The Blitzed Series Boxed Set: Five Contemporary Romance Novels

by JJ Knight

  I lean my forehead against his chest. I want to feel normal. But there is this vise around my heart, and it’s got a hold on me.

  “Let’s just walk around,” Blitz says. “We’ll pretend we’re Weeza and talk trash about every room.”

  This does get a small smile out of me. We head off to the left, which puts us in a bright room with hardwood floors and a china cabinet built into the wall.

  “See, this is where people stuff their faces,” Blitz says in his best Weeza voice. “It’s so stupid. Why does anyone need a room just to eat? In fact, eating is stupid.”

  We walk into a stubby hall with a pantry on one side and a sink and glass cabinet on the other.

  “Why is there a sink here when there’s a perfectly good one in the kitchen?” Blitz asks. “Totally ridic.”

  Another smile. We pass through a breakfast nook with a big bay window, then into the gleaming kitchen. Everything is new and updated.

  I start to feel a little better about the house.

  Blitz points to the oversized stainless steel refrigerator. “And water coming out of the fridge too? Waste. Of. Space.”

  Annabella pops her head through the archway on the opposite end. “Love the kitchen, right?”

  “It’s nice,” I say, running my hands across the stone countertop. I imagine my mom cutting potatoes on her chopping board. Would my parents ever see my house? Probably not. Dad believes I am a whore.

  Maybe I am. What does it matter? It’s just a word. He is no saint himself.

  But now I’m all knotted up again.

  “Take a look at the fireplace in the family room,” Annabella says.

  My heart pings at the word family. I’m not really in one right now, am I? My parents don’t speak to me. I can’t see my brother.

  Does Blitz count? He is a boyfriend, definitely. We’ve been together six months now. He seems happy, grinning at me as he takes my hand so we can go look at the fireplace.

  The room is grand, cavernous, one wall made of stone, another floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

  The fireplace matches the stone wall, big chunks of limestone, a mantel built in.

  Annabella holds out her hands. “I can see so many happy memories taking place in here.”

  I want to see the good things. To picture myself with Blitz.

  But I can’t help but see what won’t be here. My brother Andy won’t run race cars across the floor. My dad won’t put his feet up and watch a football game with Blitz, even though he used to do just that with his own friends before everything went sour.

  And Gabriella. She won’t roll across the smooth hardwood. I won’t sit on the sofa and work on her recital costume, taking up the straps or gluing on extra stars.

  I turn to the French doors that lead to the backyard. It’s all just pointless. “I don’t want it,” I say to Blitz. “It’s not right.”

  He turns from the fireplace. “Okay, Livia. We definitely want it to be just right.” He turns to Annabella. “Did we have a second choice to view?”

  “Sure,” she says. “Let me pull up another address.”

  “No,” I interrupt. “No more today.”

  Blitz comes up and puts his arm around me. “You okay, Princess?”

  “Please stop calling me that!” I say. “Please.” The only princess is the one I can’t see anymore.

  Blitz lets out a long gust of air. “Okay, Livia.” He looks over at Annabella. “Let’s try this again another day. I’m sorry.”

  Annabella holds up her hands. “I get it. Big decision.” She leads us to the front door.

  I want to feel bad, but I can’t. As I look back at the house that is probably perfect, I can’t see anything good about it, only the what-ifs and never-wills.

  Chapter 8

  I know I have to pull myself together. I know it.

  Blitz is asked to do a talk show in New York and I send him on without me. I spend more time up at the church doing menial tasks and hanging out with Mindy and Irma.

  We unpack every ornate cloth that has ever been used on the altar and start cleaning each one by hand. We want to preserve the hand-stitched crosses and other appliqués, many of them decades old.

  Taking a soft damp cloth to the lovely linen is a balm for me. It’s a simple goal, to make something beautiful again. I’m surrounded by the places that I once knew. It helps.

  Irma pokes her head into the small sacristy to see how it’s coming. She wears her favorite plum paisley dress and her brown hair is in its usual sloppy topknot. When she sees me, she approaches the sink to hold up a corner of the cloth I’m working on.

