Slave to the Rhythm (The Rhythm #1)

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  I turned to walk back inside, but I was surprised to see that Ash had followed me out and was leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette.

  I hated smoking. I’d made Collin quit on our second date, although I’m not sure I’d have that sort of influence now.

  “How can you smoke?” I glared at him. “You’re a dancer for God’s sake!”

  He shrugged and winked at me.

  “Isn’t there anything you like that isn’t good for you?”

  Playful Ash was back in the building. I was happy to see him, but he wasn’t getting off the hook that easily.

  “Where did you get it?” I frowned.

  “Some woman,” he mumbled around the cigarette, sucking hard then blowing a long plume of smoke into the night air.

  “Of course,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “Why ‘of course’?” he asked, grinning at me.

  “Like you don’t know!” I scoffed. “One smile and I bet she was putty in your hands.”

  He smiled and leaned closer, holding the cigarette away from me.

  “Does it work on you?”

  Oh boy, did it ever!

  “I’m immune,” I said, lifting my chin. “I have a boyfriend.”

  Ash scowled. “You’re back with the prick.”

  “Stop calling him that!”

  “Douche? Asshole? Fucktard? Hey, do you know any words starting with ‘q’?”

  He danced away as I tried to punch his shoulder.

  “Stop being a jerk!”

  “I already did ‘j’,” he grinned at me.

  Happy Ash was adorable, even if he was being a pain in the butt.

  I put my hands on my hips.

  “Apologize! Right now!”

  Ash put his hands together in a prayer, the cigarette dangling from his pouty lips.

  “Sorry,” he grinned.

  I stomped inside and took a much needed drink of beer, letting it cool me down. Ash stopped to talk to a woman with dyed red hair. He seemed to be thanking her, so I guessed that she was the one who’d given him the cigarette.

  I really didn’t need to worry about him—he could probably get everything he needed from random women. But then I remembered the broken look on his face, blood on his back, when he’d yelled at me to get out of that bathroom in Vegas. The dread on his face as we drove up to the police station, the despair and exhaustion when he’d finished.

  Ash caught up with me and grabbed my hand.

  “Dance with me, Laney.”

  “What? Here?”

  I glanced around, panicked, and noticed that two couples had edged onto the tiny dance floor and were gyrating to the fast music.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” he asked, hauling me toward the dance floor.

  “I . . . I . . . I don’t like dancing.”

  Ash stared at me.

  “But . . . everyone likes to dance.”

  I chuckled at his shocked expression. “Um, nope. Not me.”

  He gave me a knowing look and pulled both my hands around his neck until our bodies were pressing together. He pushed one firm thigh between my legs, then leaned down, his smoky breath warm against my cheek.

  “Don’t worry. Even if you can’t dance, when you’re with me, you won’t look bad.”

  Conceited ass! He’d totally called me on my complete inability to clap my hands in rhythm, let alone dance.

  His wrists rested on my hips, and he used his whole body to control my movements. The beat of the music pulled me under, the warmth of his hands, the glow of contentment in his eyes as we moved together. For the first time in my life, I was dancing and enjoying it.

  “Relax,” he whispered. “You’re dancing like you have a broom up your ass.”

  A laugh exploded out of me. “You’re so rude!”

  He grinned. “Yeah? But it worked, see?” And he rotated his hips, forcing me to move with him.

  I glanced down at our joined bodies and saw the crotch of his pants jump—just enough that I noticed.

  My cheeks heated up and I couldn’t look him in the face, but I danced. I danced my uptight little ass off. And I loved it.

  But then I thought of Collin and what he’d say if he saw us like this, my breasts pushing in Ash’s chest, his hands low on my hips. My movements slowed and I rubbed my forehead: it was going to be a long few weeks.

  Ash pushed my hands from my head and started massaging my temples, his long fingers sweeping gentle circles over my flushed skin. Then he spun me around so my back was pressed against his hard chest, and his hands slid down my neck, his strong thumbs digging into tight muscles, making me groan.

