He whips around the room, his body moving in ways I never could.

When the second drop in the music comes, he takes off for this fantastical leap and doesn't quite land right, stumbling and falling into the wall with a curse. For a moment, he closes his eyes and breathes through it. From what I can see on the opposite side of the room, he's in pain.

But he doesn't stop. Instead, he pushes off the wall and keeps going, captivating me completely. I've never seen a man move like that, especially not when he’s covered in ink the way he is. Damn, he’s good, I think, studying him as he pushes through the pain, muscles trembling, forcing his body to bend to his will.

The song comes to an end, and Callum's left bent in half in the center of the room, his breath coming in sharp pants. When he lifts his head up, he looks devastated, staring at himself in the mirror for a long, private moment while I try to figure out what it is that he wants from me.

“You're a beautiful dancer,” I say, and he laughs at me. It's not a nice laugh either. Not at all. I Don't Care by Apocalyptica and Adam Gontier comes on the stereo next, and it feels properly morose.

“I was a beautiful dancer,” he says, limping over to the stool and sitting down heavily on it. His jaw clenches, and he leans over like he's hurting. I don't know what to do, so I just stand there and watch him try to get through whatever it is.

“Are you alright?” I ask finally, and Cal nods, lifting his head up, his blue eyes dark.

“I'm fine.”

“How did you know I was watching?” I ask, and he quirks an almost-smile, forcing himself to his feet and exhaling.

“One of my girls asked who the rock star in the hallway was on Monday,” he says, flicking his gaze to my face. “That, and your smell lingers in the hallway.”

“My smell?” I ask as Callum holds out a hand for me to take. I do, and he pulls me into the center of the room, guiding my body with his. Adam's husky voice slips through the speakers in the four corners of the room as Cal walks me in a slow circle, putting my back to his front, and extending my right arm by sliding his fingers along the length of it until our hands curl together.

“You smell like peaches and leather,” he whispers against my ear, his rough voice breaking a bit. Cal pulls away from me and encourages me to spin, slipping an arm around my waist and yanking me close again. I can feel his heartbeat against my chest as he moves us back a few steps, our slippers brushing against the shiny wood floor.

I can't stop staring at his face, at this mixture of elation and desperate agony.

“Why are you so angry?” I ask him as he turns me in another circle and then dips me. I have no idea what I'm doing, but it's not hard to follow the smooth, easy cadence of his movements. It's like the music speaks to him in secret words I'll never be able to understand, and he translates that mystical language with his body.

The song ends, the last notes echoing around the room, and then the power shuts off.

“Fuck,” Callum murmurs as I freeze in his arms. “The building manager hasn't been paying the electricity bill on time, so sometimes we get blackouts.”

He steps back from me and walks a tight circle around my sweating form. I yank the scrunchie off my wrist and throw my white-blond and pink hair up into a high pony.

“Do you know what first position is?” he asks, and I shrug.

“Vaguely.” I put my body into what I think the right position is, and Callum steps forward to make some corrections, his hands gentle as he guides my arms into place and slides a finger down my spine to encourage me to straighten up.

“Good. Second position?” I shake my head because that's as far as my knowledge goes, and even then, it's only from watching movies and TV shows with vague references to dance. Callum shows me what to do by taking the position and waiting for me to imitate it before he moves over to correct me, gently putting one of his shiny black ballet slippers between my legs and encouraging me to spread them apart a bit more.

Our eyes meet, and my throat gets tight.

“You think I'm angry?” he asks finally, and I nod.

“It's in every movement you make,” I tell him, and he nods, stepping behind me so that he makes a shadow in the mirror. The only light in the room comes from a dusty skylight up above our heads, and even then, dusk is approaching quickly. Speaking of, I really should get going … “It's like you both hate and love dance at the same time, like it's the air you breathe but also the poison that’s slowly killing you.”

“Mm. Third position.” Callum takes up the pose, and I copy him. Again, he steps forward to correct me, getting too close, touching me too softly. I can't believe this is the same guy who chucked hot coffee in a football player's face and then punched him in front of two dozen Fuller High students. “Do you know why that prick called me Prima the other day?” he asks, like he can read my mind, his velvety voice making me shiver.

I shake my head, and Cal sighs heavily.

“I used to think dance would get me out of here,” he says, and even though it's too dark to see his facial expression, I can feel his emotions in his words. I don't need to ask where here is, exactly. I know he doesn't mean just Springfield, but … poverty. Darkness. Violence. Hate. Abuse. Everything.

He puts his hands on my shoulders, and I shiver, closing my eyes and holding third position with shaking arms. I'm no good at this. But I don't think that was the point. He's showing me his world, and it's a world you can't explain with words.

He readjusts my arms and feet for me, and each place his hands touch leaves a mark that I can just feel when I close my eyes, like bright spots of light in the blackness behind my lids. He stretches out my arm, smirking a bit when my breasts brush against his chest. I don’t exactly have a dancer’s body myself. Too busty, too curvy.

“I don't see why it can't be?” I ask, and Cal laughs again, a dry sound that makes me shiver again. I open my eyes, and find that some cloud cover's moved over, blotting out all the light. We're standing in total darkness now.

“When I was fifteen,” he says, moving my body again. I let him manipulate me and find some sort of comfort in it. For a moment there, I don't have to think or wonder what I should do, what my next move will be. I just exist. It's beautiful. “I made the mistake of sleeping with my dance partner.” He pushes down on my arms until they're relaxed by my sides. “Her boyfriend and his buddies kicked the shit out of me. They broke my left ankle, shattered my kneecap, fucked up my spine. I can't dance for long without hurting. And there are just some things I can't do anymore …” He trails off, lost in dark memories. “Not only that, but the recovery time put me so far behind. What a way to lose my virginity, huh?”

“What did you do?” I ask, because I know that Callum was already part of Havoc in ninth grade. They'd just formed their little gang, but they were small-time back then. Not so much anymore. I can't imagine they didn't seek revenge.

“I almost killed the ringleader,” he says, his voice cracking slightly. “Vic stopped me. If he hadn't, I'd probably be in prison for murder. But he taught me how to get revenge the right way—without getting caught.” Callum steps away from me and moves over to his bag, lifting his phone out and turning it on again. He sets it on top of the stereo and the light plays strange shadows across his face. “You did good, coming to Havoc.”