I tried to sit up straighter, but my body protested, locking me into a painful, lopsided position. The minutes ticked past and Ash was still standing by the road, but now his head was tipped back and he was staring up at the sky.
The early morning mist cleared and the sun painted the landscape in grays and browns that slowly turned to reds and golds as the sun rose higher. I was horrified to see that the back of Ash’s t-shirt was stained—dark patches that could only be dried blood.
Finally, he turned and walked back to the car, his face shifting as he realized that I was awake and watching him.
We stared at each other awkwardly.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” he said at last.
“You didn’t.”
He shrugged then winced.
“The road ahead divides so I didn’t know which way to go.”
If there was another reason why he’d stopped, he wasn’t admitting to it.
I pulled out my phone, then grimaced. Dead as a dodo. The battery must have died during the night and I could picture the place in my hotel room where I’d left the charger.
Sighing, I shoved it back in my purse and went through the glove box to find the rental agency’s road map.
“From here, we get on the I-70. That takes us to Denver.”
“Den-ver.” Ash rolled the word around on his tongue and looked at me blankly. “Okay.”
“Are you alright to drive? You look . . . tired.”
“I can drive.”
I nodded although his reply hadn’t convinced me.
“I, uh, I need to find a bathroom,” I said uncomfortably.
Ash’s forehead creased with concern. “Of course. I’m sorry.”
“No, no, that’s fine. I just . . . I can’t . . . out here, you know?”
Ash gave me a thin smile. “Much easier for a man.”
“Yes, just point and aim.”
I’d spoken without thinking, but the realization that Ash had probably done exactly that, touching himself, made my cheeks burn with embarrassment.
“I’m sorry!”
But Ash smiled, one corner of his mouth turning up briefly.
“We have seen too much, I think, to be embarrassed with each other.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, but my memory flashed to Ash’s naked body suspended between the two thugs, his blood dripping onto the floor.
“I should call Dad,” I said, blinking rapidly.
“It’s very early,” Ash commented.
I looked at the car’s dashboard clock. It was 5:47AM.
“He’ll be awake now. Chicago is in a different time zone. I need to get to a phone—mine is dead.”
“What will you tell him?”
I looked up and met Ash’s eyes. I realized that they were lighter than I’d thought, hazel rather than chocolate—and very beautiful. I stuttered out my reply.
“Everything.”
Ash nodded but didn’t speak. He winced slightly as he climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key to start the engine.
As we pulled out onto the road again, I glanced at him.
“You got sick.”
Ash’s shoulders stiffened. “Yes.”
He didn’t want to talk about whatever had caused it. I didn’t mention it again.
We drove another forty minutes and my bathroom needs became pressing. My bladder was so distended, I’d crossed my arms, legs and eyes. Luckily, my meds had kicked in and moving wasn’t quite so painful. When we approached a diner, Ash pulled over and parked.
Without being reminded, he lifted my wheelchair from the trunk and brought it to the door. Slowly, I eased myself into the chair, flopping down with a sigh as Ash bent down to fold out the footplates.
Something so simple took so much effort.
But I couldn’t help smiling as I saw Ash tugging the borrowed sweatpants lower on his hips, trying to make it so they weren’t flapping around his ankles. He glanced up and caught the amusement in my expression.
“I look ridiculous,” he pouted. “Like a clown.”
I laughed my first real laugh in what seemed like a lifetime.
He certainly wasn’t as put-together as usual. Dark scruff lined his cheeks and chin, giving him a rougher appearance, very different from his usual suave self.
His smile was reluctant, but it was there.
Then he shivered, and I wished I’d thought to get him something warmer to wear other than a thin t-shirt. We’d have to find a store soon.
He pushed me into the diner, and I watched the server’s hard expression soften as she took in the wheelchair. Yep, there was the look: pity.
Ash took me as far as the bathroom door, then hesitated.
