Off Balance (Forbidden Goals #5)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

I hate this.

I hate fancy people and fancy clothes. Especially if I'm expected to also wear said fancy clothes. I hate that I've obviously outgrown the waistband on these ridiculous suit pants, which only serves to remind me how much work I have ahead of me to get back in shape.

"Quit fidgeting," Dwayne hisses, elbowing me in the side while we wait for the bartender to pour our drinks. I reach for my wallet, ready to pay out the nose for the good stuff they're serving at this well-to-do event, but she shakes her head and winks as she passes me the glasses. Her eyes trace over my too-tight suit before glancing at me seductively through her eyelashes. Her perfectly white, straight teeth peek out between red painted lips. I watch them move as she tells us to enjoy the show. Her gaze lingers as Dwayne pulls me away from the bar.

"Don't even think about it, little brother," he mutters as we make our way through the crowd that is filtering their way to the theater.

"Think about what?" I say, looking down at him pointedly and reminding him which one of us is "little". He's only eleven months older than me, and I'm a good five inches taller and have probably eighty pounds on his thinner figure.

"It might have been a while since we've gone out together, but I remember how you can be. If I don't stop you now, I'll find you in the coat room later. The last thing we need right now is a tabloid scandal."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I say as I chance a look over my shoulder to see if she's still watching us. She's turned her attention towards another guest, passing them flutes of champagne with a wide smile. She's definitely attractive.A little tussle in a coat room might make me feel better about being forced to come to the ballet and get side-eyed by a bunch of stuffy rich snobs.

When I turn back to Dwayne, he's got one eyebrow raised over an unimpressed facial expression. When he makes that face, he looks like our mom. He takes after her, with softer features that make him seem friendly and approachable. I, on the other hand, favor our father, who always reminded me of The Hulk when we were growing up. Even when in the best mood, he was hard and intimidating. Like him, I have to school my facial expressions to not seem like I'm perpetually angry. The scar across the bridge of my nose, the reminder of the injury that took me out of fighting almost ten years ago, doesn't help. Still, I never had any issues attracting the ladies.

"You realize the drinks were free, right? She wasn't flirting with you." It's my turn to raise an eyebrow. "Okay, she was definitely flirting with you. But behave yourself. I don't want to embarrass Cameron or get him into any trouble." He doesn't break his hard gaze until I lift my hands in surrender.

"I'll be a good boy, daddy. I promise."

The usher who takes our tickets flushes at my words, and I fight to keep an innocent expression. Dwayne runs an exasperated hand over his face and gestures for the usher to lead the way.

"Oh, wow. Great seats," Dwayne remarks as the usher leads us to a box at the side of the theater. We're sitting close to the stage, close enough that I can hear shouts and voices coming from behind the heavy curtain.

The seats fill, and a hushed silence fills the room as the lights go down. Everyone watches the stage expectantly, but nothing happens for several minutes. The curtain hiding the stage from view sways once, as if someone or something disturbed it, but it remains in place. I've never been to a ballet before, so I don't know what to expect, but judging by the audience's reaction, this isn't normal. A hushed whisper grows into a low murmur. Several people stand or flag ushers over, gesturing unhappily as they inquire about the wait.

Dwayne leans over the banister, trying to overhear what's going on. When he sits back up, he shrugs. "I hope everything's okay."

Slouching back in my seat, I finish off my scotch while thumbing through the playbill. The leads have photos and bios next to their character listings. I snort a little at the headshot for the lead male dancer.

"What?" Dwayne asks, amused. He leans towards me to see what I'm looking at.

"This guy looks like a douche." Honestly, they all look douchey, but this guy takes the cake. He's looking away from the camera, but it's very clear he knows it's looking at him. He couldn't look stiffer and more posed if he tried. His black hair is gelled to perfection in a preppy, vintage part. It's his facial expression that makes me automatically dislike him, though. It bleeds arrogance, with his long, straight nose in the air and an affected attitude of being better than everyone else. His bio reads like a pampered prince who thinks very highly of himself.

Dwayne makes a sound of agreement. "Oh, that guy. Cameron's told me about him. Real piece of work. According to him, he's incredibly rude and treats everyone around him like scum. The company lets him get away with it, though, because he's apparently incredibly talented."

"We'll see about that," I say.

"Look," Dwayne says proudly, "here's our boy." He flips over the pages of my playbill towards the smaller cast members.

There's no picture or bio, but my brother’s new stepson’s name, Cameron Rae Stevens, is listed in bold as one of the secondary cast members. Dwayne beams, and I can't help but smile back at him. He's been married to Cora for just under a year, but he's been desperately in love with her since the first day he met her almost three years ago. She was the one that encouraged him to finally open his own boxing gym.

