Wounded Dance

by Deanna Roy

  “Won’t that keep you from graduating?”

  “Don’t care. I can make more money selling stolen car parts or doing deliveries for people than anything I’d do with a diploma.”

  I sucked in a breath. “You steal car parts?”

  He laughed. “It’s easy. Especially pricy accessories like custom wheels and light runners. There’s a whole market for those things.”

  “You’re not afraid of getting caught?”

  “I’ve been caught. My friends bail me out. I act all sorry to my juvie officer. I walk.”

  I sat up. “You have a juvie officer?” Now I was prickly for different reasons. This boy was a criminal! “Does Dad know?”

  “Of course he knows. They contacted him and approved the move.” His grin was deadly. “I’m allegedly going all straight now that I have a proper male role model.”

  I settled back down on the chair. “What is it like to steal something?”

  He quirked an eyebrow and my heart sped up again. “It’s a rush,” he said. “The idea of doing it is a tickle, sort of like this.”

  He ran the blade of grass along my shin, and I shivered.

  “And you want to scratch it, to do something really risky and get away with it.” He slid the tendril across my knee. “It’s intense, like riding a wave.”

  The grass moved up my thigh. I was feeling it, for sure, the tiny tender blade sending a prickly charge over my skin, his hand so close I could almost feel it. That heat unfurled in me again, but not in my belly this time. Lower. It was unsettling and strong.

  Denham wasn’t looking at me now, but at the slender piece of grass making its way along my leg. This was crazy, the heat, this boy, his closeness, the caress as he skimmed my body.

  It moved up my thigh, daringly close to dangerous places. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. No one had ever acted like this. Not even in movies. Who was this boy?

  The gravel crunched on the side of the house. Mom’s minivan pulling in. Denham looked up at me, his face devilishly charming. He pulled the blade of grass away. “To be continued,” he said.

  As he walked back into the house, I yanked my swimsuit top back into place, covering my belly. I wanted to go in, but couldn’t yet, rooted to the chair. I closed my eyes and pictured all sorts of things, remembering Denham’s words about the rush, riding the wave, the itch that needed a really intense scratch.

  And his promise. To be continued.

  I shake my head to chase away those thoughts. In the hall of Dreamcatcher Dance Academy, a door opens and a mom comes out with a small crying girl in her arms. She holds the little dancer close. “I’m sorry you fell down,” the mom says and kisses the girl’s knee.

  “I got hurted,” the girl says between gulping sobs.

  “I’m right here,” the mom says. “You’ll be all right.”

  I imagine all the hurts Gwen has kissed away for Gabriella in her four years. Then I picture Denham trying to take her away. What would he teach her, exactly? How to jack up a car and steal its tires? How to get parole?

  I stand up and head over to Studio 2, where Jacob teaches his class. Blitz is inside, doing a dramatic spin for the kids. They try to follow his example, and Blitz instructs them in how to adjust. He’s good. Good with the little girls, the energetic boys.

  Good with me.

  I turn to head into one of the empty studios. There’s always one thing I can do to help me through my anxiety and fear.

  Dance.

  Chapter 11

  Wednesday is our free day. No class to teach. No class to take.

  Sometimes Blitz and I work out here at the hotel. Other times we head to Dreamcatcher to practice.

  Today we hang out in bed well past our usual time. Blitz holds me close, the sheer silks draped along the frame keeping the outside world away.

  I’ve learned to sleep naked, as that is what Blitz prefers for himself. His skin is heavenly against mine. I feel safe and warm and protected.

  He strokes my hair. “What should we do with this day?” he asks.

  I turn to him. I’m tired of thinking about our struggles. Denham’s green truck parked at the academy. My past. Blitz’s future.

  “I just want to spend it with you,” I say.

  His hand pushes my hair back from my forehead. “Every day with you is a miracle,” he says.

  I feel the same.

  His lips meet mine. I’ve grown comfortable lying next to him. Gone is my shyness or insecurity. It’s dim in the room, the hotel’s blackout curtains keeping the day away, so I break the kiss to get up and slide the heavy fabric aside.