  “I sure wish our predecessors had taken better care of these,” she says.

  “I’ll get them in shape,” I tell her.

  She nods and lays the cloth carefully back down. “I wanted you to know Father Stephen will be here in about half an hour. I sense you’ve been avoiding seeing him.”

  I continue to sweep the gentle cleanser across a particularly stubborn pale brown stain on the linen. “He’ll tell my parents I’ve been here.”

  “And he will protect your right to be here. He will not turn away a child of God from the Lord’s house.”

  “I know. I just feel happy here. I’ve lost a lot lately, and getting this back has been helpful.”

  Irma pats my shoulder. “I know, child. And I can’t abide by the way your father has treated you. But one day, you will have to mend that relationship.”

  “I don’t see how,” I say. “He only sees me the way he wants to.”

  “Perhaps Father Stephen can help him find forgiveness in his heart.”

  My pulse rockets. I want to tell her that I don’t need forgiveness. That he is the one that needs it. But that’s not very godly, so I bite back the words.

  I keep my measured, easy pace on the altar cloth, and finally the discoloration fades.

  “Look at that,” Irma says. “All the stain has been cleansed away.”

  I know what she’s trying to do. Make a big connection between my life with my father and this cloth.

  “I’ll just hang this up to dry now,” I say, stepping away. There’s a rack for the vestments on one wall of the sacristy, and I carefully drape the linen there. “I’m done for the day, I think.”

  She knows I’m not up for Father Stephen, or a forgiveness talk, or to mend the bond with my family. But Irma’s good at saying her piece and then letting things go.

  We walk together back to the office so I can gather my things.

  I nod at her. “I’ll be back in a few days.”

  She waves. “Mindy will be here on Thursday.”

  “Usual time?”

  “Usual time.”

  My little white car gleams in the sun. It’s already really hot, as summer has come in earnest. School has let out and a few children run along the sidewalk, followed by a distracted mother looking at her phone.

  I drive slowly down the street, past my family’s house. Mom’s minivan isn’t there. No one’s home. I’m tempted to walk up and peer in the windows. Take a good look at my old life.

  But I resist.

  The park is next, the peeling equipment and patchy dying grass. I do stop here, pulling up alongside the curb.

  There’s a lot of memories to sort in this space. Recess with Andy. Walks with Mindy. Mom reading her book. Dad checking up on me.

  And of course Blitz. We met here more than once.

  As I get out of my car and walk through the trees, I wish I could figure out exactly what is going on with me so I could work at it, scrub myself free of it like that linen stain.

  But it’s a low nagging ache. And I can’t break free.

  A few kids run amok on the sidewalks and a pair of mothers sit conspiratorially on a bench, one of them burping a baby.

  I don’t know why I’m here. I should be looking ahead, not behind.

  So I go back to my car. I purposely turn away from Dreamcatcher Dance Academy so I don’t have to drive by it and face my memories there.
As I head back to my empty house, I get a message from Blitz.

  I wait until I’m in the garage to take out my phone.

  Hey, call me when you get this. You won’t believe the message Hannah just got.

  Hannah is Blitz’s manager. Well, sort of. We can’t fire her due to the contract, but we don’t work directly with her anymore. He has his assistant Shelly be the go-between.

  As I walk into the house, I wonder what could be up. The new season of Dance Blitz won’t start filming for months. They are still auditioning contestants for Mack. There shouldn’t be anything to do, unless some other show wants Blitz to come on, or both of us.

  When I’ve kicked off my shoes and am ensconced on the sofa, I dial Blitz’s number.

  His voice makes me smile. “Princess! Sorry, I mean, Livia! You will never guess what has happened!”

  I regret snapping at him for calling me Princess. He’s done it since the day we met.

  “Let me guess,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. “You and Giselle are going to host a new dance show together.”

  Giselle was the trampy Dance Blitz finalist who went a little crazy when she got eliminated.

