My Soul To Keep (Soul Series Book 1) (7 page)

“You think a cap and a pair of aviators make that much of a difference?”

“Oh, I know they do. I’ve literally had people walk up to me and say I look just like Rhyson Gray. I tell them I get that a lot.”

I’ve only known him for a day, and I’m pretty sure I could pick him out of a stadium full of folks wearing baseball caps and aviators. I have to admit though, with that unruly hair covered, at a glance he’s just another tall, attractive guy. We walk together and silence falls between us again. He opens the door for me, and I point him down the hall.

“Bathroom’s down there. I’m gonna go to the locker room and change for my class.” I look up at him, his eyes on me a welcome weight I shouldn’t let myself become accustomed to. “Thank you so much. I didn’t want the girls waiting.”

“The girls in your class?”

“Yeah. They’re your typical pain-in-the-butt teenagers most of the time, but they’re good kids. A lot of them wouldn’t get exposure to quality teaching if it weren’t for the community center.”

“And you’re the quality teacher?”

“I didn’t mean it like—Well, I’ve been dancing my whole life, so I guess I better be a good teacher by now.”

“I taught you something about singing today. Maybe you could teach me a few moves for my next video?”

We both laugh because that’s just ridiculous. He may have transitioned from classical piano prodigy into modern rock star, but he never strays too far from an instrument and a microphone. The idea of him doing any of the moves I’m about to teach my girls is hilarious.

“I’d like to see that. We’re learning a routine inspired by Beyoncé today. You doing those moves . . .”

“You’d make a pretty penny selling that footage to some tabloid. Believe me.”

He laughs, but there’s less humor than before.

“Have you . . . well, has anyone ever done anything like that? Sold a video or whatever?”

“Let’s just say I’ve learned to be really careful about who gets close to me.”

I angle a wry smile up at him.

“Maybe you shouldn’t offer rides to strange women.”

The smile drops from his mouth, but lingers in his eyes.

“Some risks are worth taking.”

Some aren’t. He stands about a foot above me in height, but his success positions him in another stratosphere. I know there are girls who would do everything they could to get as close as they can, but I’m not those girls. As good as it feels to talk to him, to share those loaded looks, to laugh with him and see those protective layers he wears fall way, that’s the opposite of what I want. To take advantage of him to propel me forward. I’ll make it on my own, or not at all. He’s a distraction, and a risk
I’m
not willing to take.

“Thanks again.”

I smile and take off toward the locker rooms. Even though I know he’s still there and that he’s watching me, I don’t let myself look back.

LET THE RECORD SHOW I TRIED.

After that warning look Grady basically fired at me before we left the house, I was determined to keep Kai at arm’s length. Not to go any further with whatever this thing is that keeps flaring up between us. I was downright rude in the car. Completely silent.
She
started talking to
me
.
She
was the one who shared personal, adorable things that only served to increase her desirability rating.

I mean, come on.
Kai Anne
, she said.
Like the pepper. Like your car
. You can’t make this shit up.

So it’s basically her fault that I faked a piss so I could see her in action. I’m actually not to be held responsible for the fact that I’m hovering outside the small studio where she’s teaching, just beyond her line of vision, barely keeping her in mine. She’s definitely to blame for my semi-stalkerish behavior. Talk about the irony. I’m hiding behind sunglasses and a hat so I’m not recognized as a celebrity while trailing a girl who no one would know from Adam.

She stands in front of about ten girls. She changed from the cargo shorts and T-shirt she wore earlier and now wears some leotard thing that shows the lean muscles of her thighs and the ridiculous curve of her ass. A tiny YOLO T-shirt looks like it’s been cut in half, hitting just below her high, pert breasts and hanging off one shoulder. She’s built like a cheerleader or a gymnast. A dancer. She has an athlete’s graceful body, one that has obviously been disciplined into delicate strength.

Over the giggles and squeals of the girls, her voice reaches me in the hallway.

“Okay, chicas.” Kai claps a few times. “The majority has spoken, and we’ll be doing a routine inspired by Beyoncé’s ‘711’ video for the talent contest.”

More squealing. Laughing. High-fiving. Thank God I’m not in high school anymore. I fought so hard to go to school with “normal” kids my age. It was a great experience, but once was more than enough. I figured out pretty quickly that I wasn’t missing much.

“I’ve choreographed a routine that I think you’ll like. I know a lot of you are interested in cheering. The video has some of that, and I’ve included those elements.” She walks over to a music system against the wall and plugs her phone in. “I’ll show you the whole thing once all the way through in real time. Then we’ll start breaking it down piece by piece.”

Beyoncé’s voice invades the room. I’ve heard the song on the radio. Then I forget about Beyoncé. I forget about the girls. I forget that at any moment someone could realize who I am and ask me to sign a boob or take a selfie. All I see is Kai.

I realized something pretty early in life. When we’re doing that thing we’re made to do, it transforms us. Elevates us. The high I get from creating and performing has a lot less to do with the applause and fame or money, and so much more to do with me feeling like I’m doing exactly what I was put on this earth to do. That’s what I see when Kai dances. A confidence shines from her eyes. Even her posture changes, straightens. Her movements are crisp and then mellifluous. One moment tight and controlled, but the next, as fluid as water. The routine melds ballet, hip-hop, modern dance so seamlessly, moving from swan to swagger in heartbeats.

