Dark of Night

by T. F. Walsh

  If, if, if.

  Blame ate through her like acid. She hadn’t had those sorts of thoughts in a long time, but Curtis opened old wounds that had never properly healed. This was too much baggage all at once.

  “I should have gone to a fucking kennel,” Izzy muttered and finished off her drink.

  “Kennel?”

  Slumping in her uncomfortable chair, Izzy said, “My doctor thought it would be good for me to confront some lingering issues I’ve had since, since everything.” She waved her hand, illustrating how trivial that “everything” was. She had it together. Was totally over it. Except for the panic attacks.

  “Doctor as in therapist?” Curtis asked.

  Izzy shredded her napkin. “Yeah.” There was nothing judgmental in Curtis’s tone, but she knew what he thought: poor crippled girl can’t take care of herself. She squeezed her eyes shut against that critical voice pounding in her skull. It was the same voice that drove her at SAB and later in the NYCB corps de ballet, a harsh inner narrator, twisted by trauma, who demanded perfection. That voice wouldn’t shut up until she’d achieved perfection, physical and emotional, all on her own without crutches like therapists and other shoulders to cry on that didn’t charge by the hour. When she got better, she wouldn’t need anyone telling her how “fine” she was.

  “Your doctor told you to come back to the lodge?”

  “She told me to think about reacquainting myself with animals and fixating less on my old career. Ever since the attack, I can’t be around dogs, any big animal, without panicking.” Izzy shrugged. “She meant ‘get over it already’ and I intend to.”

  Curtis frowned. “Wouldn’t she have said that if she meant it?”

  “People never say what they mean. Especially not psychoanalysts. How much do you think they’d get paid if they told every neurotic mess that came to them: yep, you’re a whack job.”

  Shaking his near-empty beer bottle, Curtis appeared to mull Izzy’s statement over before he said, “I say what I mean all the time.”

  “You do not.”

  Curtis’s brows shot up. “Do too.”

  “Fine. What are you thinking right now?”

  “That I wish your top was as tight as your jeans.”

  Izzy couldn’t stop her mouth from twitching up.

  Curtis winked. “Your building manager ever call back?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then it’ll be a late night for us. You want another one?” Curtis gestured at her glass and Izzy went hunting for her wallet. Gathering their dead soldiers before she got her cash, Curtis said, “Don’t even offer. You’re not using the money excuse to say this wasn’t a date.”

  • • •

  “I can’t believe you pick locks.” Izzy steadied herself on Curtis’s shoulder, his worn undershirt soft as silk under her palm. A leather case holding his lock picks rested at his knees. Her building manager had never called, but Curtis had kept her more than entertained. She’d checked her watch once at ten P.M., and the next time she’d glanced it had read one in the morning. Almost everyone had vacated Glo Bar for other frenetic venues. When she’d noticed the time, theirs had been the loudest conversation in the bar. After her first drink, her formidable emotional barriers had melted and she’d grown more susceptible to Curtis’s easy, affable way.

  Three rum and pineapples had Izzy tipsy. Alcohol made her warm and languid and wobbly and she hadn’t minded when Curtis had laced his fingers in hers on the return walk to her complex. He’d stuck with beer. She hadn’t kept track of how many he’d had, but his hands were steady while he worked the nicked lock on her apartment’s front door.

  “The cabins on our grounds are pretty old. Doors get stuck all the time. People lose keys on the trails and in the creeks. We have a master, but this comes in handy.” The door snicked open on his last word and he gathered his tools.

  Izzy did a spritely step into her apartment, tossed her dance bag into the utility room when she passed it in the front hall, and dove, belly first, onto her couch.

  “I’ve wanted to do this all day,” she said into the chenille throw draped over the cushions. She flexed and pointed her aching feet.

  The apartment, though Izzy didn’t own it, was home. The wood floors squeaked when she walked on them. The kitchen, dining room, and living area was all one space and the walls were thin, but she loved it. At SAB, she’d dormed with dancers and had shared a place after graduation with three of the corps members from NYCB. Some people valued privacy and silence. Izzy couldn’t sleep without the hum of voices next door or the thump of footsteps overhead. She had enough to swing a mortgage, but she couldn’t bring herself to move to a bigger place all on her lonesome. Plus, where would she find a house with a window for an east wall? She flipped on her back. The spectral blur of the moon hazed through the drawn double sheers backing the heavy curtains.

