by JJ Knight
Within seconds, a door I didn’t notice, tucked in a corner behind a rack, pops open.
Blitz storms out empty-handed and pulls on my arm. “The owner did it,” he says. “I caught her sending out a picture.”
He pulls me to the front door.
As soon as we step out, dozens of cell phones lift into the air.
“Great, just great,” Blitz says. He plasters on a smile and waves.
We try to head straight for the car, but the crowd surges forward.
“This is nuts,” I say as we push through. “How did so many get here so quick?”
“She sent out a Tweet before we even got on the porch,” he says, opening my door, waving at everybody, but firmly keeping them back.
The first girl shouts, “Blitz, I love you!” and then the noise just erupts. They wave paper, pens, notebooks, phones. Blitz manages to shut my door, but he’s completely trapped trying to get around to his side.
He signs a few things, still trying to smile, and attempts to walk forward.
But the girls are aggressive. One of them starts shouting, “Rematch, rematch!” and the whole group takes up the chant. From my spot inside the car, I can see at least five live Facebook feeds are broadcasting them.
I’m about to open my door and scream at the lot of them when a couple of the men who had been looking at the Ferrari take charge and start pushing them back.
Blitz manages to go around the front of the car and get to the opposite door.
Then he’s in.
“I guess we’re not going anywhere else public for a while,” Blitz says as he starts the car. When the engine rumbles, the crowd steps back.
“This wasn’t happening before,” I say. “We’ve been going to restaurants and shopping for clothes, and we haven’t had more than a few passersby stop and chat or ask for a picture.”
“It’s got to be the finalists,” Blitz says, dropping the car into gear. A couple girls try to get in front of us, but the men pull them back so he can get a clear path out onto the street.
“What are they up to?”
“They must have social media people scouring for mentions and blowing them up.”
I open my phone again. I check for #BurnBlitzBurn but there isn’t much there. The #BlitzSighting is huge right now, but I go back and back through time until I spot older mentions of his whereabouts to see if I can connect any dots.
Then I see it. A Twitter profile called “DanceBlitzRematch” has been promoting Tweets that show our current location. It has maps and even offers prizes, free DVDs and T-shirts, to people who post live updates if they see him and start the “rematch” chant. It is only two days old and already has half a million followers.
I lean my head back against the headrest.
“I’m guessing you found the source,” he says.
“Who does your social media?” I ask.
“There’s several of them,” Blitz says, eyes on the road as he carefully eases away from the crowd.
“They’ve got a whole account set up to promote the rematch,” I tell him. “They are offering incentives to fans to start the chants anywhere they can spot us.”
Blitz slams his hand on the steering wheel. “They just won’t let up, will they?”
“Let’s fight fire with fire,” I say. “Have your people put up fake location spottings to decoy them away from us.”
Blitz laughs. “Love it. I bet I can get Duke to drive my old car around LA and get the sightings even more credibility.”
“If they think we’re in LA, then we can discredit the ones that are real,” I say.
“I’ll get them on it,” Blitz says. “Because I really don’t want crazy people showing up at Dreamcatcher.”
“Exactly,” I say, my heart hammering. “And we can’t live like this.”
“I’ve been living this way for two years,” Blitz says. “But I do think it’s time I got the gray rental back. This car is just too obvious.”
“I know exactly who to have drive it around town,” I tell him, then get a case of the giggles so bad that when we stop at a red light, Blitz has to thump me on the back so I can catch air.
He’s laughing too. “What is your evil mind cooking up now?”
“We’ll give this car to the bodyguard, Ted. He’ll handle the crowds.”
Blitz nods. “I like it. And that boy could use a real set of wheels.”
We get on the highway for a while, making sure none of the zealous girls are trying to follow us. Our hotel is pretty secure, used to celebrities and politicians, but there is no point in making it easy to find us.
We’ll up our game to keep our privacy, but one thing is pretty obvious now.
We’re going to have to deal with the three finalists.
Chapter 9
We succeed at getting to Dreamcatcher Tuesday morning without anyone following. Suze looks up from the front desk with a grim smile. “Y’all are trending again on Twitter,” she says. “Everybody wants a rematch.”
Danika catches us in the hall. “I’m keeping the security,” she says. “The mob at the dance shop made the news and I can’t have that here.”
Blitz and I glance at each other. We already caused enough trouble with my ex Denham showing up and requiring Danika to get a restraining order. His getting arrested out front cost the academy quite a few dancers.
“If we need to take a break, we will,” Blitz says.
I can’t imagine not getting to see Gabriella, but Danika just waves her hand. “We’ll work around it. Just do your part not to be followed. I’ll be on top of any mothers who think it will be fun to say you are here.”
We head back to the studios, where Janel has already begun to warm up the wheelchair ballerinas.
The girls love their sparkle sticks, ones we sent a courier to retrieve from a different shop, and we dance with them for the allotted hour. But what should have been an escape feels hollow and strained. The mothers send us sympathetic glances. More than one keeps checking the hall as if they expect a crowd to surge in at any moment.
