Page 2 of Allegiant

“Well, it’s paying off.” I grin. “You’re going to knock them all out come opening night.”

I continue chatting with everyone as we make our way backstage. Everyone’s been working so hard, and it’s important to recognize that. Dance culture can be toxic as fuck, but only if the negativity is fed. I won’t allow that to happen at Rhythm Showroom. This is our safe space. My safe space.

I’ll sacrifice anything to keep it that way.

Not like you have anything left to give.

I hide my wince. I hate how true that is. How much I’ve lost. Dance, my life here, it’s all I have left.

I’ll defend it to my last breath.

My chatter doesn’t falter as we strip and change. The hidden darkness in me doesn’t peek from where I’ve stowed it. It’s pushed so deep down, I hope it never makes it to the surface.

Not again.

I weave through the room. “Marcy, did your mom like the oat bars?”

She reaches up to pat my shoulder as I pass. “You didn’t need to make them for her, but thank you.”

I smile. “She’s been sick; it’s the least I can do.”

“That’s Rowan, our resident mother hen,” Clay teases. “Why don’t we get your oat bars?”

His words strike deep. I do like to fuss over others. I like to protect them. To care for them.

No amount of baking can make up for how stunningly I failed the person I cared most about.

I point dramatically at the empty Tupperware dish on the counter. “I literally brought in brownies today. Did you forget already?”

Clay pouts. “Brownies aren’t oat bars.”

“Fine, I’ll make them tomorrow.” I sigh, like it’s a hardship, but I’m smiling as I duck my head. I shouldn’t like being needed as much as I do.

Especially when I’ve proven I can’t be trusted when it matters most.

My smile fades as the darkness threatens. I can’t let it in. I need more distraction. “Meet you at Rounds?”

Assent comes from all corners. I turn to smile at Cam. “You okay with locking up?”

“Sure thing, boss,” he says with a wink.

“Ha.” My smile doesn’t drop even as my stomach sours. “Not the boss yet.”

“You will be soon enough,” Shane says. “He has to make you the manager eventually.”

“He” is Derek, the owner of Rhythm Showroom. The man who’s quick to remind me that while this place might be my home, it’s not mine.

“We’ll see” is all I say in reply before slipping out the back.

If I don’t stop moving, the ghosts can’t catch me.

Rounds is our usual post-dance haunt. Filled with good music, cheap drinks, and enough hot men to keep me distracted.

It’s where I’m happiest—in the center of the dance floor. My body moves in time with the man behind me, but he’s not who holds my attention.

The gorgeous, towering figure trying to blend into the shadows has all of it.

I noticed him the second I stepped away from the bar. He wasn’t easy to miss, despite his attempts to hide. For a start, he’s wearing a thick jacket. In a nightclub.