  Light floods in, illuminating the bed.

  I turn to Blitz. He’s lying there on top of the sheets, his lean dancer’s body exposed. I am too, my black hair falling down my back.

  “You are gorgeous,” he says. “I could lie here and stare at you all day.”

  “You’re quite the picture yourself,” I say. I push aside the silks to crawl back onto the pure white bedding.

  “You cannot do that,” Blitz growls. “I cannot resist you when you come at me that way.”

  I lean down to nip a little bite near his ribs. “Who says you have to?”

  He groans and closes his eyes. He’s so erect, so close to me. I bite my way down those abs that make women swoon on his dance show. Then I’ve got him, tasting him, making him grab the sheets with both hands.

  “Jesus, Livia,” he says.

  I feel hot and needy. My hands make their way up his thighs, taut and strong, dancer’s legs. He shudders a little, and I know I’m taking him close to the edge. So I release him and work my way back up his body.

  “I’m going to take you so hard,” he says, his hands on my waist.

  I giggle as he flips me over on my back. My hair is everywhere, and by the time I can move it aside, his face is at my thighs, his fingers spreading me wide.

  I suck in a breath, moved by the work he is doing. Now it’s my turn to clutch the sheets.

  My hips move with him, and his hands slide up to massage my breasts. When I am just about to peak, he drifts away. I can feel his smile as he nips his way up my belly. “Turnabout’s fair play,” he whispers.

  I groan and grasp his head in my hands. “Take me right now, Benjamin Castillo,” I say. “Or I’ll do a Burn Blitz Burn Tweet that will go so viral, it will make Twitter history.”

  He laughs. “You have me by the tail, Princess.”

  “Not yet,” I say.

  “Oh yeah?” he taunts. “How about this?”

  In one swift thrust, he’s inside. I gasp and clutch at him. “Blitz,” I say, then completely forget what else I had planned to say.

  He works me over, his face above mine, his rhythm fast and hard. “Livia,” he says. “You know what I want from you.”

  I do know. I close my eyes, lost in the sensation. He moves with grace and speed, and my body responds, hungry and eager.

  His fingers move between us. My back arches. I can’t take it. I need this. I want it. Before I can make another coherent thought, I’m over the top, crying out. Bliss kisses me, moving fast, keeping up, then he holds still.

  “What?” I ask him.

  “Is it time?” he asks.

  I know what he means. The pill. Our safe zone.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “It’s been long enough.”

  He only has to move a moment more and I feel it, and want to laugh, giddy. The warm rush of him inside me, emptying himself into me. We’ve never been so free, so close, so able to connect.

  He drops his forehead to my shoulder. “God, Livia,” he says. “That’s…so wild.”

  I hold on to his shoulders. “I know.”

  “I actually haven’t ever done that.”

  I go still. “Really?”

  “Too…risky.”

  I think about all his paternity suits. Those poor women. What were they thinking if he hadn’t even…wow. It wasn’t possible.

  “I’m glad,” I say. “I get at lea
st one first with you.”

  He shakes his head against my neck. “Not true. There are others.”

  I run my fingers through his hair. “What else, then?”

  He lifts up and gazes into my eyes. “I haven’t told anyone else I loved them,” he says.

  I scrunch my eyes at him. “Um, season one, episode six,” I say. “I believe her name was Rebekka? With two k’s.”

  He groans. “The producers made me,” he says. “That doesn’t count.”

  I wrap my arms around his neck. “I believe you,” I say. “And I’m glad that I’m the first for both things.”

  He kisses my forehead. “I know what we should do today,” he says.

  “More of this?” I ask, gesturing to our bodies.

  “Well, yeah,” he says. “But I want you more independent. Let’s get you driving.”

  “A car?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says. “A car.”

  I let out a rush of air. “Okay, but I’m not sure San Antonio is ready for me to be behind a wheel.”