“Can you . . . ?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine,” I said quickly, pushing the door open with my chair.
God, the relief when I was finally able to let go. I decided the pleasure of peeing in a toilet that flushed was seriously underrated. People should write poems about it.
Ash was still waiting for me when I came out. I’d expected him to be sitting with a coffee in his hand by now, but instead he pushed me to a table in the corner, then slid into the seat catty-corner to me.
He toyed with the greasy menu and shot an embarrassed look in my direction, although he didn’t meet my eyes.
“Order whatever you want,” I said quickly, as if it was nothing.
Ash closed the menu and crossed his arms, staring out the window. “I’m not hungry. Thank you.”
“Listen,” I said, leaning forward in my chair and resting my hand on his elbow so he would look at me. “It’s a long way to Chicago and I’m counting on you. I can’t drive when I’m like this. I need you, so please eat. Okay?”
He looked up, his eyes roving across my face, then he nodded once.
His agreement might have been reluctant, but when the server brought the plate of bacon, eggs and pancakes that I ordered for him, Ash ate hungrily.
My stomach felt tender—too many drugs on an empty stomach. I ate as much as I could, then pushed my plate away.
Ash’s eyes followed it, but he didn’t say anything.
“Perhaps you can finish it?” I suggested. “It’s a shame to waste it.”
Ash seemed torn, but then gave in to his hunger and pushed the leftover food onto his plate and finished every bite.
I wondered how he stayed so fit if he ate like that all of the time. If I so much as looked at a pancake, I wound up seeing it and its twin on my hips the next day. It wasn’t fair.
Then I thought of what Ash had been through. No, life definitely wasn’t fair.
Ash drove for the next eight hours. The road began to climb and the sky became a crystalline blue, the temperature dropping with every mile we traveled.
We didn’t talk much, just listening to the radio, letting the miles flow past, each minute taking us further away from those vile people. I began to feel safer, maybe feel a little hopeful for Ash who was largely silent. Even though I dozed in a haze of meds and tiredness, I would have killed for the chance to lie on a soft bed.
We finally pulled in at a Super 8 not far from Denver.
Ash was almost sleepwalking and I was, well, whatever the equivalent is when you’re in a wheelchair.
Like two zombies, only recently reanimated, Ash trudged into the motel, pushing me slowly. The good news was that they had a room free; the bad news, there was only one, so we’d have to share.
I was so tired, I was beyond caring, and Ash didn’t look as if he could have walked another step.
He opened the door to our room and we stared at the comfortable king size. There was no couch.
Ash opened his mouth to speak, but I waved away any objection he might throw at me.
“I don’t care. I just want to sleep.”
Ash nodded wearily in agreement and tossed my bag onto one side of the bed and collapsed face down on the other.
Seconds later, his breathing evened out, and his soft lips parted, re
laxed in a deep sleep. He hadn’t even taken off his shoes.
I hesitated, then wheeled myself forward, carefully untying his laces and gently easing off first one shoe, then the other. Ash murmured something I couldn’t understand, his long fingers twitching restlessly, then finally lay still.
Relieved that I hadn’t woken him, I made my way to the bathroom. A shower would be wonderful, but too difficult. Instead, I made do with washing my face and brushing my teeth.
As I wheeled myself back to the bedroom, I gazed down at Ash’s sleeping body. He looked younger, despite the dark scruff on his face. Something about his peacefulness seemed young. Maybe sleep erased all the ugly things he’d suffered, if only for a few hours.
Then I noticed goosebumps pebbling his arms. I would never be able to pull the quilt from under his heavy body without waking him, so instead I wheeled myself to the closet, sighing as I saw the spare blanket I wanted, folded out of reach.
Instead, I shrugged out of my jacket and laid it over his shoulders. It was the best I could do.
With some difficulty, I shed my jeans and fished around under my t-shirt to unhook my bra. Everything else stayed on.