When she’s done, the girls run forward and cluster around her, laughing and mimicking the snippets of the routine they caught on to. Kai laughs with them for a moment, her face glowing and alive. Then she claps twice, shooing them back to their positions. For the next hour they slice this elephant of a routine into manageable bites. Manageable for them, at least. All my rhythm is in my fingers. I couldn’t dance my way out of a paper bag.

As class breaks, I don’t think about all the things I could have done with the last hour and a half I forfeited to spend more time with Kai. There’s pressure to write my next album. I’m producing tracks for a few artists. Not to mention needing to check on my investment into Wood, the studio one of my buddies opened not too long ago. All of that seems pretty pale next to this girl’s vivid presence.

She’s a star.

Grady’s hinted before that Kai has the potential to be the next J. Lo or Katy Perry. I’ll go a step farther. She has “one name” potential. Madonna. Cher. GaGa. I’ve only heard her sing a scale and dance one routine, but her potential is glaringly obvious. And it’s not even just her talent. She’s magnetic. That “it” people talk about is so strong in her I can’t believe she’s still processing Grady’s invoices and teaching dance to high schoolers in a community center. There’s nothing else you want to look at if she’s in the room. I know this from personal experience. The right break would catapult her into the fulfillment of all that potential.

While I’m contemplating all of this, the girls one by one drift past me. I slump and drop my eyes to the floor, tugging the brim of the baseball cap lower over my hair. Once the last girl is safely out the door, I walk into the studio. Kai is looking down at her phone with her bag slung over one shoulder, and she doesn’t notice me for a few moments. Then she practically walks right into me.

“Oh.” Her tilted eyes, which I now know are a legacy from her Korean mother, widen, and I see surprise all over her face. “What are you—I thought you . . .”

She peers up at me, a frown settling between her thick brows.

“Rhyson, why are you still here?”

Truth? Lie? Okay, split the difference.

“Well, after I used the bathroom,” I say, leading with the lie and easing into the truth. “I saw your class starting and hung back to watch. Looked like fun.”

The frown doesn’t disappear completely, but she does add a tiny smile.

“So you want to learn some of those moves after all?”

“Oh, no. I’m not doing that . . . what was that roll thing you did with your . . .”

“Body roll. It’s easy. You could totally do it.”

She demonstrates, starting the move at her neck and pouring it over her chest and hips and down the rest of her. I focus on everything from Brussels sprouts to global warming to keep my dick down.

“You overestimate both my ability and my desire to roll my body,” I manage to say.

“You’re probably right.” She grins and glances at her phone again, moving toward the exit. “Well, I need to run. The next bus comes in a few minutes, and I can’t be late for work.”

“More work?” I keep pace with her, determined not to let her make it to that bus stop. “I seem to remember you working at Grady’s and then me driving you to work here. Now, you’re going to another job?”

“Girl’s gotta eat and live indoors.” The smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes sits firmly on her mouth. “I need to run.”

“Hey, how about I take you?” I say casually. “I mean, I stayed. I’m here. Might as well. Where do you need to go?”

Her hesitation makes me hold my breath. Why does it matter so much to me? There are literally a dozen girls I could have tonight. I could swing by Wood. Some groupies would be hanging on while an artist is in the booth. I could hit it. Quit it. Zip and roll. But this one scrambles my brain. I haven’t thought about another girl since I saw Kai last night at Grady’s. I want a little more time, mostly just to sort out what this is. I’m sure it will pass, but it hasn’t yet.

She looks up at me from under these long-as-hell lashes, trapping her bottom lip between her teeth and toying with the end of the braid hanging over her shoulder.

Nah. Kidney stones pass. This girl, I’ll have to work out of my system.

“Okay.” Her face looks less convinced than what she says. “You familiar with The Note?”

“That place off Magnolia?”

“Yeah. That’s my next job. My last for the day.”

Once I’ve opened her door and then settled into the driver’s seat, we’re off. The clock is ticking. I have to tell her that I want to see her again.

Tell me I’m performing on Fallon, no problem. Number one album in the country? Unfazed. But this? Unfamiliar territory. I want to know her, and I can’t remember ever feeling like this before, responding to anyone like this before, so it’s freaking me the fuck out. Next thing I know, I’ll be sliding her a note that says check yes, no, or maybe.

I have to say something.

“So how does a half-white, half-Korean girl from the backwoods of Georgia learn to dance like that?”

Yeah, that’s actually what I came up with. I seem to find inventive ways to insult her every time I open my mouth.

“I just meant that, you . . . well—”

“I know what you meant.” She laughs a little and gives a “Wow, this guy” raise of her eyebrows.

“I’m really not that much of an idiot,” I assure her. “I’ve seen
So You Think You Can Dance.
I know everybody’s dancing now.”

Her face is half puzzled, half amused. She’s still not sure how to take me. It takes a while.

“That was a joke,” I say. “Apparently not a good one.”

“Oh, so you haven’t seen
So You Think You Can Dance
?”

“I’ve seen a commercial for it, and from what I could tell, it was a veritable rainbow of contestants.”

Finally we smile at the same time, on the same page.

“I used to get that question a lot, actually,” she says. “I’ve always loved to dance, and I took every class I could get into. It didn’t matter what kind as long as it made me a better dancer. The good ones were a thirty-minute drive one way. My mom drove me every day between shifts at her diner.”