RETRACE (3 page)

“It was a pleasure,” I say and send her a wicked grin.

She sighs with a smile, in a “what’s done is done, I can’t take it back,” kind of shy way.

The moment I hear the small thump confirming the door has been shut, I rush to secure the metal chain. No more surprises. God, that was embarrassing, it of course couldn’t have happened with someone less attractive. It had to happen with a candidate who’d leave anyone else in the dust in the auditions for my G.I. Joe fantasy, my favorite one. The one that always does the job, exceedingly well.

Wrapping my knee length beige cardigan around me, I tuck my legs under me and pour a cup of tea from the Jasmine infusion pot I ordered in. I lift my notebook’s screen up and wait for programs to load. Clicking on the music folder, I take a sip of the ceramic, white mug. Dragging music files into a new folder for my first lesson, I end up with too many, and start eliminating. Thrill fills me at the thought of teaching again. I can’t wait to get to know a new group of young girls. I usually teach ages 4 to 6, the age when innocence and sweetness are still at their peak.

Opening a memo, I dot down a list of errands for tomorrow: get accessories for the new apartment, deal with paperwork for the new job, mainly all things related to settling in a new place. A smile crawls to my lips as I think about a visit to Pottery Barn. I’m on a budget and can’t go too wild but sometimes all it takes is a few items to set the right ambiance. A stream of excitement of everything new makes its way through me, briefly, till my eyes are drawn to the new message flickering at the taskbar.

My mother.

The thought of home doesn’t take long to join with the familiar twinge in my heart that never fails to remind me of what I’ve left behind. I close the screen, leaving my hand on top so it won’t somehow lift up. I’m not ready to deal with anything linked to home yet. I leave the threatening device be and walk away, deciding to call it a night.

Night rituals after, bringing the TV to life, I flip through the shows till I land on a movie channel. I watch the credits of a movie that ended with a teary scene. Fluffing my pillows behind me, I wait for the next one to start. When the G.I. Joe theme song starts I can’t help but crack a brief smile.

When you sleep in hotels you can never anticipate the level of morning light you’ll be assaulted with. The brightness I blink my eyes open into is borderline abusive. I’m not exactly a morning person, and that would be putting it in the most minor sense. I do not like mornings. Mornings represent another day to pass, another day to bear.

The first half of the day flies by before I can even notice I have an hour left until my lesson begins. Fifty two minutes and thirty seconds to be precise, in which I need to squeeze-in buying stickers I plan to gift the girls at the end of the first lesson, pick up my dance clothes from the hotel, and maybe manage to grab a small bite to eat.

A soft smile plays on my lips as I watch the girls attempt to perform the few little steps I taught them for the last thirty-five minutes. The bright studio is full of joyful energy. It’s as if pink exploded in here, its sparkly fallout splashed all over the small dancers.

I clap and smile wider at them as they bow in disarrayed unison. “Great job!”

Their elated, adorably flushed faces beam at me. They rapidly take their place, to my hand gesture, sitting on the floor in front of me. I open my palm to reveal colorful, magic unicorn stickers. “You did such an amazing job. I think unicorns are in order.” Ten lit up pair of eyes eagerly watch me as I move on my knees from girl to girl and press a sticker below their collarbone.

“Miss Nia,” a round freckled face with one of those plastic (pink of course) glasses pips. I shoot her nametag a glance.

“Yes, Michelle?”

She smiles shyly. “Can you dance for us?”

I send the round clock above the door a peep.

“Yes, yes,” several sweet voices crackle at once. I nod with a warm beam. They all align to sit with their backs against the studio’s mirrored wall, below the wooden rail, as I turn to put a new song on. I go with one of my recent favorites, an energetic summer tune.

I start to get into the rhythm, smiling at the girls. Movements reflected on the mirror before me distract me for a short beat. I nod at the few parents who have gathered to watch us before the lesson ends. The chorus comes and I close my eyes, feeling the music funnel through me, letting it reach my core. For these moments everything else freezes, it's like I'm in a bubble in which the only thing that matters is the music and my moves.