Then I eased myself into the bed and tried to relax with a strange man next to me. But Ash’s solid warmth was comforting and I drifted into a pain-free sleep.
Ash
MY PULSE SKYROCKETED, startling me awake. Instantly alert, I looked for the threat, but the space around me was quiet. As my heart rate gradually slowed, I felt my body shaking from cold and the violent images of my latest nightmare.
My heart tripped again when I realized that I wasn’t alone in the bed, but then I saw honey-blonde hair on the pillow and her—the pretty girl—the girl in the wheelchair.
I was clutching her denim jacket tightly, still draped over my shoulders. It smelled like her—coconut and something flowery. It was delicate, like her.
The perfect stillness curled through me until the ball of tension in the center of my chest began to loosen.
The nightmare faded slowly and the clarity of daylight highlighted better memories instead. I looked at the girl, woman, really looked at her.
I studied the freckles across her nose and cheeks that she’d hidden with makeup yesterday. Faint lines fanned out from her eyes and bracketed her mouth. Her wrists were narrow, and bony shoulders poked through the material of her t-shirt. But her arms looked strong—probably from pushing the wheelchair.
What had happened to her? An accident, maybe? But she could walk a little, I’d seen her, just very slowly and painfully.
Guilt made my headache worsen. I should have asked her. I’d been so absorbed with my own problems, I’d never tried to find out.
Something else to feel guilty about. Marta, the girl, maybe even Yveta and Gary. Anything could have happened to them by now.
I rubbed my temples, trying to push the throbbing headache away. I was dehydrated: too much coffee, not enough water.
I glanced again at the woman sleeping peacefully next to me.
Laney.
She was pretty. My memory hadn’t been wrong about that. She wasn’t beautiful, not the kind who stood out in a crowd, but now I’d seen her, I couldn’t forget her. I’d known many beautiful women: dancers, friends, girlfriends. Ballroom is a glamorous world—beauty is something you work at. Beautiful lines, great frame, soft hands, flowing movement, whatever the effort. All the glamor is on the outside—inside is hard, hard work.
Most of my girlfriends had been dancers. I’d tried regular girls, but they always got jealous of the amount of time I spent training with my partner; resented the physical closeness and hated watching the sensual dances, especially the rumba.
But dating dancers is hard, too. If the relationship doesn’t work out, the dance partnership usually breaks up, with months or even years of training wasted. That had happened with Jana, my last partner—she was pushing to take it further. From casual dating, she’d jumped to the conclusion that living together was the next step—things I didn’t want. So she dumped me for a guy who was a former world champion twice her age.
It was one of the reasons I’d applied for the Vegas job.
But with Laney, it was her warmth that attracted me, her softness and her strength.
She’d seen me, too. Really seen me—at my worst, at my weakest—and she’d helped me. Saved me.
She was still helping me now.
So brave. So fucking brave.
I sat up cautiously. The skin on my back and ass was blazing with pain—like knives slashing me over and over. I really wanted to shower, but the other woman, the nurse, she’d put bandages on the worst lacerations and I couldn’t reach them.
I grit my teeth, remembering the lashes of the belt, the buckle biting into my flesh, Sergei’s grunts as he jerked off at the same time.
I swallowed back the nausea and the shame. I never wanted to think about it again. Ever. I’d leave it to my nightmares.
Laney had been so brave when it all happened. Jesus, was that only two nights ago? She hadn’t fainted or screamed; she’d planned, made decisions—she’d helped me to escape.
I felt a warm rush of gratitude.
Moving stiffly, I made it to the bathroom for a satisfying piss.
I stared longingly at Laney’s toothbrush but that felt wrong. Instead, I used my finger to clean my teeth, using some of her toothpaste.
God, I really needed to shower, but it would be humiliating having to ask Laney to take off the bandages. I didn’t want to remind her how she’d found me—helpless, destroyed.
But when I walked back into the bedroom, she was sitting up and wiping sleep from her eyes.