I've met Cora a few times, but I've heard very little about my brother's stepson outside of Dwayne's struggle to connect with the standoffish boy. My brother has gone above and beyond to help and encourage Cameron to follow his dreams, but can't seem to find a way to bridge the gap to a semi-friendly relationship.

Finally, the lights blink a few times before the theater plunges back into complete darkness. Everyone rushes back to their seats. Quiet applause breaks out as the curtain rises over a dark and empty stage.

The music is slow and somber, building with the slowly brightening lights that cast streaks of deep orange and pink across the stage. In the very center of the stage, a figure is bent low to the ground, curled around themselves. The dancer unfurls their body as the music and light grow stronger. I think the music and light are supposed to be waking the dancer, but it almost feels as if it’s the other way around. Like the whole world has been asleep until this otherworldly looking young man stretched his body and welcomed the artificial day.

I'm immediately transfixed.

I hear Dwayne gasp and mutter in disbelief as the dancer makes his first turn towards the audience, but I can't tear my eyes away to see what's distracted him. I can't tear my eyes away from the man on stage.

It's as if the music and slow pulsing lights are coming from him, controlled by the movements of his lithe body.I am likewise controlled by every extension and stretch of his willowy frame, finding myself leaning in whichever direction his body moves. I’ve never seen anything as graceful as his limbs, seeming to extend from his soul rather than the center of his body, where his taut abs ripple.

Knees pressed against the banister, I'm at the edge of my seat to attempt to get closer. I hungrily take in each inch of skin and tight muscle on display. The nude tights he's wearing leave very little to the imagination, and I wonder if he's meant to look naked. My fingertips tingle and blood rises to just below my skin, making me feel flushed and dizzy. I hold my breath with each contortion, spin, and leap. I can't even hear the music anymore. He's dancing to the rhythm of my heart beating. Or maybe my heart is beating to the rhythm of his dance.

As his solo ends and he folds himself down again, my eyes strain to keep him in view as the stage plummets into darkness again. I don't know how long the solo was, but I feel like I've both been here forever and for nowhere near long enough. My chest is moving with his rapid breaths from the exertion of the routine, and I'm sweating through my stifling suit jacket. When I can barely make out his form anymore, I press closer to the banister, wanting to reach out and wrap my hands around him. I don't want him to go. I don't ever want to stop watching him move the way he does.

A small choking sound escapes my throat when the lights come back on and he's gone. Another dancer sweeps across the floor, a beautiful woman in a flowy dress. She's graceful and talented, but it's nothing compared to the phenomenon I just watched. Nothing compared to the way?—

My breath hitches again. He's back.

This time he's dancing with the woman, lifting and supporting her as a cast of other dancers moves around them. It’s clear that his role in this particular dance is to support and draw eyes to his partner. But, again, my eyes are locked on him. I see nothing but him.

The sinewy ropes of muscle that flex whenever he lifts his partner into the air make my mouth fill up with saliva. One long, graceful limb reaches in my general direction, and I catch myself reaching out as if I could touch him from where I'm sitting. I'm actually nearly out of my seat when the curtain lowers for intermission, only brought back down to earth when the lights in the box go up and loud applause breaks through my brain fog.

I slump into my seat.

"Cora isn't going to believe…"

I don't process whatever it is Dwayne is saying. My heart is still beating too fast.

"I'm surprised how into this you are," Dwayne says, giving me a perplexed look. "I thought for sure you'd be asleep by now. Are you alright?”

"Huh?" I wipe sweat from my brow.

Christ. Why am I so sweaty?

I need air.

Standing quickly, I excuse myself to the restroom. There's an actual bathroom attendant standing like a sentry near the sinks, and a sitting area that confuses me. The stalls are more like lavish little rooms that belong on a yacht or something. I can't hear anything through the walls or door, only light music filtering in through a small speaker. I recognize the music as the opening song from the ballet, and I sway on my feet. Taking a moment to breathe, I rest my forehead on the textured wallpaper and squeeze my eyes shut.

What the hell is wrong with me? I don't even like ballet. Or classical music. Or really any type of theater in general. But this is different somehow.

The dancer was…. intriguing. Beautiful in a way I've never seen before. Something about the way his body moved made my veins dance. Like the blood in them was memorizing the movements so I could follow him more closely.

All the same blood that is currently pooling in the worst place possible. Why the actual fuck am I hard?

My chest is tight. Fuck.

Dear God, please don’t let me have a heart attack with a boner in public.

