Grasping Air (Flipped Book 2) Read online

  “Jesus Christ …” My lungs burn with the tension running through my veins.

  Peyton’s hazel eyes glitter wide in the dimly lit alley. “Thought you didn’t curse.”

  Even now, when I’ve just saved her from breaking her neck, she has to bust my chops. And though a part of me wants to laugh, I’m too angry to see the humor.

  “I’d take a thank you any minute now.” I push off the wall, too close to Peyton to think straight.

  “I told you not to touch me anyway. That was your fault. You can go home now, I’m going back in.” She shrugs my sport coat off her shoulders, letting it fall to the dirty concrete.

  I’m on her, pinning her against the wall, in a second flat.

  My breath comes out in white puffs, mixing with hers, the cold all but forgotten. Our bodies charge the space with insufferable heat, and I feel like a supernova about to explode.

  “You’re still as much of an undeserving brat as you were four years ago. I didn’t even want to come on your little ‘bonding’ activity tonight. Not that you bonded with any one of your teammates. You were too busy flashing your cleavage at any loser who would look. I didn’t have to stay to see that you got home okay, and maybe that was my mistake. I’m a good person; I look out for people, even if I don’t care much for them. Next time I guess I’ll just leave. Let you wander home with some stranger who’s as equally as messed up as you.”

  My voice is quiet in the alley, the sounds of New York invading our space. And even though my tone is calm, I know the rage edging around its corners, the pulsing anger that I could unleash beating just under my skin.

  Peyton is struggling to keep her emotions hidden. Her mouth and cheeks might be full of sass, but I see those eyes. The sadness and need for something in them. “Don’t kid yourself, Jared. You care about me. By staying, you demonstrated just how much.”

  I’m not sure if I want to throttle her or lock her in my bedroom and show her just how much I really do care. But her cocky attitude, the way she’s so sure about herself … it makes me even madder.

  I push off the wall, the heat and contact from Peyton breaking a little bit of her hold on me.

  “Again, my mistake. I won’t try to help again. From now on Peyton, you’re on your own. Truly. Right where you told me you always wanted to be.”

  My feet carry me out of the alley, into the crowded streets of Manhattan. Even at one in the morning the city is alive, sound and noise and light coming out of every corner.

  It’s so not me, but it is the woman I left back in that alley. The woman who still holds my heart in her hand like she owns the beating, bloody organ.

  And even now, even though I promised myself and her that I wouldn’t care anymore, wouldn’t look out for her … I can’t help but worry whether she’ll be okay alone back there.

  I’ll surely break my promise. Because even when I hate her, I care about her. Even when another man’s hands are on her, I want to protect her.

  Peyton Adams is the judge to my gymnast. I just keep performing, working harder and striving further, for her approval … even while I curse her and resent her. Until I either win it, or crash and burn in the process.

  5

  Peyton

  Gymnastics was not a childhood fantasy of mine. I never admired the greats of our sport, didn’t gather around the television when Olympics time came and rooted for my favorite hopeful of that year.

  One day when I was about six years old, I was taken to a class by a friend’s mom and a coach at the gym noticed the talent I could possess. She told me I could be great. It could have been a crock of bullshit, but from that moment on, I pursued gymnastics with a drive and passion that no one on this tour could equal.

  I saw the sport as my ticket out of rural bumblefuck, and anything that could take me out of there was focused on to the nth degree. Within four years, I was winning every major state title in New Hampshire and was two years ahead of the level I should have been on. By the time I turned thirteen, someone high up in the USA Gymnastics organization noticed me, and I was asked to go train at Filipek’s Gymnastics Training Center, or what used to be the greatest gym in the country.

  I took the chance and never looked back. Never felt guilty about leaving my alcoholic, status quo mother. Didn’t even think about what life was like for her now. Not that I knew either. I had barely spoken to her in over nine years.

