Page 77 of House of Bass

“The universe is on my side and against this, take it as a sign.”

Annabel shook her head and singsonged , as she entered into the driver’s seat. “I don’t think so. Trust me, there will be more opportunities for it.”

“Absolutely not.”

They had been on the road for less than a minute when a heavy swerve had them both yelping in fear. A car had zoomed past when it wasn’t meant to and had them stumbling. “Watch where you’re fucking going!” Annabel yelled, as she put her head out the window, in a manner that could only be described as road rage.

She looked at Harley, checking on her, “Are you alright? Sorry about that.”

“I’m fine,” Harley replied. Then her eyes narrowed as she scrutinised Annabel who seemed to be her usual self but she couldn’t be sure. She took note of the gum in her mouth, “You haven’t been drinking, have you?”

Annabel’s eyes widened, either in admittance or offense, Harley couldn’t gauge which one. “No way. I just got out of ballet and nobody could drink and dance.”

Something told Harley that maybe Annabel would be the first to disprove that fact.

“Just be careful and don’t drive us off the road,” Harley finally relented, her hand still clutching the door.

Annabel waved her off with a laugh, “Now, who’s the dramatic one?”

29

ST. ANNABEL

The next week is spent with me locked in my dance studio, my favourite room in the house, because otherwise I will let my mind wander into thinking what my father meant by having the situation handled. It worries me, I can’t help but worry.

A part of me feels like he is planning an ambush, forcing me into doing something I’ll hate to clean up his mess for when the truth gets out about Harley. I have already agreed, with little choice in the matter, to work at Astaeris. It is my legacy and birthright.

My phone incessantly rings as I try landing my jumps for the showcase, but each ring takes me out of the dance. Frustrated by the constant bellow, I stop what I’m doing and pick up without checking the caller. “What?”

“Seriously, your lack of manners is getting worse with each passing day,” Arden's deep voice says down the line, and I grumble.

“Oh, it's you. You're just disturbing a very…admittedly unproductive practice.” I lay flat on the floor, happy to have an excuse to rest. I have been going at it for hours with very little breaks.

“What you need is a break.”

“We went to Spain last weekend.”

“A different kind of break, one that could potentially help you become inspired.”

“How?” I say with a hint of trepidation.

“Open your door.”

My brows furrow as I inadvertently walk (sprint) to the front door and yank it open to reveal Arden in a matching cream ensemble, turtleneck and thick tailored trousers, with brown leather gloves in tow. He looks spectacular, straight out of a winter magazine cover.

He lazily checks me out, taking in my sweaty appearance and the stray hairs that have flown out of the bun I had it in. Then his eyes latch onto the silver necklace wrapped around my neck and more importantly its pendant.

When we were younger, him eleven and I nine, he got me the necklace before he left for TCA. Canterbury to me as a child might as well have been the moon, and it was the farthest either of us would ever be apart from the other for such a long period of time. I was so sad. In the days leading up to him leaving, I’d cry whenever I thought about it. Mother and father were sick of me.

Then the day before he left he gave me the necklace. I was bawling my eyes out yet again, laying flat on the floor, all the tears streaking down into a puddle on either side of me. “Saint, I got you a gift.”

My head raised, there was nothing I loved more than gifts and he knew that, “Presents?”

He gave me a nod, “But you have to promise not to cry anymore or I won’t give it.”

“Okay,” I softly said and sat up.

Then he brought out the box from behind him and opened it for me. A necklace and a bracelet, one with a key and the other with a locket. “Want to see what it does?”