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  HOOKED

  Book 1

  By Claire Adams

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 Claire Adams

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  CHAPTER ONE

  I stood in the shadows of the dance studio, watching the sun as it began its ascent over my side street, Le Moyne Avenue. Six o’clock in the morning. I watched an old man scuttle down the street, a bag of bagels from the local shop on the corner bobbing in his left hand. My stomach rumbled. I stretched my arms high over my head, feeling the taut muscles loosen slowly, aching in the quiet of the morning. Wicker Park, my newly-adopted neighborhood in Chicago, was just waking up. And yet, I’d been awake for an hour, working my way through a few cups of coffee, programming myself for the days ahead. My dance assistant, Melanie, had called earlier that morning to announce she couldn’t attend any of the classes that day; her baby, Carson, had been sick for several days, leaving me on my own in my shadowy studio.

  It was my second year at Molly Says Dance, the dance studio I had begun in those initial months after college, stumbling into wake-up adulthood bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I had studied dance at Butler University, down in Indianapolis, Indiana, but all the months of training, of auditioning, had left me rough, battered. Instead of embarking on a life of touring, of continuous hairspray, I had fled to the city, away from my mother, and toward the light, the vibrancy of the skyscrapers. Lake Michigan shook with such intensity next to this city. It felt like a continuous war between nature and man was eternally at play.

  The high school students would be arriving at seven. Some of the girls, the better ones, took dance from me every day—just an hour and fifteen minutes before rushing off to the school down the road, their ballet shoes tossed into their backpacks and their blush ruffled up on their high cheekbones. They all had such hope for their dance lives, for their careers. None of them ate bagels. After all, like me at their age, they were watching their figure.

  I turned toward the dance studio once more, away from the window, still feeling the warmth in the cup of coffee in my hands. I was wearing my leotard and my tights. I had allowed my hair to drape down my back, curling slightly in that feminine way I always had liked in college, after my ballet bun came spinning down. I tossed my foot out before me, draping it into its stunning, straight, ballet pose. I turned myself in quick rotations, feeling the natural rhythm of my body as it spun, spun, spun back toward the office. I was so centered, so focused. I didn’t spill a lick of my coffee. Pausing before I entered the office to do brief busywork in the moments before my girls arrived, I made eye contact with myself in the mirror. I traced my still-supple, twenty-four-year-old body and nodded. I still had it. I was still okay. If I wanted to be a real dancer—beyond the realms of this 200-square-foot Wicker Park dance studio, the one I could hardly pay rent for month to month —I could. I could be a successful dancer.

  The first girl jangled into the shop. Her bun was high atop her head. I imagined her mother doing it that morning, pulling it tighter and tighter, stretching her daughter’s skin and eyes taut.

  “Ashley,” I called to her, setting my coffee cup down on my desk. “How are you doing?”

  Ashley bowed her head, a little too shy for early morning talk. She let out a small peep—a “good”—and then sauntered to the side of the room where the girls usually put on their shoes together, bringing the laces over their ankles in almost unison. She kept her long eyelashes turned down.

  I wasn’t sure what to do while we waited, so I bent down and turned on the radio. The scratchy voice of the Chicago man burst into the room. “Happy Weekend, listeners,” he said, and I realized, in a flash, that another Saturday had come—and I without plans. (Always, this took me away from myself, back to my college days when a Saturday had been God’s gift.)

  “Are you doing anything fun tonight?” I asked, turning again toward Ashley. Why couldn’t I connect with this girl? What could I do?

  Ashley shrugged her thin shoulders, allowing the awkwardness to filter throughout the air. Drumming my fingers against each other, I finally heard the jangle of the bell as five more ballerinas pushed in, bringing with them the early morning sunshine. It draped across the wooden floor.

  “Ladies!” I called to them, bringing my arms wide, away from my body. “So wonderful. So wonderful.” I always tried to fill myself with the spirit of my old dance instructor. How I had loved her! She had been so thoughtful, so personable. She had invited us all to her house for dinner, often, for team bonding—allowing us to play with her cats on the floor as she played her old dance records, from days when she spun around the room, a man at her back. It was so hard for us to remember it, back then; that our dance teacher had once been a training, beautiful dancer as well. I supposed it was difficult for the girls in my class to think that about me—me at twenty-four! But I didn’t want to admit it to myself.

  The girls pulled their shoes over their thin feet, all in a fit of early-morning blues. I watched their thin white fingers as they tugged at the laces. The radioman had switched to an eighties song, and I began bouncing my feet back and forth, allowing my body to move languidly in front of them. I was loose; I was waking up. “All right, girls,” I said in a chipper voice—so much unlike my own. “Why don’t we start with some brief stretches. Come to the bar.”

  And they did, all in a line—like penguin ballerinas. They stretched their long arms over the bar and pulsed their arms into the air at my command with such control, such finery. All of their stomachs seemed concave and slim. I could see every one of their bones pushing out. I was reminded of chickens.