“Hi,” I said.
Her eyes widened and she anxiously pulled the sheet higher, but not before I saw the outline of her breasts and hard nipples pressing through her t-shirt. I felt a flare of heat and I had to look away.
“Hi,” she replied quietly, tugging on the sheet again.
I tried to think of something to break the awkward silence, but nothing seemed right. What was I supposed to say to the woman who’d saved my life, a woman I barely knew but had shared my bed?
“I . . .” Nothing came out. I shrugged. “Thank you,” I said at last.
Laney frowned slightly. “What for?”
For saving my life. For saving me from everything that fucked up sadist wanted to do to me. Thank you for trusting me.
But I didn’t say any of that. Instead I nodded at her denim jacket, folded on the corner of the bed where I’d left it.
“Thank you for your jacket.”
She smiled softly. “You’re welcome.”
We continued to stare at each other until I gestured toward Laney’s wheelchair.
“Do you need help?”
“No, I can manage, thank you,” she said. “I actually feel better today, so that should make things easier—a bit quicker, too.”
She laughed, but it sounded forced.
It was my turn to frown. “You don’t use it always?”
“No. Not that often really. Just when I have a bad flare-up.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
It was a full five seconds before I realized how bad that sounded.
Laney arched one eyebrow.
“My boyfriend says that liking ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’ is wrong because it’s a show made for adolescents and I’m 29. I disagree—Buffy kicks ass. Is that what you meant, about what’s wrong with me?”
I winced and ducked my head.
“I’m sorry. I just meant . . .”
Laney gave a thin smile. “I know what you meant. And the answer is Rheumatoid Arthritis.”
I knew the second word.
“I thought it was something old people get?” I said, my words hesitant.
I must have still looked clueless because Laney quickly explained.
“You’re thinking of osteoarthritis. Everyone gets it confused. That’s the wear and tear arthritis. Mine, you can get at any age,
from birth if you’re unlucky—or special, you might say,” and she laughed sadly. “It means my joints can become swollen and painful, among other things. Bad days, I need the wheelchair; most times, I’m well enough. Luck of the draw.”
“There are no medicines?”
“Yes and no. It can be controlled, to an extent, but it’s pretty much guess work. There’s no cure.” Laney gave a small smile. “Sometimes the best medicine is to do the things that make you happy, things that remind you that life is good and being alive is the best gift.”
She smiled like she meant it and waved a hand at me.
“Ask: I can see that you have more questions.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the empty wheelchair.
“Have you always had it?”
“RA? Since I was seven. Please don’t say you’re sorry.”
I gave her a quick glance. “You hate that, don’t you?”
“You noticed?” Laney laughed wryly.
I nodded.
“The way you looked at the woman in the diner yesterday—it was a very strong look.”
“Oh dear! I try not to do that,” Laney laughed, her nose crinkling. “Sometimes it just slips out.”
I grinned.
“I know! My father’s friends always look sorry for him, having a dancer for a son. They think it’s . . .” I struggled to think of the word in English. “Effeminate,” I said at last, my smile fading.
I looked at her intently, demanding that she understood.
“I’m not gay.”
Laney’s snorting laugh surprised us both.
“I’m not!” I said defensively. “I tell people that I dance ballroom style and they think I must be gay. Every time!”
“People believe stereotypes because they’re predictable,” she said, shaking her head. “But why ballroom? What first attracted you to it?”
“The Paso,” I said with certainty. “So strong, so masculine—the man versus his own demons, his own weakness, fighting to be brave.”
Laney’s eyebrows shot up. I could see that she’d never thought about it like that, but I think she understood. Not with the same intensity, but she understood.
“Any woman would know from a thousand yards that you’re not gay. You’re just so . . .”
She stopped suddenly and I cocked my head to one side, wanting her to finish the sentence.
Slave to the Rhythm (The Rhythm #1) Page 11