The lights blink slowly, letting us know it's almost time for the show to start again. How long have I been in here? I haven't even pissed yet, but I'm not sure I can without making a mess in this pristine bathroom. I'm also not sure I can walk out of here like this, but what else am I supposed to do? I'm not about to drop my pants and jerk off when I don't even understand why I'm hard in the first place. I'm more confused than horny, but my body seems to need something my brain hasn't caught up with.

But there's no time for it. I don't want to jerk off in a bathroom with a stranger waiting for me outside, holding all the towels hostage. Would he know what I’d done? More than that, I don't want to be late to get back to my seat. What if I miss him?

Pulling off my suit jacket, I use it to cover my situation and run out of the bathroom. I didn't actually use the restroom, but by the judgmental look the attendant is giving me, I probably still should have stopped to wash my hands. Then again, he'd still be judging me if he saw the raging erection trying to make an escape through my pants. This suit was too tight before, I'm not sure it can stretch any further.

"You alright?" Dwayne asks again, when I throw myself back into my seat and situate my jacket over my lap. His brows are furrowed. "You don't look so good."

"I'm fine," I croak, turning my attention back towards the stage as the lights dim again.

I manage to survive the second half of the ballet, although by the time it's over I'm worried I might need to see a doctor. My workouts have increased significantly since I agreed to this stupid comeback match, and yeah, I've grown a bit soft. But I'm not this out of shape. There is zero reason I should be sweating through my suit and breathing so heavily.

I'm ready to make a beeline for the exit, but Dwayne calls me back.

"Hold up, Dom. We can't skip the meet and greet now!"

He says it enthusiastically, like it's obvious, but I don’t understand what changed about our initial plans to leave directly after the show. He'd mentioned certain ticket holders can attend a meet and greet with cocktails after the show, but that Cameron wouldn't be there since it's typically only the principals and main cast that people want to shmooze with. And I don't shmooze, so I forgot all about it.

Shit. Did he notice my confusing reaction to the male lead? It'd be just like my brother to notice my weird behavior and do everything in his power to give me shit about it.

But…

This means I have a chance to see him again. Closer—but not too close. Just close enough to hear what his voice sounds like. To see his body up close. Will he still be in those tights? Or will he have time to get dressed? I can't decide if I hope he's dressed or if I want to see his body up close at all. I mean, I definitely want to see his body up close. But I'm not sure that's a good idea given my already uncomfortable predicament. I've got my cock pulled up under my already torturous waistband, and my jacket hanging over my arm in front of me. But what if I?—

What the hell am I even thinking about?! Where is my mind right now? Since when do I fall over myself thinking about anyone this way, much less a guy?

I grew up in Atlanta and I’ve lived most of my adult life in Las Vegas, so it’s not like I’ve been sheltered from the gay community. I’m very aware that sexuality is a spectrum, and I’ve met people from all walks of life. But not once have I ever considered a man this way. Not even by men as pretty as this young dancer.

Maybe I’m coming down with something. It’s the only explanation for my ridiculous, confusing head space. And the sweat. Yeah, that’s it. I’m sick. I shouldn’t stay and risk getting anyone else sick if it could be contagious.

But before I can steer Dwayne back to the exit and make excuses, we're already entering the lobby. Servers are walking around with trays of champagne and bites of food so small even an entire tray wouldn't be enough to satisfy one of these ballerinas with waists smaller than my arm.

I try to hang back, wanting to scout the room before I end up getting too close to the dancer. I don't know what's gotten into me or what I'm feeling, but I have a feeling I shouldn't engage. For multiple reasons. It’s best I stay far, far away.

Prickles break out along the back of my neck, and I look up at the stairs that descend into the lavish space. Applause breaks out as four people come out to stand along the top banister. My dancer —ahem—the male dancer, next to his partner, and two men on either side of them.

He's still wearing the tights, but he's wearing a snug black t-shirt with it now. I'm close enough to make out more of his features. It's definitely not the same guy from the douchey headshot in the playbill. This guy has glowing skin that is somehow tan and pale at the same time, dark blonde hair that's short on the sides and longer on top, pushed back off his forehead with either water, sweat, or gel, I don't know. I can't tell what color his eyes are from here, but they're glowing with happiness. He looks overwhelmed with happiness, despite the nervous way he scans the crowd. His joy radiates through the room in pulses that reach all the way back to where I'm standing. It's warm and thick like honey, and tastes just as sweet.

His partner takes his arm, and they walk down the steps together, stopping at a landing halfway down and beaming at the crowd below them. They take a bow together, and then the man spins the woman gracefully so she can do a more intricate curtsy.

Dwayne taps my shoulder. "Take some pictures. You'll be better able to get some good shots above everyone's heads."