  Izzy pushed herself to a sitting position and noticed Curtis hovering in the front door.

  “Not coming in?” she asked.

  “I didn’t want to assume too much,” Curtis said and stepped inside, carefully shutting the door behind him.

  “I don’t know why not. You’ve been assuming a lot all night.”

  “This is different. This is your territory.”

  It certainly was her territory and she didn’t allow many in it. Curtis was the first man inside since the accident. Izzy hoisted herself from the couch and went to the kitchen, which was a strip of counter space, appliances, and shelving lining half of the living area’s back wall. It wasn’t just liquor that had her at ease. Though she and one-night stands weren’t unacquainted, she hadn’t had one since she left New York. Not for lack of trying. Most guys she wanted just wanted her story. They needed the whys behind her arm and going through it killed sex drives. She didn’t get why they asked for answers they couldn’t handle or why they needed them at all. You didn’t have to know someone to fuck them, just be reasonably sure they wouldn’t smother you with a pillow during the afterglow. With Curtis, she didn’t have to explain. He’d been there. He knew. That meant he knew her better than most. She rolled back her shoulders. “I don’t have any beer, but I can do coffee or open a bottle of wine.”

  “Coffee’s good,” Curtis said. He investigated the living area, stopping when something caught his interest like the portable barre and triptych mirror next to the living room’s entrance. Worn out pointe shoes heaped in front of the mirror and bundles of dried flowers hung over it in a precise row. Old as the bouquets were, they retained their dusty perfume. The pointe shoes, too. They sighed out lilac scented puffs of air whenever she slid them on, the floral scent from the sachets she kept in her duffel forever stamped on the satin. Izzy couldn’t use the old shoes for class, but they were fine for her exercises at home. At SAB, she’d done her barre work en pointe, a technique she used with her advanced students.

  “You teach from home?” Curtis called over the high buzz and grumble of the coffee grinder. The apartment filled with the rich scent of ground beans.

  “That’s personal use only,” Izzy said as she tapped the dark, fragrant powder into the waiting filter.

  “I thought you didn’t dance anymore.”

  “I don’t perform, but I like starting the day with stretches and barre work. Not doing it felt wrong.” Izzy returned to the couch while the coffee brewed.

  “Any pictures of you in a tu-tu?” Curtis asked, checking out her many, many framed photos; heavily textured black-and-white prints by a local artist.

  “My mom has a bunch in an album. I hate pictures of me.” Izzy didn’t mention what she couldn’t stand was how happy she was in those photos. “The flowers are my mementos.”

  Mementos formed her solitary ties to her former life. For six months, Izzy endured an endless parade of emails, cards, and letters expressing sorrow for her loss.
The worst correspondence came from her former corps de ballet members. She knew they didn’t mean any harm, but she couldn’t stand the well wishes from her former peers who would fill her former roles. She’d changed her email address and had vacated the social network sites.

  Staring at the ceiling, Curtis reached for the paper tags dangling from each bundle of dried flowers above the mirror. That he could reach them without a stepstool threw Izzy for a loop. He read her handwriting aloud.

  “Rubies in Jewels, Odette and Odile in Swan Lake, Columbine in The Nutcracker?”

  “I saved the bouquets from my favorite roles.”

  Watching Curtis navigate her space was strange. Everything he touched was so delicate, the flowers, slippers, the crystal figures set on her open shelves. He was a giant tip-toeing through a fairy glade. Though he took up way more space than Izzy, he was mindful of his bulk. He curled one thick finger around the satin ribbon of a particularly worn out slipper, its insole detached and hanging like a tongue from its sole.

  Would he touch me like that? Izzy wondered and rubbed her rigid prosthetic. Like something fragile? The thought made her brows crease.

  Curtis strolled to the couch and leaned over the back. “I know The Nutcracker, but what’s Columbine?”

