Deadly Dancing

by Nicolette Pierce

  “It’s just a flesh wound. Look at something else if it bothers you,” he said.

  I took his advice and looked at him. He worked quickly. He must have been very gentle, because I didn’t feel him clean the wound or put the bandage on.

  He caught me looking at him and smiled. “Penny for your thoughts.”

  “You’d need a whole lot more than a penny to get these thoughts.”

  After my arm, he inspected my face.

  “My face hurts,” I said. “Please, don’t tell me what I look like. I’m afraid to know.”

  “You’re still beautiful,” he reassured me. “Just really red.”

  “Red is normal for me.”

  Evan smiled. “This shouldn’t sting,” he said as he applied ointment. It immediately cooled my skin. His fingers were gentle on my face . . . slow and lingering. Could he be a gentle lover?

  Get your mind out of the gutter!

  Evan kissed the top of my head. “Better?”

  “Yeah, it feels better,” I said.

  “Keep this on your face and reapply every few hours,” he said, handing me the tube of ointment.

  “Thanks, Doc.” I smiled.

  “I’m not a doctor yet,” he said softly. “But for you, I’ll be anything you want.”

  Yikes!

  “Let me give you a ride home and I can take care of you for the rest of the night.”

  My head said, “Yes, please!” But my mouth said, “Thanks, but I have a car that someone loaned me. I need to return it.”

  “The Viper?” he asked calmly, but there was a hard look in his eyes.

  “Yeah, how did you know?”

  “Never mind,” he said. “Just be careful.”

  Evan pulled me into a hug. His arms were strong and warm. Everything seemed right until he let go and opened the door to let me out.

  “I’ll see you soon, sugar,” he said, escaping to the front of the truck and sliding in. Gordy hopped in on the passenger’s side.

  Evan drove away.

  A rock formed in my throat.

  Jocelyn screeched into the parking lot and jumped out of her car.

  “What happened? Curtis called and said someone shot the window.”

  “He’s inside. I need to leave.”

  “What about the window? Who’s going to fix it?”

  “There’s a phonebook on Emmy’s desk. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  “I demand you stay until the window gets fixed.”

  “I’ve been shot, and my face is on fire. I’m going home.”

  I trudged to the car. Five days ago my life was normal and predictable. Now, I’m on a roller-coaster ride of emotions and dodging bullets. I practiced breathing exercises as I drove home. My face grew hot from the burn. I could see a little of my face in the rearview mirror. It was violently red under the ointment. Tonight was going to be a disaster.

  A question swirled in my mind. Who shot the window . . . and why?

  I parked in the driveway and looked across the street at Mrs. Janowski. She must have heard the news from headquarters. She was decked out in her husband’s old army gear. The army-green shirt hung to her knees, and the pants pooled and wrinkled over her gigantic combat boots. She topped off the look with a helmet three sizes too big. Her grandson’s paintball gun rested in the crook of her arm. I gave her a wave. She returned a salute. A small laugh escaped and I shook my head. Even with all of her quirks, I liked having Mrs. Janowski as my neighbor.

  I let myself into the front door and locked the deadbolt on the world . . . at least for now. I ran to the bathroom and peered in the mirror. A blotchy, red face stared back at me. I departed the bathroom gloomy.

  I wasn’t going out like this. Brett would have to reschedule with my dad or go without me. I peeked at the living room clock. He should arrive in an hour. I’ll call him and tell him not to come over.

  Something wasn’t right about the room . . . something was different. My eyes opened round like an owl’s. Everything was picked up and put away. My living room walls were painted a beautiful neutral sand color. It actually complemented my décor. Brett had said it would be fixed, but I hadn’t believed him. This room looked better than it did before the break-in.

  I found Brett’s number on my caller ID and dialed. Butterflies zoomed around my stomach. I had never actually called his phone number before. My call was sent straight to voicemail. I breathed a sigh of relief; voicemail can’t argue with you.