I don't ask any questions, just pull my phone from my pocket. Once the camera app is opened, I zoom in to get a closer look at the dancers. At him. At his high cheekbones and the delicate bridge of his nose. At his full mouth and gleaming white teeth that aren't perfectly straight, but give his smile character. His cheeks are flushed, likely from the exertion of the show but also clearly from the pure joy radiating out of him. I take far too many photos before remembering there's someone next to him, and then make sure to incorporate some shots of her with him. She kisses his cheek, and I put the camera down.

The other two men descend the stairs as the stars of the show start to make their way down to the crowd. One of the men, wearing all black to match the shiny black hair pulled back in a low ponytail, catches the male dancer's hand before he can make it off the stairs, and pulls him back up to the landing. He reaches for two glasses of champagne, handing one to the dancer, then raising his own. The crowd hushes to hear his toast.

"Thank you, everyone, for coming to the De Pointe Elite production of Gloire Du Matin . I am, of course, Emile Alistar."

He gives a slight bow to the light applause that breaks out overhearing his name. He must be important. I don't like the way he's gripping the dancer's shoulder, as if holding him in place. Like he owns him.

"This production has been a labor of love from the moment of its inception, when a tiny seedling was planted as I watched the sunrise from the balcony of my chateau overlooking the French Riviera."

Jesus, he sounds pompous, his nasally accent getting thicker as he goes on. I tune him out, watching his fingers flex around the dancer’s wrist. I start paying attention again when he takes the dancer's hand and holds it up delicately, like he’s showing off a pretty trophy. The pretty part is right, at least.

"Tonight, you all saw more than just another incroyable Alistar production rise, but you have also witnessed the birth of De Pointe Elite 's new star, Cameron. He was magnifique, no ?"

Applause breaks out, even louder than the applause for the producer himself. He deserves the recognition. He was truly amazing. The dancer— Cameron —blushes and gives a slight bow of his head in thanks. So humble. I wonder if anyone else notices the expectant rise of Emile Alistar’s brows before Cameron straightens, a tight-lipped smile on his face. He does a small twirl under his arm before giving a bow with more flourish.

Wait. Cameron?

I tear my eyes from the way Emile Alistar is guiding Cameron to look this way and that for pictures and look at my brother, then back at Cameron. He raises a glass for a toast that I don't entirely hear. I'm too busy reeling at the look of pride twinkling in his eyes over his stepson's success.

His stepson.

My nephew? Step-nephew?

Fuck.

I down several glasses of champagne before Cameron and Emile finally make it over to us. I've not taken my eyes off them for more than a few seconds, noticing the way Emile keeps Cameron on his arm, guiding him to speak to the right people. A few times Cameron gestures to a certain person or group, but Alistar keeps him on task, meeting and greeting people who act like they are old friends of his. I slowly watch Cameron’s eyes dull as he’s paraded through the crowd like a prize show-pony. Every time I notice one of Alistar’s heavily ringed fingers caress over Cameron's hand, shoulder, arm, or waist, I wish I was throwing back shots of something stronger than bubbles.

Eventually, they’re close enough for Cameron to notice us. He gives me a quick glance while Alistar chats with yet another overdressed old white couple dripping in wealth. His eyes lock on mine for barely a beat before darting away. He must feel my glare, because he chances another look beneath his eyelashes. His cheeks darken the slightest amount, and more blood leaves my brain to migrate south.

Cameron then does a double take at the man standing next to me.

"Dwayne!" Cameron gasps as if in shock to see him here.

He excuses himself from the people they were chatting with, ignoring when Alistar attempts to pull him back. For some reason, it puts a self-satisfied smile on my face.

Cameron walks closer, and then, after an awkward beat, he steps forward and gives Dwayne a light hug. The entire time, his eyes dart around like he's not sure if he's doing it right. Wide, pale eyes bounce to me and then back to his stepdad.

"I didn't realize you were coming," Cameron says, keeping his wide, manufactured smile plastered to his face as he steps back from Dwayne. He continues to cut his eyes towards me, but keeps his attention on my brother.

Dwayne smiles kindly, and if I didn't know him as well as I do, I might miss his slight wince at the awkwardness between them. "Well, your mother hates she's missing opening night, but I wasn't going to miss it if I could help it.”

“And… you bought tickets? To opening night? Box seats?” I’m not sure what he’s insinuating. Dwayne has done well for himself and could easily live a lot more lavishly than he does. Is he surprised by the money my brother obviously spent on the tickets, or that he’s here at all?

“Of course we did, son.”

Cameron’s eyes flatten at the words, a closed-off look replacing his astonishment at having seen his stepfather here. Dwayne cringes, likely also noticing the chill in the air, and pulls me in closer. He must think introducing me will help overshadow whatever that painful little moment was about.