“We can’t keep this up,” I say to Blitz as we get in the car after class. “We don’t have the setup to handle this level of privacy invasion.”
“Nobody does,” Blitz says. “But one good thing about the public is its short attention span. I really think this will die down in a few days.”
I hope he’s right. As we drive a circuitous route back to the hotel, I wonder what we’re even going to do for Valentine’s Day. I have a gift for Blitz, not much since I don’t really have money of my own right now, but I’m hoping we get to celebrate it somehow.
When we get back to our suite, I ask him, “Are we staying in tonight?”
He falls back on the sofa. “I have reservations at an amazing place, but I’m not sure they are going to be thrilled about dealing with our level of crazy at the moment.”
“Do they have celebrities often?” I ask.
“Probably, but San Antonio just isn’t that kind of town. It’s not like New York or LA or even DC, where lots of places have protocol in place. Here they rely on being expensive and having valet parking to keep the public at bay.”
“You just want to stay here?” I stand at the end of the white sofa, looking down at him. I’m filled with uncertainty.
“Come here,” he says, waving his arms at me.
He’s taking up the whole sofa, so I lie on top of him and tuck my head against his shoulder.
“I’m happy doing whatever,” I say.
“Me too,” he says, kissing my hair. “But I really don’t like three pain-in-the-ass women controlling our lives.”
“Technically, it’s their Twitter feed,” I say.
He goes still. “What did you say that Twitter account was called?”
“DanceBlitzRematch,” I say.
“Huh. Hold on.” He shifts us a little to pull his phone out of his pocket and taps a contact.
I listen to his heartbeat as it rings. Then someone picks up.
>
“Hey, it’s Blitz Craven. Is Larry around?”
He pauses. Larry is his lawyer.
“No, no, don’t bother him. Just tell him that we have a trademark violation on Twitter. The account is DanceBlitzRematch. I’d like it down as fast as he can make that happen. Thanks.”
He kills the call. “That will take care of that.”
“Assuming it’s not one of the producers who can lay claim to the trademark,” I say. “There was that one guy.”
Blitz lifts my chin so he can meet my eyes. “How did I get such a smart girl to look at me twice?” he asks.
I shrug. “I always assume the worst.”
“I say we go out anyway. I’ll have someone go in ahead and make sure the way is clear.”
“If the staff doesn’t turn you in themselves.”
“You really do assume the worst,” he says, kissing my hair again.
“It’s a gift.”
He sits up and shifts me next to him. “I have something that will cheer you up,” he says.
He heads over to the bar and opens a cabinet where one of the safes is hidden. When he turns back, he’s holding a small flat box in shiny red wrapping paper.
“For my Valentine,” he says. “If you don’t like it, we can get something else.”
I take the box. It’s light. Too small for a necklace. Too flat for a ring. I already have a cell phone, and besides, it jingles a little when I shake it. A bracelet, maybe?
I pull the ribbon loose and tear away the colored paper. I’ve never had a Valentine, actually. I knew boys in middle school, but I never had one as a boyfriend. High school was spent at home. Dad usually brought a box of chocolates home for the family to share.
The paper falls away and I lift the lid.
Inside is a set of car keys.
“Blitz?” I ask.
“All yours,” he says. “I really hope you like it.”
My heart hammers. A car?
“Can I see it?”
“It’s already waiting downstairs.”
I snatch up my sunglasses and scarf. “Let’s go!”
We race to the elevator. We’re halfway down when I realize something important.
“I can’t drive it!” I exclaim. “I still don’t even have my permit!”
“Nobody’s going to care,” Blitz says. “You’re getting good enough.”
“I should have gone to the DMV before all this stuff happened,” I say. “Now they’ll find us for sure if I show up someplace that public.”
We step onto the elevator and Blitz wraps his arms around me. “It’ll die down. Don’t worry. And I’ll see if we can’t arrange for you to go in before they open. Surely someone can be bribed.”
“It’s the DMV,” I say. “They live to laugh at people who think they can get special favors.”
“I hear I’m pretty charming.” Blitz flashes that megawatt smile that has gotten him two million Twitter followers. It works. If anybody could sweet-talk the DMV, it’s him.
The doors slide open for the lobby. We walk cautiously to the front doors.
“The concierge is aware of the situation,” Blitz says. “He knows to alert us if anyone figures out we’re here.”
But everything is normal, other than six pretty cars sitting outside.
“Which one is mine?” I ask, practically bouncing with excitement.
“Which one do you think?” Blitz asks. His smile is enormous.
I look around. “I’m guessing not the green SUV with an inch of mud on the tires.”
“Good observation,” he says.
“And I don’t think the black Mercedes is what you’d pick for me.”
“Nope.”
“I’m guessing the white Volkswagen convertible!”
“We have a winner!” Blitz says.
I rush over to the car. “I love it!” I say.
“Let’s go for a spin, then,” Blitz says.
I glance around. “I’ve never driven on an actual street, remember?” I say.
“It’s easy,” Blitz says. “And you were doing great in the parking lot last time.”