  “Hi, Brett,” I spoke to the voicemail. “It’s Mars. I have to cancel tonight. I’ve had a bit of a . . . well, let’s just say issue. Thanks for letting me use your car and for having my place cleaned and painted; it looks beautiful.” I hung up, smacking the heel of my hand to my forehead. “OW!”

  I hauled myself upstairs to change. I pulled out a camisole and shorts. I may as well be comfortable. I drenched a washcloth with ice-cold water and plopped down on the couch in front of the television. I flipped through the stations and groaned. Why do I pay for hundreds of channels when there’s never anything on?

  The romance channel was showing The Sound of Music. Good enough. I put the remote control down, reclined back, and tossed the washcloth over my face. The nuns were singing about Maria.

  I should join a convent.

  Some minutes later, Maria was sent to the Von Trapp family, and I heard a car pull into my driveway. I didn’t bother getting up. I wasn’t about to answer the door for anyone.

  I heard a knock on the door, and then the doorbell rang. After a few more moments, I didn’t hear anything. Good, they must have left.

  “Why didn’t you answer the door?” Brett simmered in my ear.

  I rocketed up, kicking the end table with my bare toe.

  “Shit!” I cried in agony. Tears pooled in my eyes and burned as they streaked down my face for the second time.

  Brett stared at my bottom as I bent over to rub my toe. I didn’t care if my cheeks were hanging out of my shorts; my poor toe was in agony.

  “You need to sit down,” Brett said, wrenching his eyes away.

  His hand closed around my waist, pulling me down to the sofa. He touched the tip of my chin, directing my face to his. He then glanced at my bandaged arm.

  “What happened?” he asked. His face set with a look of concern.

  “It’s a long story,” I said, still rubbing my toe. “Didn’t you get my message?”

  “Yes, I heard it. You didn’t say you were hurt. I assumed you were avoiding me.”

  “Am I able to do that?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. How did you get in here?”

  “I still have your key.”

  “Oh,” I said, amazed I didn’t really care.

  “Does your face hurt?” he asked while inspecting.

  “A little. The washcloth helps,” I replied.

  “Then put it back on and relax.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll rub your toe,” he said.

  Brett placed my feet on his lap. I dropped my head down on the pillow, draping the washcloth on my face.

  “What happened to your arm?” he asked while massaging my foot.

  “I was shot.”

  His hand stopped.

  “They were a lousy shot.” I said. “It sounded like they fired off a hundred rounds, and out of the four of us, I was the only one shot. Well, Jonathan didn’t make it but that’s probably for the best. Evan said I only had a flesh wound.”

  “Evan?”

  “Yeah, you know, Evan West the E.M.T.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  I moved the washcloth to peek at him. He looked surly.

  “I can’t help who gets called to the scene. Aren’t you supposed to be concerned over who shot me instead of who bandaged the wound?”

  Brett’s face relaxed, “You’re right. Let me make it up to you.”

  Brett massaged my foot. The pain dulled as his fingers massaged and caressed.

  “Wh
o’s Jonathan? I’m sorry he died.”

  “Jonathan is a ridiculous cardboard cutout. I’m thankful he’s the one that got shot.”

  “I thought he was a person.”

  “He is a person, but it’s his cutout that was riddled with bullets.”

  Brett’s thumb circled over a pressure point and pressed down.

  “Oh!”

  He grinned and pressed down just a little deeper. My back arched. Each time he touched a point, a sensual need rolled through my body. Was this payback for bringing up Evan? If that’s the case, I’ll mention him every hour.

  He moved to the other foot, finding just the spot to send vibrations through my core.

  “You should probably stop,” I said, holding my breath.

  “I really shouldn’t.”

  He pulled the washcloth from my face to watch my expression as he raised my foot. He smirked right before he lowered his mouth, kissing each toe. He traced the most sensitive spots of my foot with the tip of his tongue.