  And once I got to Filipek’s, my star only rose. My talent increased, catapulting me to places I never thought I could reach. I was winning meet after international meet, the gymnastics community began to chant my name. Sponsors signed me, an agent took me on. I went to the Olympics and achieved every child’s dream, except for my own. Then I’d come home and gone in for another round.

  Only to fail. Miserably.

  I hadn’t even made it to Olympic Trials without Novak Filipek cutting me. And he had every right to, my focus becoming more about the adoration than the sport itself. I’d taken my eyes off the prize, and in one moment, the world of gymnastics had forgotten about me.

  Thinking back to the night I’d been asked to leave Filipek’s, I’d cried more about losing the only source of attention and love I’d ever known than the actual sport of gymnastics. I would never mourn gymnastics, because it wasn’t the most important thing to me.

  Which is why it is so fucking weird to be back in a gym.

  “This place is insane. Everything is top of the line; it’s like Rio all over again. Do you think we’ll get this in every arena we stop at?” Nat looks out over Madison Square Garden from the conference room we sit in.

  Her eyes light with the possibility of swinging and tumbling on that equipment in a matter of minutes. Because that is Natalia Grekov. She loves gymnastics, pure and simple. She would do it even if the world wasn’t watching, worshipping her.

  “Definitely not. This is New York, the best of the best. No way Milwaukee will have this type of equipment.” I take a pretzel, leaning back in the cushy chair.

  “Are you girls listening?” Gail snaps at us, her pale face reddening.

  She’s a nice woman, really she is. Which makes me almost gleeful to make her job harder.

  “Of course, Gail. When you speak, the rest of the world goes silent.” I put on the most innocent expression I can muster.

  Someone chuckles down the table that all twenty of us tour members sit around. Gail just huffs and looks even more displeased.

  “Any way, I was going through your pairings, which will stand for the duration of the tour for all of the boy/girl joint numbers. The last three are Julia and Ryan, Natalia and Duke … and Peyton and Jared.”

  I nearly spit my pretzel out onto the glossy cherry surface. “Excuse me?”

  “There must be a mistake,” Jared says at the same time.

  “No mistake,” Gail peers at me, and I think I see triumph in her beady brown eyes.

  “Shouldn’t I be paired up with Natalia since we are both the reigning Olympic champions?” Jared argues.

  Gail shakes her head. “No. We did some polling in the gymnastics community, and they said they wanted you two paired up. We’re all here to make as much money as possible, and having you two perform together will draw a bigger crowd. Which ultimately means more money.”

  Her voice has a note of finality in it, ending the discussion. I dare to sneak a look at Jared, who’s scowling at me in disgust.

  Fuck. I can’t be paired up with him. Can’t have his hands on me twice a week, maybe more. Every time he gets too close to me, cares too much, I bolt like a wild horse threatened with capture. All I can seem to do is leap and jump to freedom, using anything to make him move away. And more often then not, my freedom is won with harsh, cutting words and inappropriate men.

  “We’ll practice for three hours today, and another three tomorrow. First show is Friday night, and then another on Saturday. By midnight on Saturday I need all of you packed and down by the buses. We’ll leave for Philly at twelve thirty a.m. Any questions?�
�

  The heads around the table all shook, indicating they had no inquiries for Gail. The meeting ended and we went to the locker rooms, women in the home team’s locker room and the men in the visitors. I heard some grumbles from Duke, who wanted to see where the Rangers and Knicks got changed.

  “Bro, you want to sniff their jockstraps or something?” Jared ribbed him as they walked down the hall, and I smiled.

  I hadn’t seen that Jared in a long time. The one who had a hidden sense of humor under all the seriousness. The sarcastic man who could make your sides hurt from laughing with his quick one-liners.

  My heart grimaced, knowing that I was the cause of our fall out. And knowing it was my fault I’d never see that side of him again.

  “That was wrong again! You’re supposed to grab my hips and then toss me, catching my back underneath after I twirl!”

  I’m annoyed. Seriously annoyed. And it takes a lot to get me to this point, because usually I’ll make a caustic remark and let it slide off my back.