  “Good one. And ugh. No way. This is about you! The casting director for Dominika Sokolov wants you to come to a rehearsal tomorrow at Jenica’s!”

  “Wait. What? Who is Dominika whatever you said?”

  “That Russian ballerina who is going on tour. The one Jenica talked about!”

  “I didn’t audition for that.”

  “You don’t have to. Their scout saw you and wants you to come.” Blitz’s voice sounds like he is literally resting on cloud nine.

  “But he didn’t even look at me. The other girls were much better.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He wants you.”

  My fingers run along the velvety surface of the sofa. “Do I have to?”

  Blitz is quiet. In that empty space, I picture him rubbing his eyes, unsure of what to do with a sad, mopey girlfriend who doesn’t want to buy a house or take advantage of an incredible opportunity to dance.

  “Well, just think about it. I can come back tonight and go with you tomorrow. Shelly can get me on a red-eye.”

  I don’t know what to say. That I don’t have the energy. That I don’t want to go on tour, strange people, strange cities, strange everything.

  “You know what,” he says, “I’m going to go ahead and get on a plane as soon as the show is over. I’ll be there before you wake up.” Blitz’s energy hasn’t slowed down. “It won’t hurt to just go check it out.”

  He’s right. I can put on my big-girl leotard and at least be considerate of their interest. It’s what you do in show business, no matter what form it takes. This is what I signed on for when I chose Blitz.

  “Okay. I’ll see you then.”

  “Terrific! We’ll have to find you an agent. We definitely don’t want both of us tied up with the Evil One.”

  I manage a short laugh. “That’s for sure.”

  “I love you, Livia,” he says. “I’m super proud of you.”

  This makes my throat form a lump. “Thank you, Blitz. I love you too.”

  I set the phone on the floor and fall back on the cushions. I’m going to have to pull myself together.

  And if I’m dancing tomorrow with real ballerinas, then I better get my butt off the sofa and practice.

  Chapter 9

  Blitz does make it back by the next morning. Despite his late night, he’s practically bouncing with excitement as I pack a dance bag for the rehearsal.

  “Do you think you’ll get a solo? Will some hunky ballet boy get to dance with you? Will they put you on the posters?” He keeps Googling other traveling ballet shows to see how they do top billing, how the ballerinas are chosen, and how much stage time each type of performer gets.

  It doesn’t matter to me. I’m not sure I even want to do this. But the idea of being an actual ballerina has a lot of pull. It’s enough to get me out of the house and thinking about a future full of good what-ifs, not the lost ones.

  The small parking lot at Jenica’s is jam-packed, cars lined up on the street for blocks. Blitz pulls up to drop me off and promises to return as soon as he can find a place to leave the car.

  “We should have called Ted,” I say. We haven’t seen him in days.

  “I’ll be right there,” Blitz says as I open the door. “Don’t run off with the ballet until I’m there to kiss you good-bye!”

  I shake my head. As if that would happen.

  Inside, the foyer is packed with people. A different girl is at Weeza’s makeshift desk. “Aren’t you lovely!” she says with a friendly tilt of her head. “Name?”

  Total change from Weeza, for sure.

  “Livia Mason,” I say. “Or it might say Livia Mays. That’s my stage name.”

  The girl lifts her eyebrows, then looks me straight in the face. “Hey, you’re that girl from Dance Blitz!” She stands up. “Dmitri! Livia is up here!”

  I can’t see anybody in the craziness of dancers in leotards, coaches, and general people who ordinarily come to Jenica’s. I wonder if anybody’s in the gym.

  But the crowd starts to part, and I see the man from the other day. He’s dressed up today in a white button-down shirt and khakis. He smiles at me and waves as he moves forward.

  “Livia,” he says, grasping my hand in both of his. “I’m so glad you made it.”

  “I heard you tracked me down,” I say. “I’m not sure I’m really a good candidate for this.”

  “Of course you are,” he says. “The whole world has watched you do ballet. You have more fans than the biggest, most prima ballerina in all the stage!”