  “Oh my God! You have great hands.”

  The words were out of my mouth before I realized what I’d said. I thought Ash would make some joke, saying he already knew, but when I squinted up at him, his face was serious, a small crease between his eyebrows as he concentrated on his work.

  “Your muscles are really tight,” he said, a chastising tone in his voice. “You should get a massage. I think it would help you.”

  I sighed as his thumbs dug in deeper, just this side of painful.

  “I do sometimes, but I can’t as often as I’d like on my income.”

  Ash pulled out all the money Angela had given him and tucked it into my purse.

  “Enough for a massage,” he murmured.

  “Ash, no!”

  He pretended not to hear me, so I pulled the money out of my purse and stuffed it into his hands, stepping back so he had to accept it.

  “That’s emergency money for you! Not so I can schlep off and get massages!”

  “Then I’ll do it,” he offered. “I’ve learned a lot about sore muscles over the years,” and he laughed lightly. “More than I want.”

  It sounded wonderful, but . . .

  “Let me, Laney,” he said, his voice low and full of emotion. “I have nothing else to give you.”

  “Ash . . .”

  “Please.”

  I couldn’t say no to him.

  I’d drunk more than I realized, probably trying to make up for the edge of anxiety that had been there with Angela’s presence, because when I moved away from him, I wobbled. Ash helped me into my coat, draped his arm around my shoulders, and we walked home like that.

  It was nice. I felt safe.

  But back at the apartment, it was more awkward.

  Ash went to the fridge to get two bottles of water, his jeans tightening over his gorgeous ass. I shook my head. The man couldn’t even bend over to look in my refrigerator without me molesting him with my eyes. How on earth was I going to live with him?

  He passed me the bottle, then shooed me into my room and told me to wear pajamas and lie on my stomach.

  When I was ready, he opened the door and walked in. I was somewhat taken aback when he climbed up onto the bed and straddled me, his thighs pressing against my hips.

  Then he leaned forward and I felt his warm breath on my neck as he reached across my bedside table and squirted body lotion onto his hands.

  With the scent of Wild Hyacinth in the air, his fingers dug into my muscles. Damn, that felt good! He really knew what he was doing.

  I kept telling myself that it wasn’t erotic—but the hell it was! His hands slid under my pajama top, massaging my bare skin. I was totally turned on, but forced myself to ignore such inappropriate feelings. I have a boyfriend, I chanted silently. I have a boyfriend.

  For half an hour, he massaged my neck, shoulders, back, arms and legs, until I was a pile of mush beneath his clever fingers.

  I vaguely felt his lips brush against my hair as he covered me with my quilt. I was asleep in seconds.

  I woke with a raging thirst shortly after midnight. I’d only had a few beers, not enough to give a normal person a hangover, but my body didn’t seem to respond to anything normally.

  I tiptoed into the living room to get a couple of cookies from the kitchen, so I didn’t have to take ibuprofen on an empty stomach. I noti
ced that Ash had left the drapes open and it gave me a chance to study his beautiful face, younger and softer in sleep.

  But he wasn’t asleep, and I froze.

  He was stretched out on the couch, his bare chest almost luminous in the glow of the street lamps.

  One hand rested on his chest, but the other . . .

  The thin sheet was pushed down to his thighs and he was stroking himself. His long fingers that had massaged me so thoroughly earlier in the evening were firmly grasping his hard dick and working it up and down, his thumb sweeping over the wide head. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open, and his breaths were quick and shallow.

  I knew I should turn around and go, leaving him alone in this very private moment, not watching like some creepy voyeur. But I couldn’t. I was mesmerized by the sight of him pleasuring himself, his hand moving faster, his firm chest rising and falling rapidly.

  He muttered something in his own language, and I could tell by the tightness in his face that he was close. And God, if it wasn’t the hottest thing I’d ever seen. I could feel my own arousal as I watched, drinking it all in, imagining far more than I should—imagining him with me. In me.