“And it gave me a chance to drag Dom here out of his cave and into civilized society."

Cameron looks directly into my eyes now. I can't decide if they're mostly green or amber, but they're so light they make his thick eyelashes look darker than the natural brown of his roots. He must have bleached his hair or something, because the length of his shiny hair is almost blond.

"Dom?"

Either I'm having a stroke, or the entire room slows down when he says my name. I watch his mouth form the word, hear his smooth, sultry voice bend it to his will the way he made the music bend to him while dancing. I imagine I can feel his soft breath across my skin.

"Uh, yeah. That's Uncle Dom to you, I suppose," Dwayne cuts in, probably trying to make up for my lack of response to the introduction. He thumps my back a little too forcefully. "This is my brother, Domenick. He just moved back to town. Dom, meet your new nephew, Cameron."

Cameron swallows, and I follow the movement, mimicking it, except my throat is too dry despite my mouth being full of too much saliva. What the actual fuck is happening to me?

"It's, uh, nice to meet you?"

The way he says it sounds more like a question than a statement, but I can't blame him for being put off by my weird behavior. I don't even know who I am right now. But my brain is enamored by the sound of his voice, the delicate curve of his neck, the movement of his sinewy, graceful arm as he tentatively extends it for a handshake. I stare at his long, manicured fingers for too long before shaking myself out of it enough to accept the gesture, enveloping his much smaller hand in my bearish grip.

Fuck . His hand is so soft. I trace the tendons that run up from his fingers to his arm, examining his posture. My eyes get stuck on the proprietary hand that Alistar places on his shoulder, fingers digging into Cameron’s skin as he comes to stand by his side again. His grip looks tight enough that I imagine pink imprints left behind from his touch. And I don't like that at all. My own grip closes tighter around Cameron's hand, but even in my moment of anger, I don't squeeze him. I'm hyper-aware of my size compared to his, how easy it could be to hurt him. To mark him. To break him. The thought has me loosening my grip even though I don't want to.

My brother elbows me in the ribs lightly. Cameron's hand gives a little squeeze. My gaze snaps back up to his, and I blink rapidly at his wide, questioning eyes.

"Sorry," I mutter, clearing my throat and reluctantly releasing his hand. "Sorry," I repeat, in a more normal tone. I put on a fake smile that could rival Cameron's. "I think I got a little star-struck there for a minute. You were…breathtaking."

"Oh, are you a fan of the ballet, then?" Alistar asks in his pompous tone.

"No," I say honestly, not sparing a glance at him.

Cameron's features soften, and he graces me with a warm smile. A real one. I can see the amusement dancing behind his pale irises.They’re hazel, but they can’t decide if they’re more green than light brown. A meadow of clover drowning in amber honey.

Breathtaking was an apt word to use, considering I don't think I took a breath the entire time he was on stage. And now, standing in front of him, the smile he gives me takes the air right from my lungs.

He's…

There aren't words for it. He's perfect. Beautiful, obviously. But his mere presence is effervescent, the way I'd imagine being around an angel would be like.

Before I'm quite aware of what's happening, the pompous asshole is guiding the angel away from me. I watch them get swallowed by a crowd of ass kissers who are kissing the wrong ass.

"Oh, Emile, he's just lovely. Truly well done," an older woman says to him, as if Cameron's talent belongs to him.

My eye twitches. I need to get the fuck out of here.

Dwayne shakes his head and thumps my back as he turns around, quietly apologizing to the couple standing closest to us. They look scandalized, scrambling to clear my path as I make my way towards the exit. I guess I said that out loud?

I'm in my own world the entire way home. I'd barely said anything to Dwayne when we parted ways outside the building, just gave him a one-armed hug and nodded when he mentioned coming over for dinner one night.

Now I'm overthinking the invitation. Will Cameron be there?

The loud voice of my conscience is shouting at me to stay away. To not make things awkward around the few people I have left in my life. Because I'm not sure I can be anywhere near the man I saw tonight and behave normally. Not when every cell in my body is vibrating with the need to get closer to him. To know him. To own him.

Christ, I'm fucked in the head.

He’s Dwayne’s stepson. And he can’t be much older than twenty. He’s barely legal, for fuck’s sake!

He’s supposed to be family. He’s too young. Not to mention he’s a he , although he’s pretty enough to almost forget that minor detail. Too pretty for me, that’s for sure.

No matter how loud the voice is, though, I know without a shadow of a doubt that I'll stop ignoring my brother's invites to any and every family function, dinner, or outing.

Because I have to see him again.

Cameron.