  Izzy squeezed her fake arm. “A doll Herr Drosselmeyer gives Clara.”

  “I thought he gave her the nutcracker.”

  “He does, but he gives her three wind-up dolls before that.”

  Curtis plopped on the couch at Izzy’s right. “And the nutcracker is a prince, right? He transforms and saves Clara from evil rats.”

  “Actually, it’s mice and Clara saves the prince. She throws her slipper at the Mouse King and they defeat him together.”

  “Would you rescue me if I was about to be slain by an evil rodent?”

  “Are you a prince in disguise?”

  Curtis shrugged. “Kiss me and find out.”

  Clicking her tongue, Izzy turned away as her cheeks heated. She started to push herself from the couch when Curtis caught her jointed hand before she rose.

  “Is it because I’m not on my knees?” Curtis dropped to the floor in front of Izzy, easing up her wrap’s gray sleeve. He lifted her mechanical hand to his lips like a gentleman at court. A genteel gesture, but his smoldering eyes held a very ungentlemanly promise.

  “Stop!” Izzy ripped her hand from his and hugged her prosthetic.

  Curtis sat back on his heels. “It’s true. Chivalry is dead.”

  “It’s not that.” Hiding under the sofa cushions seemed like a good idea right about now. “I just don’t like anyone touching my arm.” She shoved off the couch and went to the kitchen counter, pouring fresh, black coffee into two waiting mugs and pulling out cream and sugar. She hadn’t had a serious date since the accident and now that she had one she did everything in her power to make this guy tuck tail and run. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe she wasn’t ready.

  “Is there anywhere it’s ok for me to touch?”

  Izzy jumped. Curtis’s silent approach spooked her. The couch springs hadn’t squeaked nor the cushions whispered when he rose and his heels hadn’t knocked the floor. He was a sudden warm presence at her back, his breath a soft breeze over the top of her head. She grabbed the carton of half-n-half, disregarding his inquiry. Hands, rough and callused, snuck beneath her wrap and brushed her shoulders.

  “What about here?” Curtis asked and drummed his fingers on the rounded curves of her upper arms. “Is here ok?”

  Mouth quirking as she poured cream into her mug, Izzy nodded and stirred the cloudy mixture until the black liquid turned caramel brown. Just like Curtis’s skin. His hands trailed over her back and paused above her shoulder blades.

  “And here?”

  “There’s fine,” Izzy said, enjoying the gentle massage he gave her, stiffening only when he grazed the straps and harness holding her prosthetic in place. Waiting for her to relax, he kneaded her muscles all the way down to her waist where he circled his arms.

  “Here ok, too?” Curtis’s chest butted Izzy’s head and back when he brought her close. She rocked forward when he inhaled. Loosening one arm, he gathered her hair, swept it over her shoulder, and lowered his face to her ear.

  “What about … here?” Curtis pressed his lips right beneath Izzy’s jaw. A little sigh escaped her when his stubble scratched her cheek and she shivered. Devilish shudders rippled through her stomach. Her left hand shot up and her fingers tangled in his hair, clenching and urging him on. Why the hell had she waited so long for this? She’d wanted him a third of the way through her second drink.

  Opening his mouth, Curtis’s teeth grazed Izzy’s throat, teasing the delicate skin. His hand traveled from her waist to her belly where he pushed, bringing her tight against his hips. The hard ridge of his erection pressed against her rear.

  “Oh.” Izzy gasped and craned her neck free of his mouth, twisting to meet his half lidded gaze.

  “This not ok?” Curtis’s voice rasped.

  Facing him, Izzy went on her toes and cupped his stubbly cheek. “More than ok.” She guided his mouth to hers, taking his lower lip gently with her teeth before kissing him. He was motionless under her attention and she pulled back. Had she somehow misinterpreted his excitement? He was on her the instant she broke contact. His hands cradled her face and he crushed his lips to hers.

  The aggressive burst had Izzy clinging to Curtis’s shoulder. He parted her lips with his and his tongue stole into her mouth. She accepted him, sucked him into her. Widening her stance, she raised her hips and rubbed herself over the length of his hard cock. The friction made Curtis groan and he drew back, licking his already moistened lips.