  Blitz laughs. “If the city can handle me, it can handle you.”

  And that’s how, a few hours later, we end up at the huge empty parking lot of the Alamodome.

  Blitz sits beside me in the passenger seat in the rented Mazda. I look over all the dials and controls. It’s overwhelming.

  “It’s easy,” Blitz says. “Cars today are nothing. They practically drive themselves.”

  My hands grip the leather circle in front of me. Despite having tons of space all around me, row after empty row, I can’t quite bring myself to move. I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of Blitz. It’s been a really long time since I even thought about trying this.

  “So let’s go over some basics,” Blitz says. “This is the gear shift. D is for drive. R is for reverse. You don’t have to worry about all these other ones right now.”

  “What is N?”

  Blitz laughs. “N is for never use that.”

  My face heats up. “Why shouldn’t I use it?”

  “It self-destructs.”

  “Blitz!” I try to move the lever to D but it won’t go. “Why doesn’t it work?”

  “You have to use the Force.”

  “Blitz!”

  “Okay, okay. First put your foot on the brake. It’s the wide pedal in the middle.”

  I try to look down there, but my legs are in the way. When I lift my foot and spread my knees to try to see, Blitz says, “Now that’s a position I like to see in a car.”

  “Blitz, I’m going to hire some handsome instructor if you don’t help me.”

  He tries to control his laughter and holds up his hands. “Okay. I’ll do better. I promise.”

  I spot the wide pedal and put my foot down on it. It pushes in an eerily cushioned way, like I’m squishing something with it. “That’s gross,” I say.

  “The brake pedal?”

  “Never mind. The other one is the gas, right?”

  “Yes. It makes you move.”

  “Okay. Wide one brake, skinny one gas. Should I push them both at once?”

  “No, no, always use your right foot for everything. You don’t ever want to push them both.”

  “Or I’ll self-destruct?” I toss him a saucy expression.

  “Let’s go with that,” Blitz says. “So put your right foot on the brake, then use your right hand to push in the little button on the side of the gear and move it into drive.”

  I follow his instructions. But I’m so nervous my foot slips off the brake and I hit the other pedal. We shoot forward.

  I jerk my foot back. Now my foot isn’t on any pedal, but we’re still moving forward.

  “I’m not hitting the gas!” I say. “Why are we going?”

  Blitz tries to look relaxed but he’s clutching his seat belt. “You need to hit the brake now. Gently, though, don’t slam it.”

  I lean down to look for the pedal again.

  “Eyes on the road!” Blitz says.

  “It’s too much to do!” I say. We’re still inching across the pavement, aiming for a pole with a parking lot marker at the top.

  “You can do it,” Blitz says. “Use your foot to feel for it.”

  I move my foot again and manage to hit the gas, shooting us forward.

  “Forget the pedals for a minute,” Blitz says. His voice is calmer now. “Just turn the wheel to the right.”

  I turn it. It is tighter than I thought it would be and moves slowly. I expected it to spin like a bicycle tire. We shift to the side of the pole.

  Blitz lets out a sigh. “Let’s just do this a moment. Feet off the pedals and turn the wheel so you can get a feel for how the car moves.”

  We putter around for a while, me moving the wheel one direction or the other. Blitz settles back in his seat.

  “Okay, now feel for the pedals but don’t push one or the other down. Just find them with your right foot.”

  I move my foot around. “I have the brake,” I say.

  “Gently push it down.”

  I press my foot on it and we glide to a stop.

  “I did it!” I say. I lean over to give Blitz a hug, but my foot slips off and we start moving forward again.

  This freaks me out so I stomp on the brake. This time we slam to a stop.

  “That works too,” Blitz says.

  “I need a break,” I say. “How do I make this thing stop moving?”

  “Put the gear in park,” he says.

  I shift the lever. This time when I take my foot off the brake, we stay still. I let out a sigh. “This is stressful,” I say.

  “Wait until you get into rush hour traffic,” he says.

  “Never,” I say. “I’ll take taxis.”