  His hips started to jerk and then he came, pearly liquid coating his stomach.

  And he called out my name, his eyes open, fixed on mine.

  Embarrassed, humiliated at being caught ogling, I gasped an apology and ran back to my room, forgetting my thirst and pounding head.

  The last sight I had was of his intense eyes following me, his dick still dark in color, resting against his hard stomach.

  Ash

  She ran from the room like a frightened rabbit. She’d been watching me, I know she had. If she was so shocked that I was jerking off, why hadn’t she left the room right away?

  I grabbed the shirt I’d been wearing and cleaned myself off, tucking my spent dick away.

  Part of me was glad she’d seen—seen me as a man, not just as some fucking victim that she had to feel sorry for, but another part of me regretted it. There was a good chance she’d kick me out in the morning.

  It took a while to fall asleep after that, but when I did, instead of nightmares, I heard music in my head and dreamed of Laney.

  In the morning, I knew she was still embarrassed because she took forever to leave her room. I was desperate for a piss, and seriously considering using the kitchen sink if she didn’t hurry up.

  But she finally shuffled into the living room, muttered ‘Morning’ and refused to catch my eye.

  After I’d showered, she was still acting weird.

  “I’m sorry about last night . . .” I began.

  “Oh no, you, um, I’m sorry,” she stuttered.

  “Do you want me to go?”

  Finally, she looked at me.

  “No! Why would you say that?”

  I shrugged. “I make you uncomfortable.”

  “No, you don’t,” she lied, tugging her robe tighter around her body.

  I raised an eyebrow and she blushed a deep red.

  “Honestly, you don’t have to leave,” she said. “I just forgot that the living room is your bedroom at night. I should have knocked or something.”

  “I don’t think I would have answered.”

  Her face was so red now, I couldn’t help wondering how far her blush went.

  “Let’s just forget about it,” she mumbled, turning away and sticking her head in the fridge. “Do you want waffles?”

  “No, thanks. I’m going to go now.”

  She whipped around, a look of distress on her face.

  “You don’t have to go! I said you don’t, and I meant it.”

  “Hey, no! I’d like to stay until . . .” Until what? “A bit longer. I just meant I’m going to see if I can earn some money.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Doing what?”

  I frowned at her. “I can do a lot of things. I can bartend, retail work, construction . . .”

  She rested her hand on my arm. “I meant, because you don’t have ID, a visa.”

  “Oh.” I shrugged. “There’s always someone who’ll pay cash in hand. You worry too much, Laney. I’ll see you later.”

  “Wait!” she called after me, fiddling around in her purse. “This is my address if you get lost, and take this.”

  She held out a twenty-dollar bill.

  “I can’t keep taking your money,” I said sharply.

  She sighed, stepping forward and tucking it into the front pocket of my jeans.

  “It’s yours. I know you put all the emergency money in my purse. You need lunch money and a bus fare. Please, just take it. I’d feel a lot better.”

  “Saving me again, Laney?” I whispered as I walked out the door.

  It wasn’t as easy as I’d hoped. After the fifth construction site asked to see my union card, I was close to giving up. I didn’t even like construction work.

  But as I was walking away, a guy in a hardhat jerked his head at me, showing that he wanted to talk.

  I followed him until we were out of sight of the foreman.

  “Russian? Polish?”

  I shook my head. “Slovenian.”

  “You have any experience?”

  “Yeah, I can do carpentry, plasterboarding, painting, brick-laying, basic plumbing.”

  “Yeah, yeah, good. Go to the building site at West Washburne and South Racine—it’s in University Village. Ask for Viktor.”

  “Thanks, man!”

  “Tell him he owes Bruno twenty bucks as a finder’s fee.”

  I nodded, memorized the address, and set off again.

  The site was an older building that had been a school and was being turned into apartments. I was given a hardhat and a sledgehammer, told not to drop it on my sneakers because there would be no comp, then pointed toward some selective demolition.