  “I’m not an ice dancer! I didn’t sign up for this!” Jared’s naked torso is the only thing making this practice fractionally better.

  Except that it’s the second day of pair practice and he can’t seem to nail any of the simple moves outlined in the choreographed dance routine. I go left and he goes right. He’s supposed to catch me from one of these stupid lifts everyone else seems to be able to do, and he drops me on the floor. Our rhythm is so off, you’d think we were both born with two left feet instead of the God given talent to throw our bodies around wooden bars and four-inch wide pieces of wood raised six feet off the ground.

  Not to mention that I can’t seem to shake the tingles running through my body after having his hands on me.

  “This really isn’t that hard, bro. You’re just thinking too much about it.” Duke pats Jared on the shoulder.

  Jared shrugs his hand off, his body vibrating with tension. “Maybe I just need a new partner. This one isn’t working well.”

  So now he is going to blame it all on me.

  “How two-thousand-twelve of you,” I say under my breath as I pass him. “Duke, can I try with you? You seem to know what you’re doing.”

  “Sure, Peyton.” Duke rubs his equally naked abs, and the move should cause a hundred virgins to faint. But for me, it doesn’t stir even the slightest bit of lust. Which ticks me off.

  Gail counts us down again, me running towards Duke and Natalia running towards Jared. We all launch into the dance and trick number, my body on autopilot, letting Duke take me where I need to go. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jared performing flawlessly with Natalia. It sends a spark through my blood knowing he couldn’t achieve that with me, or vice versa.

  The problem was, at least on my end, that with him I could never shut my brain off. With every other guy, whether it was on tour or not, I could tune out, let my years of practiced flirting and demure suggestions take over. But with Jared, my brain didn’t have an off switch. It was always challenging me, analyzing what I could do better, how I could be better for him.

  With Jared, I was that vulnerable, dirt-poor girl working for scraps all over again. He saw the person inside, the girl I’d tried so hard to cover up, and it scared the living hell out of me. So much so that I couldn’t get a handle on myself whenever he was within fifty feet of me.

  “Beautiful, that was it!” Gail claps from the little metal folding chair she’s been sitting in for the last two hours.

  “So we can switch partners?” Jared’s voice is the definition of hopeful.

  “No! Now that you two know how to do the routine, you’ll surely be able to do it with each other. Remember, the audiences want you two paired up.”

  We both sigh and switch back, Jared and I staring at each other head on like this is some big game of chicken. One of us will eventually have to wimp out, or we’ll collide.

  It’s going to be one long ass tour.

  6

  Peyton

  I suppose if you’re a big sports nut, the fact that we’re standing in the Madison Square Garden home locker room would be some type of holy ground experience.

  But me … I just want my hair to curl right. “It’s too Shirley Temple, not enough Kardashian on a good wig day.”

  The hair stylist huffs at me, but really, this is the first night of the tour. And we’re in New York. I want to look absolutely breathtaking.

  There is also the fact that I’m the only non-Olympian at this tumble party, so I really need to step up my game. And even though I won’t admit it, there are butterflies at the bottom of my stomach, buzzing around and setting off alarm bells like my insides are a game of Operation or something.

  I never was the most solid competition performer. Natalia can go out there and do a standing back full on the balance beam with the ease most people lay down on the couch with. Nothing shakes her and no amount of people watching makes her bat an eye.

  I, on the other hand, get too amped up. The amount of people in an arena or at a meet sometimes gets to my head. I get too cocky, my brain gets ahead of my feet, the adrenaline causes me to crash and burn rather than soar and conquer. That can’t happen tonight.

  This is my ticket back into the spotlight, my last shooting star of hope at leaving the gymnastics world gracefully.

  Somewhere in the back of my brain, another thing I won’t admit to swims around and poisons my best wishes for tonight.

  Jared.

  I want to show him just how good I can still be. Just how amazing I can still look. Just how loved I still am by all of those people planting their butts in seats as this moronic hair stylist drags a Hot Tools one inch barrel through my inky strands.

