Wicked Grind

by J. Kenner

  I accept all the hugs and promise I'll see them at the next class. Then I lock the door behind them, and for the first time in days I can completely relax. Because I don't have another class until Zumba, and nobody else is using this room until then.

  I go to the jam box, turn on the music, and simply dance. Sometimes I rehearse a routine or try to choreograph something new. But not today. Today, I just want to get lost. And as the music takes me, I let go, relishing the freedom of the melody. The power that fills me. And not just the strength in my limbs, but the wellspring of emotion that rises inside me.

  It's as if I'm soaring. As if gravity means nothing. It's wonderful and thrilling and exciting.

  I'm letting go completely, and that's something I never do in the real world. But in here, with the music, I'm always me.

  It's the only place I've ever truly felt like me.

  But as I fall to the ground in time with the final strains of music, breathless and alive, I realize that's not entirely true.

  I felt this way twelve years ago in Wyatt's arms.

  I felt it again last night.

  And I'm not sure that I have the strength to stay away from the one man who can truly bring me to life.

  18

  "Griff!" I yelp, as I clutch the door with one hand and the dashboard with the other. "If we die before we get to the party, I am totally going to kill you. And if you scratch Blue, I'm going to disown you."

  "Chill," he orders. "I'm just doing what you never do."

  "If you mean driving like a complete idiot down a twisty canyon road, then yeah. I never do that."

  We're still well above the city in the hills that separate the Valley from the West Side, but he's slowed down a bit. Whether because the road's now reasonably straight or because of my griping, I'm not really sure.

  "I should never have let you drive," I mutter.

  "Nonsense. Blue loves it, don't you, girl." He pats the Mustang's dashboard, and I have to grin.

  I also realize in that moment that I can't sell Blue. She's an easy route to a decent amount of cash, but there's no way I can part with her. I love her too much.

  More important, so does Griff.

  Which means that I have to do the shoot, figure out another way to earn fifteen grand really fast, or tell Griffin I don't have the money.

  I already know I can't do the shoot. I'd be trading fifteen grand for unemployment once the show opened.

  But I also don't have another way to earn the money really fast. It's not like I have the money in investments. After all, I'm the girl whose checking account is feeling warm and full and happy if it tops four hundred after I've paid the mortgage, utilities, and all the other necessary bills.

  I've got some savings, sure, but it's mostly retirement accounts through my school that aren't vested yet, so I can't get to the money. I already pulled out five thousand from savings for the initial cost of getting him into the program, and now I have just enough in my account to cover a month of living expenses if I lose my job. Which I won't since I'm not posing for Wyatt.

  And I can't take out an equity loan against the condo I bought at the height of the real estate market because that bubble burst, and I'm upside down.

  A bad financial decision on my part, maybe, but I do love my little place in Valencia.

  I could borrow from Nia, but I don't know when I could repay her, and I firmly agree with the adage of not mixing money with friendship.

  Working more can't save me either. I did the math, and even though I've rearranged my summer so that I can offer two extra children's dance classes and one adult Zumba class, that won't earn me anywhere close to the money I need.

  Which means I'm out of luck.

  Or, rather, Griffin is.

  I just don't quite know how to tell him.

  "Hey," he says. "Where'd you go? I just took that curve at lightning speed, and you didn't even yell at me."

  I smile. "Maybe I'm becoming a daredevil."

  "Yeah, that'll be the day." He glances up at the cloth roof. "We really should have the top down."

  "I love this car, and I love that it's a convertible. But I spent an hour on my hair, and you're crazy if you think I'm going into some big producer's mansion looking windblown."

  "You look great," he says, because as brothers go, he's the best. "As a navigator, though, you're crap. Are we even close?"

  "Oh, sorry." I'd been navigating until his Speed Racer tactics had thrown me off task. I open the app on my phone and figure out where we are and where we're going. "There," I say, pointing to an upcoming stop sign. "Turn right, and then it looks like we're going all the way to the end of the road."