  “Oh . . .”

  Sensations that haven’t been explored for a long time—and some that I’ve never experienced—were swirling rapidly toward release. He brushed his finger over a spot that sent me into a state of blissful agony and near the verge of overload.

  “You can stop now,” I begged weakly.

  He moved his thumb a fraction over and pressed firmly. My breath caught as a wave rolled through me. I grabbed the pillow from under my head, shoving it into my face just before . . .

  “OMIGOD!”

  My body released all its energy with an uncontrollable shudder, and I sank heavily into the couch.

  Holy crap! He just gave me the best orgasm of my life by playing with my feet.

  I pulled the pillow down to look at him with wide eyes, not believing what had just happened.

  “I couldn’t help it,” he smirked. “Your toes are sexy as hell.”

  “I’m glad you like them,” I said, trying to regulate my breath. “You paid for them.”

  He eyed me in wonder. I must have passed whatever test he was giving because he growled, “That makes it even sexier.”

  I rested my head back on the pillow, covering my face with the washcloth. Damn, I’ll have to call Candi tomorrow . . . maybe I’ll send her a gift basket.

  “Did you study reflexology?” I asked.

  “It’s just one of my many talents,” he said.

  Brett set my feet on the couch as he moved out from under me and slid to settle on top. He removed the washcloth and propped himself up with his elbows to study my face. He winced in pain from his cracked rib but didn’t bother to move. His hard body pressed heavily on me.

  “I could show you more upstairs,” he said.

  “I’ll take a rain check,” I said as I halfheartedly tried to push him off.

  He bent his head down. His lips touched mine. His mouth was soft and lingering. Perhaps it’s good that I’m staying home. I wanted more of his lips, his kiss, and . . . him.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “To go to your dad’s house.” He kissed the valley between my breasts using just a hint of tongue that drove me back on edge.

  “I’m not going,” I said.

  “Yes, you are,” he said, pulling me to my feet.

  “I’m not going,” I repeated. From an early age, stubbornness ran rampant through my veins. It tends to come out when I’m forced to do something I don’t want to do—also when I fight my dad for the last piece of dessert.

  “I’m injured.” I feigned helplessness, hoping to find a compassionate side of Brett.

  “You’re not so weak as to use that line,” he said. Brett scooped me up, flung me over his shoulder, and swung the door open.

  “Not again. Brett, put me down. You have the mannerisms of a cave man.”

  Mrs. Janowski sat on the porch with a smile plastered on her face.

  “Mrs. J., shoot him with your gun,” I called out.

  “It’s about time a man whisked you off your feet,” she hollered back, giving Brett a salute. “Looks like he has you head over heels, too!” She was tickled pink at her joke and gave her knee a happy slap.

  Oh, geez!

  “I don’t have any shoes, and I can’t go in this outfit,” I said.

  “You won’t need shoes, and I like this outfit.” Brett grinned.

  Brett repositioned me, holding my bottom with one hand while opening the car door with the other. He gently dropped me in. I sulked while Brett angled in on the driver’s side and started the car.

  “Whose car is that?” I pointed to the red car parked next to us in the driveway.

  “It’s yours.”

  “My car is blue,” I said.

  “It was blue, but now it’s red,” he said.

  “Why red?”

  “When they asked me what color I wanted, I said red,” he said. “You have a red personality. The blue car didn’t suit you.”

  I didn’t argue. If I had money to spend on a car, it’d be red.

  “Do you normally go after girls with a red personality?” I asked. I didn’t know if he’d give me a straight answer.

  He gave a small laugh, “I think that may be a red-personality question. I normally stay away because two strong personalities don’t mix well.”

  “Then why me? You obviously know a lot about me and my personality.”

  “You were trouble the moment I laid eyes on you, but you’ve shown me a few extra colors that intrigue me. You may be worth the trouble,” he said, adding deviously, “and if not, then we’ll have had one hell of a good time anyway.”

