know I existed. ”

Not helping, Casey.

“What about…um…What about Jagger? No double dates with him?”

“Ha! Most girls were only friends with me to get to him. As soon as they thought they had his attention, they forgot about me.” Her face blanches a bit, and suddenly I feel more connected to her.

We’re just two girls trying not to get left behind.

I’ve never struggled to make friends. But maintaining relationships? Yeah, that’s not as easy..

She continues with a shrug. “Or when he inevitably pissed them off, they took it out on me.” That angers me, and I’m about to blast him for not protecting her, but she keeps going.

“Of course, when he found out, he made their lives miserable.” She grins widely.

“But no, no double dates with Jagger, and the last girl he dated off and on, I felt so sorry for because he would spend nights at my apartment to avoid her. But between you and me, they were toxic together. All they did was fight or party. Nothing substantial.”

It feels awful to hear about my sister through Casey, and hers is a second-hand observation. I’ve got to get off the topic of Jagger, my sister, and even this stupid lie I’ve created because it’s all making me nauseous.

“Yeah, I’ll see if he would want to double.” The hole I’ve dug keeps growing. Right along with the shame bubbling in my gut. “We better get to class.” Or off a bridge to stop the bullshit I continue to spew.

I pull on an oversized sweatshirt, knowing I’ll freeze to death in the class if I don’t. Miss Dumond, the owner and instructor, keeps the building as cold as a meat locker because most girls break a decent sweat as they dance. I’m not most girls.

Casey and I walk out of the changing room together, making our way toward the large dance space. Other girls are already in the class, doing warm-ups when we arrive.

We go to a vacant spot against the wall and begin our turnout stretches. Several minutes later, after we’ve all warmed our muscles and joints, Miss Dumond enters. Her claps echo off the mirrored walls. “All right, ladies. Into position.”

She leads us through a set of intricate moves utilizing her own choreography. For months, she’s been teaching us the steps, changing them as she sees fit. She’s using us to orchestrate her Spring showcase, which will premiere in April.

We won’t be part of it—or at least not all of us.

Miss Dumond is an efficient instructor. She uses her students to craft her choreography while teaching us and helping us become the best dancers we can be.

It benefits all of us by strengthening our skills, refining our technique, and challenging our endurance.

However, lately, I wish she’d omit the endurance part because mine is floundering.

“Poppy, can you run through the first dance for me, please?” She gestures for the rest of the group to take a break.

While they take their positions on the floor, I get into position.

This isn’t a ballet. This is a contemporary piece arranged to be powerful and dramatic.

But I can’t keep the surprise off my face when the music starts.

I expected Requiem by Mozart. Instead, haunting guitars come through the speakers, followed by the steady thrum of drums and bass.

The song is deep and thoughtful, full of drama, but the lyrics control my movements—pull the strings of my body across the room, but my mind? Every word makes me think of the mysterious man that I can’t stop thinking about.

My left leg lifts high, and I rotate, creating an illusion, then doing the same on the next leg before I bend backward, throwing one leg over, followed by the next. When I’m back upright, I go straight into multiple fouettés, then finish with an arched back and my arms stretched behind me.

Every move was some strange homage to green eyes, long, dark hair, and brooding intensity. I felt it with every move. Every breath.

With a heavy exhale, I release the position and look at Miss Dumond. Her smile is soft, pleased. “Thank you, Poppy. That’s exactly how I hoped it would look with the music.”

I nod and turn to the other girls. They’re staring at me, some with tears in their eyes. Pretending I don’t notice them, I go sit next to Casey on the floor. She leans into me, sniffling. “That was beautiful. None of us could’ve done it justice.”

Oh, Casey. Always underestimating her talent. Turning, I grip her face in my hands. “Yes. You could’ve done it just as well.” Her head shakes, an argument ready to go. I clap my hand over her mouth. “You could, Case. You’ve proven that by getting the part with the city ballet.”

Her lips press together, cheeks turning bright red as she nods behind my hand.

We finish the class with a few other girls, including Casey, performing other parts of the choreography.

I’m almost to the door when Miss Dumond calls me.

“I know you’re busy, Poppy, but I want to do a small showcase this year for Christmas.

Casey is doing the choreography for the kids’ performance, but I was hoping you would perform a piece as well.

Anything you want. A Christmas theme is not required. ”

Flattered is what I should feel. Honored even because even though the small showcases Miss Dumond puts on don’t get awards or acknowledgement from the ballet community, they are truly wonderful.

Yet, it takes every ounce of restraint I have not to audibly groan because she’s right.

I am so damn busy breathing feels like it should be penciled in.

Also, contrary to what everyone believes, ballet is not my passion. It’s only my salvation because it was my damnation first.

But it comes easy for me. It’s as automatic as my heart beating and as natural as walking. There’s no reason it shouldn’t be what I want for my life, but it’s not.

It’s duty that motivates me, not desire.

It was never my dream to be a professional dancer of any sort, but it’s what my mother wanted for my sister and me.

Phoebe hated it, but she was never as naturally skilled at it as I was.

It was always another point of contention for us, even as kids.

She blamed me for not being able to try anything else, and for never telling my mom I didn’t want to spend every free minute in tights.

In the end, Phoebe blamed me for our mom’s death, too. If I’d shown solidarity with her when she said she hated it, perhaps Mom would’ve listened. Instead of being on her way to pick us up from class, we would’ve all been home, and she wouldn’t have gotten hit when the drunk driver jumped the curb.

After that, I knew dancing was my only future. For Mom.

I also can’t tell Miss Dumond no.

While I’ve been dancing for years, I’m a believer in continuously honing your craft.

This may not be the career I chose for myself, but I it to owe my family to work hard to make their sacrifices worth it.

I attended another dance school for years, but their priority was dancers who had a future in the business.

They were creating future primas and wouldn’t accept anything less than perfection.

They lost the beauty of dance. It should be more about passion, determination, and heart than simple mechanics and skill, so I approached Miss Dumond about eight months ago, needing to get away from the overdriven, passionless school.

Miss Dumond doesn’t expect perfection. She only expects your best—that you reach your potential, whatever that may look like.

When I learned about the debt I inherited a few months ago, I told Miss Dumond I couldn’t continue her classes.

They didn’t fit in the budget because they’re not strictly needed—a luxury, not a necessity.

She wouldn’t hear of it. At her insistence, I stayed, and because of her generosity, I can’t deny her.

“When would the showcase be?” I ask, not that it matters.

“Christmas Eve.”

The day means nothing to me since I don’t have any family nearby.

Our ballet’s first run ends two weekends before, so the annual Nutcracker performance can begin.

But when the hell would I have time to practice?

Unless I just do a piece from the show. Maybe I can make it work.

I’ll just have to kiss the break from rehearsals goodbye.

“You can count me in, Miss Dumond.”

She smiles widely and nods. We say our goodbyes, and I finally get to leave.

Except I now have four hours until rehearsal and nothing to do.

Although…

Four hours with nothing to do is a good time to go home for a nap before rehearsal and another night waiting on rich dudes with too much money and tending to fighters. I’m exhausted thinking about it. And it’s probably the last time I’ll ever get to again.

Sleep sounds perfect .