  The dance class went easily. We made our way through several old classical records—each passed down from my old dance instructor. (She had died the previous year, before noting that I had ultimately failed; her prized ballerina who had made it into Butler University’s ballet program.) The girls’ eyes had slight brightness to them after an approximate half hour on the floor. Their ankles were warm; their skin was peach. They were like flowers, there in the Wicker Park sunlight. And my heart leaped with incredible joy for them, despite the dismal life I led.

  The class lasted two hours. At this time, nine in the morning, I waited a long forty-five minutes in the studio by myself. I filled up my coffee again and again, before the younger children who came only on Saturday morning arrived, their ponytails wagging behind them like dog tails. Younger children, five through seven, had no real control over their bodies. They did their best to follow my lead, but the results were humorous; several young girls, each with their hands stuck straight up in the air, bending at the knees—their knees pointed this way, then that. With only an hour with them—from ten to eleven in the morning—there wasn’t a lot I could do besides smile and laugh, and send them on their way. Generally, they just sang Frozen songs the entire time they were in the studio. I had allowed them to dance to that song— I don’t dare say the title—in their previous spring concert. I had never seen five-year-olds so committed to rehearsal; I’d never seen such great utilization of small girls’ lungs. (I, too, belted the song out a few times, for good measure, longing to be six once more, first disco
vering the joy of spinning in circles before a crowd.)

  Because it was Saturday, I had classes all through the afternoon to the early evening. My last class, from six to seven, featured older women—all of them between fifty and seventy years old. Their postures were bleak; their arms were saggy, showing bits of hidden fat as they lifted them. I ached looking at them, thinking that I would be them ever-so-soon. They were the chattiest of the crowd. If I went over a single minute, someone piped up—noting that I was, of course, the same age as her own daughter and that I didn’t have a whole lot of power. Not really. I knew nothing, and I knew that all too well. So I did my moves before them, and they followed along—if they wanted to.

  They were all in the dance class for mental health as well as physical health. They were looking to better their minds and bodies. Generally, however, when I watched them exit the dance studio and walk down the street—as Wicker Park began its slow descent into nighttime—I felt a sense of sadness; that life was, perhaps, far too hard to allow me to help these older, unhappy women. Only two of them wore wedding rings, while the others sent harsh words through the air about the men who had wronged them.

  My future; was it before me? I supposed I would have to have a man by my side—or truly rooted in my past—to complain about him so readily.

  I started to clean up the dance studio after they left, sweeping with a wide broom. I played music over the loud speaker, dismissing the radio DJ and going right for the hard stuff; Tchaikovsky. His melodies fueled me across the floor, nearly dancing with my broom. I watched myself in the mirror as I spun and pointed my long toes. My arms stretched and twirled above my head. I felt so free, so languid. I laughed to myself, nearly, thinking about how poised and certain I had been when dancing in previous years. Now; here with a broom.

  I needed to begin composing my own stuff again, I knew, if I was ever going to compete in the dance world again. I hadn’t danced on my own, on a stage, since I had graduated from college over two years before. I remembered that day; the way the hot lights had descended over my body, the way the crowd had leaped forward, their hands coming together. I remembered nearly nothing about the performance itself. It was usually better that way. I entered the stage as someone else, and I exited the stage as myself. What happened while I was on that stage was really none of my concern. I had no control.

  I heard loud honks outside the window and turned, shocked to note that it was nearly eight-thirty. My stomach started grumbling beneath my leotard. I realized I hadn’t eaten all day. I started cleaning the final elements of the studio before tossing the broom in the corner, where it would live until next time. I grabbed my fall jacket, so anxious to feel the bright air around my face, to hear the people, the cars.

  Sure enough, Chicago was alive outside the door. I locked the studio and began walking quickly down Le Moyne. It had been so long since I had eaten, I was a bit shaky. Everyone on the street was so vibrant, speaking so quickly. I watched as a young girl ate a lollipop as she walked alongside her father, his hand firmly grasping hers. I noted an older, married couple, each of them wrapped in the same scarf even on the rather sticky September night. My heart warmed with the thought of them, heading back to their apartment; their unique love for Chicago deep in their hearts.

  I had already fallen for Chicago, truly, after my Indiana upbringing. It felt like a different world.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I found my way to a small coffee shop on the corner. The door, wooden, jangled a bell as I opened it. A few people studying in the corner turned toward me, perturbed but also interested. The coffee shop was warm, the environment enticing. My nostrils awoke at the smell of coffee and pressed sandwiches. I tapped toward the cashier, feeling a bit of sweat streak down my nose from the previous, mad dance in the studio. I always felt so self-conscious when I looked like this; long, shaggy yoga pants that caught my butt up, tight—attractive, I thought. (But still, not appropriate for public wear.) I was wearing a V-neck dance shirt, as well, that sported very small, slight sweat stains. I sighed to myself, feeling like a wreck. I would never meet a man looking like this.

  “Can I help you?” the teenager at the counter asked me. His lips were chapped, his eyes earnest. I noted that he was looking at my butt as I leaned toward the list of food options off to the side. I felt sick to my stomach about it.