  The map doesn't lie. We end up at a gorgeous multi-level mansion perched at the end of a street that dead-ends over a canyon. Which means that the entire back side of the house more or less hangs off into space. Mildly terrifying, but I can't wait to get inside.

  I turn to Griff. "This is your producer's house, right?"

  "His name's Tim Falcon, but everyone calls him Bird. I know, it's stupid, but he's brilliant, so he gets away with it."

  "And the movie's called Warhol, Women, and the Great White Whale?"

  Griffin nods, and I give myself a pat on the back. I pay attention to movies once they're out, not when they're still in production. But now that Griffin's in the biz, I've been trying to get educated. Apparently this is a coming of age film set in the sixties with a protagonist who's fascinated with Moby Dick and pop art. Griffin is his adult voice of reason looking back on the teenage wackiness and angst.

  "Ready?" he asks as he gives the valet his keys.

  I nod, and one of the uniformed men opens the car door for me. I walk the short path to the house, step inside the already open front door, then gasp at the view.

  I'd expected stunning, but this blows me away. There are no walls. Or, rather, there are, but they're entirely glass. So it really does seem as though we're floating in space.

  I'm dying to get over to the far wall--I'm curious to know if the illusion is shattered the closer you get--but we get waylaid by a tall, skinny man with wiry, ginger hair and purple-tinted John Lennon glasses.

  "Griffin! The man behind the curtain! The voice of the future! I am so glad you could make it." He grabs Griff's shoulders, then leans forward to deposit air kisses on either side of my brother's face while Griff endures this absurdity with an expression that resembles polite civility. But I know him well enough that he's wishing he could bolt.

  "And who is this lovely creature?" The man turns to me, then glances back at Griff. "Your wife? Girlfriend? Mistress?" he adds with a wink, as I force a smile and tell myself that I can suffer through this party because I'm here for Griffin.

  "Sister," Griff says. "Kelsey, meet Bird. My director."

  "Oh!" I reach out to shake his hand, grateful I hadn't made some snarky comment earlier. Instead of shaking, he pulls me close for my own air kisses, followed by a rib-crushing hug.

  "Darling, your brother is the best. The absolute best. The nuances he's bringing to Lorelei's script." He lifts himself up on the balls of his feet, making him look even more like a scarecrow, and peers around the room.

  "I know she's here somewhere," he mutters. "And she simply must meet you. And say hello to you, too, Griffin. But damn that woman, where is--ah! Well, he'll do. Come here, come here. There's someone I want you to meet."

  I practically go en pointe, but I can't see who he's waving over. At least not until a cluster of women to the left of Griffin parts--and there he is. Just standing there looking sexy as hell in tailored gray slacks, a white Henley, and a collarless gray jacket.

  Wyatt.

  I feel him as much as I see him. That sizzle on my skin. That squeeze around my heart. The warmth that infuses my blood, teasing me in all the right places.

  He's looking at me, too, and though I know he must be furious at me for backing out of the project, his expression is entirely unreadable. Even so, I have to force myself to stand
tall under the weight of his gaze. And it takes all of my strength not to reach out and clutch Griff's hand for support.

  If Bird notices the tension between us, he doesn't comment on it. Instead, he hooks his arm around Wyatt's shoulder and pulls him closer. "Wyatt, buddy, you have got to meet this man. Griffin, this is Wyatt."

  "Nice to meet you," he says, extending his right hand. Griffin takes it, and I hold my breath as I watch Wyatt's face, wondering if he's going to react to the feel of the burn scars or the fact that Griff's missing his right pinkie.

  But he doesn't react at all, even though there's no way he can't have noticed, and in that moment I want to kiss the man. That's the hardest thing for Griffin--getting out and socializing, especially in Hollywood where everyone puts such a premium on physical beauty. So anytime someone overlooks his scars, I pretty much want to nominate them for sainthood.

  "Wyatt is Lorelei's son," Bird says. "And Griffin here is Arnold's adult voice."

  "Oh, right," Wyatt says. He'd turned his attention to me, as if expecting another introduction, but he shifts back to Griffin. "My mom met you at the audition. She said you knocked it out of the park."