  We look out over the empty concrete. The sun is bright and Blitz’s face is a frown.

  “I know my driving is not what is making you so tense. What’s wrong?” I ask.

  Blitz stares out his side window, his face turned away. “I’m going to have to go back and forth between LA a few times in the next week or two. I have a meeting about the show, and a court date Jeff thinks I should attend in person.”

  “Should I go?”

  “You can, absolutely,” he says. “But you’ll miss a lot of wheelchair classes and Gabriella’s private lessons.”

  I frown. I don’t want to do that. Plus, I’m trying to get in shape for more pointe work in ballet.

  “I can’t let her down,” I say. “We’re just getting started.”

  “I also want you to be more independent,” Blitz says. “We should go to the DMV and get your driving permit soon. But I’ll leave a car and driver for you to get to dance. I’ll make sure he seconds as a bodyguard since your ex is stalking the academy.”

  “How long will you be gone?” I ask.

  “Just one night this time. I’m minimizing everything. But if you go with me, you will miss both a private lesson and your own dance class.”

  “It’s just one night, I guess,” I say.

  “Our first night apart since you barged on to my show,” he says. “I don’t like it. Particularly with lover boy around.”

  “He won’t even know I’m there,” I say. “We snuck in easily enough yesterday.”

  “We did. I’d feel better if Danika knew.” He takes my hand off the steering wheel and brings my fingers to his lips.

  “It’s hard for me to tell her.”

  “I know.”

  He holds my hand in both of his. We sit for a while in the sun-warmed car. What would Danika think of me if she knew about Gabriella? She has a lot of power as director of the academy. She could take me out of the class, end the private lesson, insist we tell Gwen that I’m the birth mother. Anything.

  I can’t do that. Can’t risk it.

  I pull my hand from Blitz and put the car back into drive. I have to be strong. Brave. Independent. Driving is a good first step. I’ll get my license. Be able to get myself around. Maybe I’ll confront Denham on my own, without the threat of Blitz mak
ing him act crazy.

  My foot eases off the brake. This time, instead of just puttering slowly, I carefully press the gas. We don’t shoot forward, but gradually accelerate. I circle around one of the poles and head across the lot again, this time trying to follow the lines rather than shooting aimlessly across them.

  I haven’t told Blitz this, and I don’t plan to, but I did have a driving lesson once before. In Texas, you can get your driving permit at age fifteen to prepare you for a license at sixteen. So as my fifteenth birthday approached, Denham took it upon himself to teach me how to drive.

  It was several weeks after his arrival, past the sunbathing, the fence work, and the blade of grass up my thigh. We hadn’t gotten much time alone. On this night, Mom and Dad were watching television, and Andy was already in bed. School would start in a week.

  While we were all sitting in the living room, a commercial came on for some driving school and Dad scoffed at the price.

  “When it’s time for Livia to learn, I’ll teach her myself,” he said.

  Denham’s head popped up. “I already have my license,” he said. “I can show her some basics.”

  “You have to be eighteen, I believe,” Mom said from her rocking chair.

  “Let the boy show her a few things,” Dad said. “Take her over to the high school parking lot.” He tossed Denham the keys to his Jeep, the car he had before the Pontiac he drives now.

  Denham’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. “Really? You’ll let me drive it?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Dad said. “You’ve had your license a while and the school is only a mile away. It can’t hurt, right, Dorothy?”

  Mom’s lips were pressed tight, but she nodded.

  “The boy can be useful!” Dad added. He was clearly chuffed that his decision to take in Denham could benefit the family.

  So Denham and I headed out the door. The days were still long, so it wasn’t even dark. We jumped into the Jeep and Denham cranked it up.

  He talked me through the mechanics of driving as we rumbled down the road to the high school. My body fairly bounced with excitement. I was alone with Denham, about to drive for the first time, and at the high school too!

  We pulled into the large lot, and Denham dropped the car into park and got out so we could switch places. As we passed each other at the back, he grabbed my arm. “You nervous?” he asked.