The way he moves, it makes so much more sense now. He floats through life like he's underwater, weightless and fluid. And that dancer's body … well, I guess it really is a dancer's body, huh?

What a beautiful hypocrisy, I think as I watch his scarred, tattooed form move through space like he's commanding it, the black silken shoes on his feet carrying him up to the sky and then grounding him in the same breath. I've been watching the Havoc Boys since second grade, and yet I never knew about any of this.

“Excuse me,” a little girl says, smiling as she scoots past and opens the door to the studio. She's dressed in a plain gray leotard and pink shoes, and I figure she's probably around Heather's age. Callum doesn't stop dancing when she comes in, but he does smile, and gesture for her to start warming up at the barre.

Within a few minutes, there are a dozen little kids in there, stretching and prepping for class. Callum fiddles with the stereo for a minute, dries the sweat from his forehead with a white towel, and then gets to teaching.

The girls run through first position with Cal correcting their form, offering murmured words and gentle adjustments. I should probably leave, but … I check the time and see that I've still got another hour to kill. If I take the bus from here, it'll take ten minutes to get home, tops. I settle in to watch, loving the contrast of Callum, with the ropey muscles in his arms, his ink, his scars … teaching these little girls how to dance.

Something in my chest shifts, and I realize that I know little to nothing about him. Nothing at all. “I felt that way, too, at first. Once you surrender to the dark, it gets easier.” I can't even imagine what he might've been talking about. Clearly, I'm not the only member of Havoc who has unresolved trauma.

After class, the girls (and two awesome little boys) take turns giving Callum hugs, and then slip out of the room, smiling shyly at me as they skip past and head for the locker room.

I consider leaving, but then I realize that Callum's gearing up to dance again, turning on the stereo and moving until his body is trembling and he's soaked in sweat. I notice he keeps putting his hand to his lower back and closing his eyes like he's in pain. At one point, it’s like his ankle gives out and he stumbles, hitting the floor hard and then sitting there with his head hanging down, blond hair covering his eyes.

My heart contracts, and I feel like I'm watching something I shouldn't, so I take off down the hall, grab the bus, and head home.

On Wednesday, Callum takes off for the dance studio again, and I follow him.

This time, he teaches a mixed male/female class of teens around our age. It doesn't escape my attention that every girl in that class—plus a boy or two—are hitting on him. I'm surprised to see him act like a professional, ignoring their advances, and focusing on getting the group to perform a rehearsal that has my jaw dropping.

I don't know much about dance, especially ballet, but as an audience of one, I'm captivated.

The dancers exit the room after class, and one boy pauses to put his hand on my arm.

“Cal wants to see you,” he says, and I feel my throat close up.

Shit.

Caught red-handed.

I slip into the room and find Callum waiting for me, arms crossed over his chest, a slight smile on his face.

“Hello, Bernadette,” he says, watching as I step into the studio, the smell of floor polish and fresh sweat in the air. “Come to see me dance?” he asks, voice neutral but not unpleasant. I shrug my shoulders, glancing at my reflection in the mirror. My leather pants and jacket look so out of place in here. “Take your shoes off,” Cal suggests, turning up the music and grabbing a pair of pink slippers from his bag. He smiles at me, but there's a hint of a challenge there that I can't resist.

“Why not?” I say with a shrug, sitting on the stool in the corner and shedding my boots and socks. Not sure what Cal's planning on doing with me. I'm not completely inept on a dance floor, but I'm certainly not trained for ballet.

Callum moves over to the mirror on the far wall, the one that I've just now realized is the window I was looking out from the other side. No wonder Cal never spotted me through it. He pulls the cord on some curtains, blocking the view of any passers-by in the hallway, and then locks the door.

Part of me wonders if I should be afraid.

But I'm not.

Welcome to the family.

I'm part of Havoc now, and unless the boys are playing some kind of fucked-up long game with me then … No. Not with the way Vic looks at me. No fucking way.

“There's a leotard for you in my bag. You should put it on.” Cal moves across the floor in his black slippers and flips through songs on his phone until he finds one he likes. It ends up being Shatter Me by Lindsey Stirling and Lzzy Hale.

Slipping my jacket off, I move over to the bag and find a plain black leotard waiting for me. I finger the fabric for a moment before turning my back on Callum and slipping my shirt over my head. I'm fully aware that he can see everything, considering there are mirrors both in front of and behind me, but I don't care.

I peel my leather pants down my hips, and then take off my bra and panties.

When I glance over my shoulder, I find Callum leaning one shoulder against the wall, watching me.

He waits until I've pulled the leotard on and parked my ass on the stool before he closes the distance between us, kneeling down and slipping one pink slipper on my foot. It's not a pointe shoe—like I'd even know what to do in a pair—but it has long, pretty ribbons that tie up my calves.

“Traditionally, these wouldn't have ribbons on them,” Cal explains as his fingers tickle the skin on my legs, tracing over one of my tattoos with his thumb. “But every little girl wants to imagine, at least for a moment, that one day she'll be wearing pointe shoes and standing center stage.”

“Have you mistaken me for a little girl?” I ask as he slides his palms down my leg and presses his thumb against the arch of my foot, leaving me, for a brief moment, completely breathless. Callum looks up at me with a cerulean gaze, his blond hair stuck to his sweaty forehead.

Today, he’s wearing a gray zip-up hoodie with the arms torn off. It’s only zipped up about halfway, so I’ve got quite the view of his chest and abs, these chiseled muscles that contract as he presses his fingers into my foot, simultaneously massaging and stretching first one and then the other. It takes a concentrated effort on my part to hold back a groan. I’m not sure if I’ve ever had a foot massage in my entire life.

“Come on,” he says finally, ignoring my question and standing up. He holds out a hand to help me to my feet, and then moves back to the stereo, starting the song over from the beginning.

Cal stands in the center of the room and carefully moves his arms in time to the music, rising up on his toes when the song starts to pick up, Lzzy's voice singing about pirouetting in the dark. Callum follows her softly sung command before moving across the stage and spinning several times, extending one foot, and then looking up at himself in the mirror. He doesn't seem satisfied with what he sees, so when the song picks up even further, he follows along with the pace.

There's a bit of dubstep woven into the pop/classical mix of the song, and when the drop hits, Callum just lets completely loose, taking over the entire room with his energy. What becomes apparent to me as I watch him is that he's dancing from a place of anger.