  "Good to hear. It's a great role. I'm thrilled to be part of it."

  "With any luck, our little film is going to make a huge splash," Bird says. From what Griff has told me, he's a respected director, but he tends to do art films. This is a more mainstream project, but the budget is small. They're all hoping, of course, that it explodes once it's released.

  But then again, I assume that's what everyone in Hollywood is always hoping. Personally, I'm just glad my brother has work.

  Thinking about work, I glance back at Wyatt, only to find that his attention is already on me. "Hi," I say, because the silence is hanging awkwardly around the four of us, and I can't exactly pretend he doesn't exist.

  "Sorry about that," Griffin says. "Wyatt, this is my sister. Kelsey."

  "We've met," Wyatt says, before I can conjure words. "A long time ago, actually. In Santa Barbara." He extends his hand, and I take it without thinking. Then draw in a sharp breath when I see his gaze land on the infinity bracelet.

  Griff looks between the two of us. "Well, that's a coincidence." Griff looks at me, the corner of his mouth hitched up just a little. "Why don't Bird and I go talk shop, and we'll let you two catch up?"

  I want to kick him, but he just grins that annoying Griffin grin and slides away. He's never met Wyatt, but he knows the name, and when this party is over, I'm probably going to have to kill my brother.

  "Looks like you're stuck with me," Wyatt says, as I tug my hand free. "I like your bracelet."

  My heart twists. "Wyatt--"

  "Walk with me," he says, and I do, falling in step beside him as easily as I used to all those years ago.

  He leads us to the window, and we stand side by side, looking out over the hills, now tinted pink from the setting sun. The ground beneath us seemingly drops away, adding to the illusion that we're floating, which I suppose is appropriate since that's how I always feel around Wyatt.

  "Listen," I say when I can no longer take the lingering silence. "I'm really sorry about last night. I know that I begged you to hire me, and then I totally bailed, and I really don't blame you for being upset, because--"

  "You think I'm mad at you?"

  I frown, turning slightly so that I can face him. "Aren't you?"

  "I was--well, more irritated than angry. Mostly I've been mad at myself. That crap about punishing you. I had no right, Kelsey. I was just--"

  He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. The bottom line is that I was a prick, and I'm sorry, and I get why you'd be mad."

  "I'm not," I say truthfully. Because the only one I'm mad at is me.

  "Then why are you dodging my calls?"

  "What are you talking about?" I swing my purse around so that I can get my phone out and show him there've been no missed calls. But my phone isn't there. "Ah," I say. "I think I see the problem."

  I hold out my open purse for his inspection. "No phone. And it barely had any charge when I got to your studio. It probably fell out at Griffin's last night."

  He laughs. "You're a strange woman, Kelsey."

  I bristle a little. "Excuse me?"

  "I'm not sure I've ever met a woman who wasn't surgically attached to her phone, and you've gone almost twenty-four hours without it."

  "I'm a wonder among women," I deadpan.

  "Yeah," he says, looking at me intently. "You are."

  I swallow, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. "Why were you calling?"

  "To apologize," he says. "And to ask you to come back."

  "Oh."

  "This show is pivotal for me. And I need you." He speaks with such intensity and honesty that it almost seems as though we're back in Santa Barbara, sitting under a tree holding hands. "And I know you need the money. It's good for both of us," he adds. "Kelsey, please."

  A lump forms in my throat, because I have to say no. I have to disappoint this man once again. I'd hurt him when I ran out of the party, and now I'm doing the same thing all over again. "I should never have even tried out," I say. "I should have just stayed far away."

  For a moment, he simply looks at me, his expression hard. My stomach twists, because I'm sure he's agreeing. After all, I destroyed so many things.

  The silence grows heavy, and as I scramble for something to say, the Lyle Tarpin comes over and hooks his arm around Wyatt's shoulder. I sit there like an idiot staring, because he's my first up-close-and-personal movie star.

  "Any luck on your quest to find that girl? Evelyn's over by the bar if you want to enlist her help."

  Wyatt clears his throat, then nods toward me. "Lyle, meet Kelsey."