  “It’s a meet, not a fashion show.” Julia walks by, sleek muscles bunching as she pushes off her calves in a warm up exercise.

  “I don’t know who told you that, but they’re dead wrong. This is a show, a spectacle. It’s the circus and we’re the animals. If you don’t think you need to look absolutely on point every night of this tour, as if it were Paris Fashion Week, you have another thing coming.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t do makeup and hair.”

  “Aren’t you just a peach?” I turn back around and inspect myself in the vanity.

  My eyes are smoky but bright, my cheekbones accentuated and high. My hair, a dozen tiny French braids leading to a ponytailed mass of black curls, finally looks polished but sexy. All of the girls were instructed to don the red, white and blue long sleeve leotards for the opening number of the show. The locker room looks like a disco ball with how much glitter is bouncing around in here.

  “Three minutes to showtime ladies!” Someone yells and then slams the door behind them.

  My heart gallops like a prized horse, nerves and fear rippling through the ventricles. Underneath all of the makeup and hairspray, I’m just that feisty, scared little girl trying to move herself up in the world. Before every competition, images of my mother on her hands and knees, telling me I’d never amount to anything while scrubbing at other people’s piss and shit, float through my head. It’s no different now. If I don’t make them love me—if I don’t cheese it up enough, if I’m not sexy enough, loud enough, daring enough—I’ll be right back where she is.

  Scraping by, a barnacle in this world with no motivation to make it out.

  I’ll never allow that to happen, I’d rather die before I moved back to bumfuck New Hampshire and put on those latex gloves again. It’s worth selling my soul, worth being “on” every last second of the day to impress others. The part of me that is so tired, exhausted to my bones from trying to stay current and at the forefront of people’s minds, wishes I could quit.

  But the other part, the feisty little girl, will never stop.

  “I’m actually really excited!” Anna jumps up and down.

  “This will be fun, and in New York? It’s good luck. Who can forget Trials?” Nat chimes in, rolling her neck and loosening up.

  I can forget Tria
ls. I was in a hotel room here in New York, trying to ignore the muted TV as I put on a skanky minidress and got ready to go clubbing. A sick part of me had made me turn the channel on, made me watch as my friends and peers made their dreams come true.

  “I’m still nervous for the dance number with the guys.” Quinn makes her way to the door, the rest of us following her.

  The pulse of the crowd sitting in the dome above our heads intensifies as we leave the locker room. The tips of my fingers tingle with anticipation.

  “We’ll all be fine. It’s not like this means anything. It’s not a real competition, it’s just fun. You ladies do know how to have fun, right?” I tease, my bare feet hitting the cool tile of the Madison Square Garden hallways.

  “I thought you were showing us how to do that later.” Nat swats my butt.

  “You bet your sweet, toned asses I am. I got us VIP hook ups in any club you might want to go to.” Pride and ego fill me, the one thing I have over these women will be my shiny token that I’ll keep waving around.

  I know how to charm, and I know how to push the envelope. Further. Than. Anyone.

  “And it doesn’t matter that pretty much all of us, besides you and I, are underage?” Julia’s snooty voice irks me.

  “Like I said yesterday, sweet cheeks, it doesn’t matter. Dress any girl up right, a little smoky eye, and the bouncers look the other way. This is New York, honey.”

  She huffs and pulls Nat aside, and I assume it’s not to sing my praises. I could care less. People have judged me for worse. Add it to the dozens of tiny dents in my armor.

  Giant figures loom at the end of the hallway, and I know the men are lined up, ready and waiting to burst from the tunnel and flaunt their abs as the crowd celebrates them. Two of them are in the middle of a handshake, chest bump sort of thing. I can’t help but roll my eyes as we get closer and I notice that it’s Duke and Jared.

  “I didn’t take you as the fraternity brother type, Hargrove.” I sidle up, popping out a hip and twisting a curl around my finger in a move that always has men drooling.