With the accelerating drums beats I sway weightless. I add synchronized twirls and subtle Samba moves, floating. The band holding my hair slides to the floor, letting it free to scatter over my face, back and shoulders. I lose myself in my dance, uniting with the music. As the last notes play I flicker my eyes open and motion for the girls to join me. They bounce around me giggling, eagerly mimicking my moves. We all bow as the song winds down and I clap enthusiastically.

When I turn around to hug them and show them to the door, I find an army of parents watching us through the glass wall. I get a few raised eyebrows from a group of mothers and some overly excited grins from a couple of fathers. But what catches my attention is the emotion, or lack thereof on Mrs. Perry’s face. She has her arms folded on her chest, her head slightly tilted toward one of the mothers who is talking to her. Is it me, or does she not look pleased at all?

The girls hug me, distracting me from a sudden unbidden worry. I crouch down to hug them back and wave them goodbye as they skip toward their parents. Worrying my lips, I turn back to get my memory stick that holds the music and the bottle of water I left on the floor.

Mrs. Perry still talks to the parents as I pass by her, it’s her look my way that prompts me to stop.

“Could you visit me tomorrow morning for a short chat?” She asks right after excusing herself to a blabbering parent.

“Sure.” I say with puckered brows, pulling my hair back in a ponytail grip and letting go. She nods and turns back to the waiting mother. She doesn’t mention a specific time and I don’t ask, a gut feeling tells me to just let it go.

I swing the locker-room door open, cursing under my breath. Whatever happened in there doesn’t seem to be in my favor. Did I overdo it with the dance? Shit, I really wanted this job, and the girls are so sweet. My high finishing the class had officially crashed to the floor. Quickly, I change my baggy dance pants to jeans, and drape on a cream, knee length cardigan over black triple spaghetti strap top. I comb my hair back with my fingers and tie it high in a thin band.

“Mitchell?” I hear someone talk beside me as I continue shoving my stuff to a small duffel bag. My heart makes half a jump at the tap on my shoulder. Startled, I turn back to a pair of smiling, blue eyes. “It’s Mitchell, right?” For a brief moment I observe the beaming lady with the bouncy, purplish hairdo, till it registers that here too I’ve filled my application form as Nia Mitchell.

“That’s your name, isn’t it?” She asks with an air of doubt.

“Yeah, yeah, it is. Sorry, I was just thinking about the lesson.”

She sends me a dimple ornamented smile. She extends her hand for a shake, which I mirror. “I’m Alex.”

“Hi, Alex. Nia.”

“So, Nia, a bunch of us are heading to Jake’s, wanna join?”

She’s friendly
. Maybe I should go with her, it would be good to talk to people rather than go back to my room and work hard on doing everything but think.

“Um, I guess. Who’s Jake?”

She laughs, and it’s an ascending, contagious sound. “It’s this nearby bar we all go to, much too often.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“I heard you turned down The Russian… again.” Jake sends his arm forward, straight, landing a dart in the very center of the red pierced dot. “It’s a shitload of money…” he mutters, admiring his precise hit. “And you know he doesn’t like hearing no.”

I take a sip of my water, studying the target board from a distance. “I know,” I say.

Jake pivots to look at me. “What’s come over you, man?”

I pull the darts from the board.

“Nothing,” I say low with my back to him, launching a dart at the target.

“Reeves.” His voice is harsh, but even without looking directly at him I know his eyes hold concern.

“I don’t know,” I relinquish. “The shit with Katie, and… the usual.” I finally turn to look at him with a tapered stare. “It will be the three year anniversary in a few days.” Jake’s hard face breaks for a moment. He composes fast enough that an untrained eye wouldn’t have even noticed. The pain, however, stays on his face in the form of a clenched jaw muscle. Jake and I don’t share a long history, but the one we do share is by far more intimate than any extended one.

“There have been some rumours,” he says under his breath, nonetheless it still reaches me and it’s enough to draw my attention.

“What rumours?” I ask solemnly. He snaps out of a short reverie and just shakes his head. “Which rumours, Jake?” My voice is as cold as the expression my face has taken. “Is it about A.Z?”

“Leave it.” His eyes mirror mine, the determination they transmit certainly backs his words. It was just a slip up, he is not about to elaborate. I know he won’t tell me anything, whatever he has, for the sole purpose of keeping me safe. I break our short stare down, and grab a stamp from the table.