  Blitz bursts through the door, and stops short when he sees me so close. “Hey!”

  “You remember Blitz, I’m sure,” I say. “Blitz, this is Dmitri.”

  Only now does Dmitri release my hand to shake Blitz’s. “A real pleasure.”

  “Love that accent,” Blitz says. “How long have you been in the States?”

  “About six months,” Dmitri says. “We’ve been securing funding for the tour.”

  “I’m always looking for great acts to produce,” Blitz says. “Especially when they include Livia.”

  Dmitri raises his eyebrows. “We will keep that in mind.”

  “I haven’t agreed to do it yet!” I say to Blitz.

  “Of course,” Blitz says. “So what is happening here today?”

  Another girl comes through the door, so we step away from the desk to let her sign in.

  “We have already held the initial auditions,” Dmitri says. “Today the dancers who made the first cut will learn one of the numbers, and we will cut more.”

  “I’m totally going to get cut,” I say. “I don’t have near the ballet experience that most of these girls do.”

  Dmitri shakes his head. “Humility. I see so little of it in this work.”

  “Isn’t she great?” Blitz says.

  That’s as far as the conversation gets, as one of the girls says, “Isn’t that Blitz Craven?”

  And we’re mobbed.

  Blitz smiles and signs dance bags and random slips of paper the girls dig out. We’re obviously not in Kansas anymore. Jenica’s normal crew would never do that.

  We’re saved by a ringing sound that gets everyone quiet.

  Jenica calls out, “All dancers need to report to the gym to get your numbers and line up for the first rehearsal.”

  This draws everyone away from Blitz and through the doors to the gym.

  I start to head that way, but Dimitri catches my arm. “You stay with me a little longer. There is no need for you to take a number. Once the others are settled, we will go in and you can see the style and breadth of the dance. If you enjoy the music and would like to know more, we can talk away from here.”

  “So I’m not auditioning?” I ask.

  “No,” Dmitri says. “A position is yours for the taking.”

  Blitz slides his arm around m
y waist. “What position is that?”

  “Livia would be what we call a Guest Artist, a highly regarded ballerina engaged for the tour.”

  “Would she be on the poster?” Blitz asks.

  “Blitz!” I exclaim. “This isn’t a movie.”

  Dmitri smiles. “It is fine, all good questions. Livia would be considered a very valuable asset for drawing large audiences across the States. She would have second billing only to Dominika herself.”

  I wonder if this Russian ballerina will be annoyed at having to share the spotlight with a third-year ballet student who only has six months in toe shoes. And many of those spent on the sofa.

  “This sounds great,” Blitz says. “Should we go in?”

  “Let’s see where they are,” Dmitri says.

  We follow him to one of the doors to the gym. Inside, the dancers are pinning numbers to their leotards and the girl who was at the door is checking their names against their numbers.

  Two women and a man stand in front of the line of dancers, talking and doing an occasional dance move.

  In the corner, Conner, who often runs the music here, sits at the tiny soundboard that controls the speakers.

  I look around for Jenica and finally spot her sitting in the back corner on a pile of mats. Next to her is an incredibly poised and regal-looking woman in a pink leotard, with white-blond hair piled elegantly on her head.

  “Is that Dominika?” I ask Dmitri. “In the corner on the mat?”

  Dmitri nods. “She stands out, doesn’t she? She is as beautiful as a dove, as graceful as a swan.”

  Blitz grimaces behind Dmitri’s back, and I almost giggle.

  “Why did she leave Russia?” I ask. “Or is that public knowledge?”

  Dmitri frowns. “It did not make the news here, I don’t think. Her father was a diplomat. Her mother was a great gymnast. They were thrown from a hotel balcony.”

  I suck in a breath. “What? Why?”

  Dmitri shrugs. “Those are matters of state. But Dominika no longer has the heart for her country. So she came here.”

  I watch the elegant woman talk to Jenica. She sits tall and proud, but I see the seriousness in her. I think about what I have lost and realize that is nothing. Gabriella will grow up and can see me when she is eighteen, if she wants.