Fuck. I sure hope so.
Chapter Four
Ah-Ri
He’s late.
And I’m annoyed.
He said we should meet at the practice room at six a.m., and I’ve already been here for a half-hour, waiting for everyone else to show up.
Do we even have a group name?
Songs?
Anything?
When’s the debut?
I have so many questions and so much anxiety I want to puke. Instead, I stare at myself in the mirror and truly wonder what part of my brain misfired last night when I said yes.
Other than my parents basically threatening me.
In a loving, albeit figure-yourself-out way.
I take a deep breath. I’m wearing a pair of black leggings, a white crop top, and a long-sleeve red plaid button-up, hanging open in case I get cold—though I’m sure they’re about to put every member through hell.
The door to the practice room opens.
I look up and feel even sicker.
It’s Ryan.
By himself.
I expect everyone else to shuffle in behind him.
They don’t.
This is a problem. Is he going to be cruel with his words again? Is he going to actually play nice? Every insecurity in my arsenal comes flaring back to life, and yet he asked me to be a part of this. Did everyone else turn him down?
“Where is everyone?” I ask.
He drops his bag to the floor and then kicks it toward the wall. “Practicing. Just like us.”
My stomach drops. “Why not with us?”
He won’t meet my eyes. He has his dark hair pulled back from his face and a black Yankees hat on.
In fact, he’s in all black right now.
Black sweats, black shirt, black hat.
Totally gives dancing with the devil a new meaning.
“Because.” He goes over to the sound system and taps away on his iPhone. Music starts pouring through the room.
The beat is fast.
And it starts off right away.
Electric.
Different.
I like it.
It feels fresh.
He sets his phone down. “The plan is to divide and conquer right now. We have next to no time, and no group ever gets this kind of freedom from the label, so we have to prove ourselves worthy of that freedom.”
Something trickles down my spine. “And why exactly are they letting you guys take the lead? That’s not typical. In fact, it’s not just rare, it’s—”
“I know what it is,” Ryan snaps in that smooth voice of his. Damn, it matches his skin, doesn’t it? Perfect perfection wrapped in a grumpy attitude. “And it’s none of your business why. Just say ‘thank you’ and get your ass to work.”
I suddenly realize that he’s speaking in English.
I’ve gotten so used to talking in Korean that I’m confused why he’s switched it up on me.
“Fine,” I say in Korean.
He gives me a funny look but keeps talking as if I haven’t said anything. “We have six singles, all written. Each girl gets a part in each song, and we’re trying to make it even. Haneul choreographed the dance sequences, so they’re not exactly going to be easy.”
“Me, either,” I say, then realize what I just said and backpedal. “I mean that I’m good at dancing, not that I’m easy. My brain didn’t go there. I was just—”
“Stop talking,” he snaps. “It’s embarrassing for both of us.”
He moves to the middle of the room.
I cross my arms in annoyance and get even more annoyed when he shows me the choreography. It’s good. Like really, really good.
And hard.
I hold my head high.
This is it.
My last chance.
And why am I singing Last Dance in my head now?
Ryan rolls his hips and then drops to the wood floor.
My jaw also drops as his hips press against it. He flips around to his back and then jumps up. I’m so entranced that I can’t peel my eyes away from his body.
He’s using the entire floor, completely dominating every inch of space as he moves across it, utterly owning the song and how his body moves.
Sweat trickles down his cheek, sliding past his sculpted jawline and onto his black shirt. He turns to me once the song ends, then pulls off his tee and wipes his face.
My nerves are on fire as I try not to stare at his perfectly lean body, his six-pack—no, wait, is that even six? Seven? Eight?
I put my hands on my hips so he thinks I’m annoyed and unimpressed. In reality, my heart is slamming against my chest so hard it almost hurts to breathe.
“From the top,” he says, tossing his shirt to the floor.
“And here I thought Canadians were supposed to be super nice and polite,” I mutter.
“And here I thought Korean-Americans had something to prove.” He jabs right back where it decimates me.
As if he knows how hard I’ve tried.
And how much I feel like I’ll never fit in.
Maybe it’s all self-sabotage. It’s not like anyone’s been anything but nice to me. Accepting.
They’re my insecurities.
I realize that.
It’s me.
I’m the problem.
I’m the one with the chip on my shoulder because I want to be like everyone else.