I walk around to the driver’s side. A uniformed man opens my door.
The new car smell wafts out. It’s all leather and something I can’t define.
I sit down as Blitz settles in on the passenger side. “I’ve never smelled a new car before. Yours always smelled like French fries.”
“Guilty as charged,” Blitz says. “But this one only has the mileage the sales guy drove it to get here.”
I glance at the dash. Eleven miles. Wow.
The bellman closes the door. I hold the keys but realize the key part isn’t showing to put in the ignition. “How do you work this thing?”
“It’s actually keyless,” Blitz says. “Just put your foot on the brake and push this button.”
I feel around for the gas and brake pedals and press the brake. When I push the big round button, the car’s quiet engine purrs lightly.
“It’s so cute!” I say.
“Ready to put it in drive?” he asks.
I look around me. There’s still several cars I have to navigate around. “Can I wait until they are all gone?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says. “You probably need to adjust your mirrors anyway.”
We fiddle around with the knobs and levers and get the seat the way I want it. By then, only the Mercedes is still in the circle drive, and it’s behind us.
“Okay,” I say. “Here goes.” I slide the gear shift into drive and release the brake. We glide forward.
My brain tries to panic but I calm it down and slowly putter away from the front doors of the hotel.
“I’d go left,” Blitz says. “You don’t want to get mixed up in the traffic beneath the freeway.”
I nod, concentrating, and turn on the signal.
This back street is quiet, and other than making sure I don’t get too close to cars parked along the curb, the drive is easy.
“You’re doing it!” Blitz says. He makes a big show of leaning his seat back and tucking his hands behind his head, as if he’s going to take a nap.
“So what happens if I get pulled over?” I ask.
“We call Larry back,” Blitz says.
Right, lawyers can handle anything.
We cruise around the neighborhood. I pass the academy, and the playground where I used to take my brother, and even my old house. Mom’s minivan is in the carport, but I don’t see any sign of them.
When Blitz notices where we are, he sits up. “You want to stop by? Your dad is probably at work.”
I shake my head. “Not today. I’m having a good day. I don’t want to wreck it.”
“Or the car,” Blitz says with a laugh.
I focus on the road. “Distract me and I will wreck it,” I say.
“I’ll be good,” he says.
I meander the streets, passing my old church and the movie theater where I had an early date with Blitz. I feel so free, able to go anywhere I want, do anything. I have to get my license!
The concentration gets tiring after a while, so I head back to the hotel. I pull into the circle easily.
The valet opens the door and I have to keep myself from hugging him, instead content to jump up and down. I have a car!
Blitz comes around to take my hand, laughing at my exuberance. “This might be the best reaction to a gift ever!” he says.
Suddenly my Valentine present for him seems woefully inadequate. “Where are we going tonight?” I ask.
“Milan’s,” he says.
“We went there with that executive once, right?” I ask.
“Yes, the one who wanted to do Blitz dance wear.”
We cross the lobby into the hotel. It’s busier now. Lots of couples are wandering around holding hands. They seem to be staying the night for the holiday.
We head up the elevator. I think about my gift for him and how I might spice it up. By the time we get to the top, I have an idea.
C
hapter 10
When we get upstairs, Blitz changes for the workout room. I tell him I’m skipping for now and wait for him to leave before heading to my closet to find my gift for him.
Buried below my flannel pajamas, which never see any wear at all, is one long beautiful length of aerial silk for performing in the air.
I’ve watched all of Dance Blitz, plus most of Blitz’s early works, and he has never done aerial silk dancing. But I watched as his eyes lit on the girl who was practicing at Jenica’s Dancery the one time we went, and I knew I wanted to try it.
I learned all I could about the type of fabric that was used, how much to buy, and the width and length. I also began doing extra arm workouts, so when it was time to start learning, I would have the strength.
The strong red fabric came from a discount shop where I got it for a steal, less than Blitz would pay for lunch. I hemmed the ends and kept it hidden for today.
Watching YouTube videos had gotten me a few basics. I figured out that the very corner of the bed, where the top section meets the wall, is securely braced. It holds my weight, although probably not Blitz’s. I use it to practice.
I have just enough moves to start. Blitz keeps talking about finding something that is only ours, and I think this could be it.
But after the car, I feel the need to up my Valentine game even more. It isn’t enough to just dance with the silks. I want it to be us, something unique, something that involves memories that will carry us through performances and give us that extra magic.
And today will be the first one.
I draw in a deep breath. I’m really not an exhibitionist. I only wear makeup when someone comes to fix me up for an event. And while I have some rather lovely undergarments that we got when Blitz initially set up my wardrobe, we are really more of a workout pants and T-shirt couple.
But not today. I have to be different. Bold.
I rummage through the drawers to see what I have that will go with the red fabric. There’s definitely a red bra and matching panties, but they are sort of ordinary. I keep digging and find a white thong. Okay, this might do.
My heart hammers as I search. There are sheer things, lacy things, dainty things. But nothing as sexy as what I want to go for.