“I’m going to work.” I slam the door shut, leaving his office. I pass by the toilets and splash cold water on my face. I dry myself with a raspy paper towel and take a deep breath. I need to calm my inner thunderstorm down before going outside. In this state, the simplest word out of place and I’ll turn into the terminator himself. Still propped with one hand on the sink, I survey my reflection in the mirror as I run the other over my few days growth of stubble. Shutting my eyes tight, I take another deep breath that does shit to calm me and push the door open with a flat hand.

Ted, a The Thing double, slaps my back in greeting as I take his place at the stool in front of the main door to Jake’s. Lately I’ve been taking more shifts at the bar when I’m not on a job. It’s not that I need the money, the cash I make here is a joke compared to my real job, but I need the distraction. I don’t do laid back. Laid back equals enough time to walk down the deepest tunnels of my mind. I’d rather walk through a nuclear explosion than go there.

Time passes as I stamp wrists, give each individual a short, thorough detection. The flow of patrons is slow but steady, just the right pace to keep me busy. The BS the bartenders, Dan and Eileen, give one another keeps me entertained as I listen to it through our linked earpieces. Jake has a state of the art internal network communication system we all, including boss man himself, wear while working.

I tap my earpiece and say, “Eileen, give the guy a break, throw him a bone. He is about to drown in his own drool. That tight shirt is cruel, babe. Cruel.”

“Reeves, the only one I’m willing to throw more than a bone to is you,” she says in a forced slutty voice. I chuckle in response.

“Don’t distract the bouncer,” Jake’s voice comes over the electronic line. “I need him thinking with his upper head.”

“Gottcha, boss.”

“Thanks for trying, dude,” Dan adds his share.

“Anytime.” I release the button that allows them to hear me and reach for the cold bottled water under my chair. Coming up, I’m facing a group of people but see only one. A smug curve pulls up at the edge of my lips as I acknowledge her, thinking how thoroughly I acknowledged her last night while stroking myself in the shower. Just fantasizing about her was better than actually bagging the tails I’ve had lately.

She is lightly flushed. I’m not sure if it’s the evening chilled air, or a reaction to seeing me again. Hoping it’s the latter. She is as beautiful as the last time I had the pleasure of seeing her,
and what a pleasure it was
. An absurd thought of whether either of the guys is someone she’s seeing jolts to my head as I stamp the wrists of the members of her little group. When I take
her
wrist in my hand, I lightly press with my thumb on the side, where her pulse is, and it’s quickened. I slowly lift my eyes from her delicate wrist to align them with hers.

“We meet again, Nia,” I say in a low voice. Though we’ve met already an abundance of times more, in my head, were she was also flushed, albeit enthusiastically screaming my name.

“We meet again, G.I. Joe.”

My brows flash up and I cock my head. Her lips stretch into a smile, a mighty, fucking stunning one. She pulls her hand back, pats my chest once with that smile intact and disappears behind the heavy, black metal door. I look over my shoulder at her leaving back and can’t help the stretch my own lips take. If she only knew how close she’d hit… This will be the second time she manages to elevate my mood, in person, and this time she has her clothes on.

I wait the sufficient amount of time one would take to get settled and order a drink before pressing the button on my earpiece, “Dude, straight dark hair, cream sweater, killer bod, with a group, what is she drinking?”

“Oh,
wow
. Wow!” Eileen exclaims. “Mr. I just replaced my bed, there wasn’t enough space left on the bedpost, shows genuine interest in someone? We are at what she drinks, Reeves? I’m jealous!”

My fellow bar colleagues are familiar with my theory of alcohol and women, the rarer the drink, the rarer the lady. They also know, full well, that it’s about once every blue moon that I actually care to know what someone drinks.

“Should we tell him?” Eileen teases.

“Oh, you want to hear this one, bro.” Dan says, and my lips lift a degree. “Ready…?”

“Shoot.”

“Talisker, neat.”

Damn
, but somehow I knew it would be something along this line. Classy, lots of spice, fresh, smooth, and wild. She’s a living, breathing embodiment of my dream girl. Refined, perfect body, clean - stunning face, great taste in Scotch. Only I don’t chase these kind of dreams anymore…