  “What if I’m not looking for trouble?”

  “Sweet thing, you were made for trouble.”

  I could see us going around in circles on that point, so I changed the subject. “By the way, I meant to yell at you for making dinner arrangements with my dad and not even asking me.”

  “Kind of too late for that.”

  “I know. I’m just putting it out there.”

  He reached for my hand, bringing my palm up to his lips. I melted back into the seat and relaxed the rest of the way to my dad’s house.

  Brett pulled up to the front door of the little yellow house. It was my childhood home and has been yellow since it was built in the seventies. The only thing that changed was the height of the trees.

  I didn’t ask how Brett found the place without directions. He seemed to know everything; why waste my breath?

  “Want me to carry you to the door?”

  “Not on your life,” I said, fleeing from the car.

  The front door swung open before I even climbed the first step on the porch.

  “It’s about time you two arrived,” my mom said as she breezed through the door to get a better view of Brett.

  “Mom, what are you doing here?”

  “You know how your dad is. He invites people over and then forgets about the food,” she said. “He always has his head stuck in space.”

  Her eyes admired Brett. “Well?” she asked. “Have you forgotten your manners? Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

  “Oh, sorry,” I said. I had been taken by surprise when my mom appeared at the door. She hasn’t set foot in the house for a good five years. “Mom, this is Brett. Brett this is my mom, Diane.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” Brett said.

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Brett,” Mom said, ushering us in the house.

  Brett gave me a wink that went unnoticed by my mom. She was currently staring at his biceps.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “Oh, he’s out fiddling with his gadgets.”

  Mom already had the wine open and was pouring her second glass. She poured a glass for Brett and me.

  “I probably shouldn’t,” I said as she offered the glass.

  “One glass won’t hurt you,” she said.

  “One glass is my limit.”

  “Dear, what happened to your face?”
<
br />   “My face reacted badly to face cream.”

  My dad popped in from the backyard. “I thought I heard you arrive.” He gave me a kiss on the head. “You look all red. You better watch out for sunburn. Do you know that the surface of the sun is nearly ten thousand degrees Fahrenheit, and the core is about twenty-seven million degrees? Makes you want to wear sunscreen next time, doesn’t it?”

  I nodded to humor him. “Dad, this is Brett. Brett, this is my dad, Tim.”

  “Nice to meet you, Brett,” my dad said, shaking Brett’s hand. “Ready for stargazing?”

  “Of course,” Brett said.

  “After dinner we can go out back and I’ll give you a tour of the night sky.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I peeked in the kitchen. “Mom, do you need help?” I asked. She wasn’t a gourmet by any means, and the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

  “I’m almost done,” she said as she spooned portions from a white box onto each plate.

  “You ordered catering again, didn’t you?”

  She gave me a knowing smile. “First impressions count,” she said. “After a couple times over, and you have him madly in love with you, then I’ll bring out my below-average cooking.”

  “Sounds like you’ve thought about it.”

  “Oh, I have, dear. And you’re making it easier wearing that little outfit.”

  “He wouldn’t let me change.”

  “Good for him. I like a man who knows what he wants. Just keep those outfits coming until grandchildren are on the way.”

  Where’s that wine?

  Mom and I carried the plates into the dining room and we all took a seat.

  Dad eyed the food suspiciously and took a bite. “Diane, this is really good. You’ve improved.”

  I smirked and she shot a warning look.

  “It’s the best home-cooked food I’ve tasted in a long time,” Brett said.

  Mom took a gulp of wine.

  “So, what do you do for a living, Brett?” she asked.

  “I work at Longhorn’s.”

  “Oh, a bartender. A man after my own heart.” She raised her wine glass.

  “No, I’m a dancer.”

  Dad stalled with a forkful of food halfway into his mouth. Mom took another gulp of wine.

  “You’re an exotic dancer?” she asked with a small cough.