  “I want you.” He gripped her shoulders. Desire clouded his eyes, made them vacant. He shut them and bowed his head. “I want you, but I don’t want to drive you off.” He glanced at the stiff arm hanging at her right.

  Left hand flat on Curtis’s chest, Izzy tested the hard planes of muscle veiled by the threadbare cotton of his undershirt. Pushing, she held him at arm’s length. “You saw me at the worst, didn’t you? You were with me then.”

  No matter how hard she tried, Izzy couldn’t remember Curtis’s reassuring presence, his hand around hers, his singing. She wished she could.

  “I was,” he said.

  “Then I’ll get over it.” Izzy tugged at her wrap. The garment fell away and heaped at her feet. Her sleeveless, white tunic didn’t conceal much. Save for the harness fixing the device to her body, which fitted tightly to her back and across her chest, her prosthetic was exposed.

  Izzy never did anything halfway.

  Chapter Three

  Curtis closed the distance between them cautiously. Not knowing when Izzy might clam up and shut down threw him off. Women normally took to his come-on-strong-and-keep-on-coming approach. He chased them down with unrelenting flattery and no one went home disappointed. Not so with this woman. At times, she warmed to him, encouraged him, then he’d go too far, cross some invisible Izzy trip wire for which he’d get an acidic comment and the cold shoulder. It both frustrated and compelled him and now that she beckoned to him with open arms, he didn’t want to fuck up.

  Since he’d spotted her on the street — his lip involuntarily curled when he recalled the attack — he’d wanted her in his arms, in his bed. Of course, bringing her home dumped a whole new steaming pile of troubles at his feet. Pack business was the last thing he wanted on his mind.

  Snaking one hand up Izzy’s back, Curtis eased the other around her nape. Pulling her into him, he bent and kissed her, slowly at first, intimately, dusting her cheeks with the lightest brushes of his lips. Impatient, she strained for his mouth and he obliged her. When he fought for restraint, she craved rough handling, but too rough and she disappeared behind her mental fortress. He couldn’t read her at all, but
the demands her body made of his inflamed his desire.

  Bumping against him, Izzy corralled Curtis backward, her hips and lips propelling him. When he butted against the armrest, he sat down and sprawled over the sofa. Like smoke, she slid over him, curled in his hair and stole through his lips, setting him on fire as he breathed in her perfume and powerful sexual musk. Muscles in his thighs and abdomen tensed and a surge of blood raised his aching cock to strain against his jeans. She straddled him, one leg tucked between his body and the couch cushions while the other braced against the floor like a bicycle kick stand. She tossed back her head and her petal pink tongue wetted her lips. He wanted that tongue. Wanted it.

  Curtis moved his hands up Izzy’s pelvis. They vanished beneath her tunic. One palm traced a path up her torso, smooth and soft and hot, and up the trough of her breasts then retreated. Enough with the clothes. Snatching her tunic’s hem, he pulled her top over her head. He fixated on her breasts, little round curves plumped by a white cotton bra. With her expensive outfit and apartment, he’d anticipated something lacy and complicated and the unexpected simplicity made his dick kick. Nipples like tiny pearls budded through the fabric. He couldn’t stop staring. He reached for one of the flushed mounds criss-crossed by the black straps of her prosthetic’s harness.

  A curtain of shiny, black hair fell over his arm and blocked his view of Izzy’s chest. She tucked her chin and he felt her shutter up, close off her heart. Parting her hair, he caught the shimmer of tears in her eyes before they pinched shut.

  Fuck.

  What had he done? If he made her cry he couldn’t take it. He couldn’t stand her pained expression. Neither could Clear-Skies who rippled and twisted in his displeasure.

  No more pain. No more! The spirit’s short communicative bursts were more intuition than telegraphed thought.

  Curtis squirmed and calmed his wolf, and himself, with measured breaths and careful consideration of his actions since they’d lain on the couch. Was it the touching? Kissing? She’d started that. Maybe his staring? But how could he not stare? How could anyone? When a beautiful woman sat on top of you in only her bra and jeans and those had to come off and then the harness and … ah. Argh!