  It was boring, tiring and dirty. Clouds of dust rose up from demolished plasterboard, although the other men called it Sheetrock. The dust got in my eyes, my nose, my hair and my clothes. But it felt good to do something that used my muscles. I’d stiffened up after days of sitting and driving. My ribs still hurt from where Oleg had used his fists and the skin on my back burned, but it was better than sitting in Laney’s apartment, letting her spend more money on me.

  As I swung the sledgehammer, I wondered if Gary and Yveta were okay. I hoped that they hadn’t gotten into trouble because of me. There was no reason why they should: it was Laney that Sergei’s men would be looking for. I frowned at the thought.

  I wished I had a way of contacting my friends, but it would be too dangerous—for them and me.

  I swung the sledgehammer, feeling the tug in lazy muscles, and imagined it was Oleg’s ugly face. I imagined his teeth splintering and flying into the air with his blood.

  I swung the sledgehammer and imagined it was Sergei that I was turning into dust, like the fucking vampire he was, sucking the life out of everyone around him.

  “Dude! Take it easy!”

  I lowered the sledgehammer to the ground, breathing hard, and glanced around to see three men watching me with startled expressions.

  “That’s some serious aggression you’re working out there, man,” said a short guy with muscles like a bodybuilder.

  “Just hoping to get rehired tomorrow,” I said, which wasn’t a total lie.

  He raised his eyebrows, told me it was lunch break, and they walked off.

  Five hours later, my eyebrows white from drywall dust, my face gray, I headed back to Laney’s. I looked like shit and my muscles were screaming, but I had fifty dollars in my pocket and I felt like a king.

  When Laney buzzed me up and opened the apartment’s front door, her mouth fell open.

  “What happened? You look like you’ve been rolling in flour!”

  “Got a job. Just as a laborer, but they want me back tomorrow.”

  I pulled out the money and tucked it into her jeans pocket, just like she’d done with me this morning.

  Laney laughed and pretended t
o slap my shoulder as I danced out of the way.

  Then her face fell as she pulled out the five ten-dollar bills.

  “Oh my God! Fifty dollars for working all day! That’s slave labor!”

  Anger roared hot and sudden inside me.

  “Yes, I’m a slave!” I yelled at her. “I was a slave in Las Vegas and I’m a slave now. People don’t care how their houses are built, and wives don’t care who cleans their homes, or that girls are bought to sleep with their husbands, and no one cares that men like Volkov are businessmen in the daylight. We come here and we fall into the darkness. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right? Nothing is mine! Not even my name. I am nothing! No one!”

  I grabbed the money from her and tossed it into the air before I stormed out, slamming the door so hard that the whole building shook.

  I heard her calling after me, but I ran down the stairs, too angry to wait for the elevator.

  I was fifty meters down the street, when I heard her cry out in pain.

  Panicked, afraid of what I might see, I sprinted back, dodging evening commuters hurrying home in the icy air.

  Laney was lying at the bottom of the steep stairs in front of her apartment, shivering in a thin t-shirt and holding her right leg with both hands.

  I skidded to a halt and crouched down.

  “My ankle,” she cried, tears clinging to the corners of her eyes.

  I lifted her into my arms and cradled her against my chest.

  “I’m sorry! God, I’m so sorry.”

  She didn’t answer, only nestled her head and wrapped her arms around my neck, shivering from cold and pain.

  I carried her into the apartment and laid her on the couch. I started to push up her right pants leg, but she winced.

  “Don’t.”

  “Let me see, Laney.”

  “No, these jeans are too tight. You can’t . . . just help me into the bedroom, please.”

  She started to stand, but cried out, and I picked her up again, carrying her to the bed, laying her down carefully.

  “I . . . I need to take my jeans off.”

  “Okay.”

  I turned my back while she shuffled out of her jeans, whimpering softly.

  Her ankle was swelling and guilt flooded me.