  I cleared my throat before speaking. “Yeah. I’m starving. Just going to get a late dinner—“ I said, standing up quickly to hide my body from him. “You know, I think I’ll have a tuna melt. That good here?”

  The acned boy nodded vehemently and got to work, slicing a piece of bread and swinging cheese out from the back refrigerator. I called to him, “Oh, and a cup of coffee!”

  My heart had begun to decrease in intensity from the previous day’s many jobs, constant questions, constant stream of excitement. I needed to be high-energy—a perfect dance instructor. I sighed, pawing through my billfold. What I really needed, I knew, was to charge more from each student. But I couldn’t afford to lose anyone. Part of the reason people even came to me was because I was—well—the cheapest in Chicago. But dammit, I was good.

  “Do you have enough?”

  My heart jumped. I raised my chin and looked to my right, where the gruff voice had come from. “Um. Of course I have enough. I’m just—“ I parsed through the bills, most of them ones. “I’m just unorganized.”

  The man laughed good-naturedly, not making me feel strange or off-kilter. He was very attractive, with these stunning teeth—so white beneath his near-smirk. His eyes were dark, enhanced by the shadows of the coffee shop. He wore a black suit and a dark blue tie. He looked suave, sharp. Why the hell was he talking to me?

  “Here you go,“ the coffee shop worker squeaked at me. He looked toward the man. “Oh, yes. What was it you were having again?”

  “So, you help the lady first, huh?” the man asked him slyly.

  The teenaged boy swallowed, unsure of what to say. His eyes searched around the room, hoping for an out. The man had deviated from the script, and the teenaged boy was in the water now. Drowning.

  But the man waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it. I had a turkey panini. Take your time.” His teeth flashed once more, and he began gathering a few ones—nearly ten, I counted—and pushed them into the teenager’s tip jar.

  The boy was flustered at the dramatic tip.

  I nodded at the teenaged boy, giving him an encouraging look, as he passed me my greasy tuna melt and coffee. He tapped at the iPad computer before him (there was always something I missed, really, about hearing that ding ding ding of the cash register), and he gave me my total. I passed the bills off to him, leaving him a substantial tip in the jar as well. The boy’s eyes were bright. He turned quickly toward the panini and started making the sandwich like it was the only thing he had been meant to do his entire life.

  “Good show,” I said to the man next to me, winking at him. What had gotten into me? I so obviously wasn’t in a good state to flirt with anyone. My shirt was sweat-filled; my yoga pants had a milk stain from my morning coffee. I was a sweat-ball, a great big nobody in Wicker Park. I looked outside and noted the beautiful people sauntering by the coffee shop, each with unique dress, unique flair. I imagined this attractive man next to me exiting the coffee shop and having the world at his feet. He could have whomever he wanted.

  I nodded at him, choosing to make my exit.

  I walked toward the window, still wanting to feel the essence of the city as I ate my sandwich. My stomach rumbled as I walked, making the man beside me laugh, even after I had nodded and exited. I watched him as he waited for his own panini. He searched through the large stack of newspapers, from the Chicago Tribune to younger, smaller papers. He shook his head, slowly drinking his coffee.

  Suddenly, his eyes shot up and met with mine. He had caught me staring. Hurriedly, I sent my eyes crashing down to my own sandwich. I had taken so many bites of my pickle without thinking, noting the way my mouth tasted then
; laced with vinegar, horrific. I covered my mouth, horrified.

  “Here you go, sir,” said the teenager at the counter, handing the man his large sandwich. “I gave you an extra cookie, as well.”

  “Well, thank you, maestro,” the man said, nodding his slick chin toward him. “You have a good Saturday night.”

  Then the man stepped toward me. I could feel his shadow as it emanated closer and closer toward my table. He paused, clearing his throat. “You mind if I sit here?” he asked me, motioning toward the stool to my right.

  Covering my mouth, hoping to avoid revealing that ridiculous pickle smell, I sputtered, “Of course you can!” feeling a bit ridiculous. I caught my reflection once more in the window before me. I tossed my still-curled, still luxurious hair this way, then that. I tried not to linger. My feet were itching to leave.

  But something else held me back.

  “So. You look like you just came from exercising?” the man said to me, unwrapping his panini. The smell wafted toward my nose. The peppers and onions emitted such savory wonder.

  “Oh, yeah,” I muttered, looking down at my yoga clothes as if I were surprised. “I just. I got back from a run. Had to fuel up,” I said, waving my free hand around my face. What was I saying? I knew, of course, that oftentimes when I told guys I was a dancer, they became weird about it. Sometimes, they thought it was really sexy; they wanted to learn all of my moves. Other times, however, guys told me it wasn’t a real thing, to be a dancer; that it wasn’t a real sport or a valid pastime. Plus, there was the whole “I failed at it” thing that I never wanted to go into.

  “It was a beautiful day for a run,” the man said to me, his eyes bright. “I went, as well. You go around the Wicker Park, itself?”

  I finished chewing slowly. “Oh, you mean the green space actually called Wicker Park?” I asked him, laughing. “No. I run along the lake.” I lied through my teeth. I considered him for a moment. “You’re not from around here, are you?”