  "Kelsey," Lyle says. "Oh. Right." He points across the room. "Lovely to meet you, but I need to go over there now. I need privacy to extract my foot from my mouth."

  I laugh, my star-induced nervousness dissolving. "It's okay," I assure him, but he's already heading off. I shift my attention to Wyatt. "Friend of yours?"

  "My confessor," he says. "I told him I'd been an ass and needed to lure you back. I also told him I didn't know how to find you."

  "And yet here I am."

  "Yeah," he says softly. "Here you are. Have I managed to lure you?"

  "I--I just can't. I need the money, you're right. But last night, when you . . ." I clear my throat. "Well, when I saw the photos of me, I realized I was crazy to think it would work. I'd get the money I need, but I'd be fired in a heartbeat."

  "I'm not creating porn, Kelsey."

  "No! Wyatt, please. I already told you. There's beauty and strength and . . . well, your work is amazing."

  "Then what?"

  I sigh, because I shouldn't have to explain this. "We both know there are people who won't see it that way. And as much as I need fifteen grand right now, I need a career for the rest of my life."

  He nods thoughtfully, then turns away from the window. He glances over the guests in the room, and I see when his gaze lands on Griffin. "What's the money for, Kelsey?"

  I have to swallow the lump in my throat. "I told you it's none of your business."

  "I'm making it my business."

  "Wyatt . . ."

  "A treatment? Plastic surgery? What?"

  "Fine. Whatever." I'm too tired and flustered to argue. "It's for a new protocol. His burns--" My voice cracks and I blink furiously, because I am not crying at this party.

  "His burns go all the way to the bones, and he doesn't have much range of motion on his right side. The protocol is supposed to help ease some of that by repairing some of the skin and nerve damage. I don't know how. I just know that there's been success in lesser burns and now they're trying to adapt the protocol for fourth-degree survivors."

  I shrug. "He needs it, Wyatt. You can't see how bad it is when he's dressed, but he really needs this. And I really need to help him."

  "I saw his hand," Wyatt says. "His arm, too. And even though he keeps it well-hidd
en, I have a sense of how extensive the scarring is under his hair."

  I glance at him curiously.

  "It's what I'm trained to do, Kelsey. I look at people. Really look at them."

  I nod. "Right. Well, anyway, I've already paid the initial fee, and he's been accepted into phase one. That's what I need the money for. Another few weeks is all I have. All he has."

  He nods thoughtfully, then turns back to face the window and the rolling hills below. The sun sets quickly in Los Angeles, and the hills that had been tinted red in the sunset are now a series of contrasting grays, illuminated by the scattered lights of Hollywood's expensive homes.

  Soon it will be completely dark, and all we'll see is the party reflected in the glass.

  I glance between the lingering view and his face, wondering what he's thinking. But I don't expect it when he says, very softly, "I had no idea he was your brother."

  "He uses a stage name. Griffin Blaize. It's his idea of a joke."

  "How did it happen?"

  I hug myself, suddenly cold. "It doesn't matter. It was a long time ago."

  "About twelve years ago. That's what my mother said. She told me about this incredible voice talent. A really good-looking guy, she added. He'd be a great character actor, she said. But never a leading man. Not in this town. Not unless it was in an animated movie."

  I see my face reflected in the glass now, and I see that his eyes are intent on me.

  "She said that he told her it happened when he was almost thirteen. When he was living one summer in Santa Barbara."

  I press a hand to my stomach, suddenly nauseous.

  "It doesn't matter," I repeat.

  He nods slowly, as if considering something, then faces the glass again, where the party now fills the view, and not the hills below. "I'll lend you the money."

  "Wyatt." His name is a whisper.

  "It would be my privilege."

  "I--thank you, but no. I can't accept it. I can't take a loan from a friend when I know I probably won't ever be able to pay it back."

  He studies me for so long I start to get uncomfortable.

  "What?" I finally demand.

  "So we're friends?"

  I actually laugh. "Yeah," I say. "At least, I'd like to be."

  But I bite my lip against the urge to say what I'm really thinking--that I'd really like to be so much more.