Page 41 of Forbidden Dance
His smile spreads slowly. “Are you interested in the position?”
I sit back. I hadn’t expected that. “I can cook. Give me a recipe and I’ll try anything.”
I can tell he wants to make another innuendo out of that, but he resists, folding his cloth napkin and setting it beside his plate. “Can I have you for the whole day? Can we just keep going all afternoon and into the evening and until it’s a new day?”
If only. I check my watch. It’s already been three hours. I can spare maybe one more.
“I’m sort of a daytime Cinderella,” I say. “I’m supposed to be back to scrubbing floors at three.”
He sighs. His hand reaches across the table for mine. “Tomorrow, then? I didn’t see you last Thursday.”
I wonder if I can get away with dancing tomorrow. Maybe, since I didn’t today. I can remind Mom that I’m working for my toe shoes and need the practice. Three times a week minimum, Betsy has said.
“When are you at the academy?” I ask him.
“After school,” he says. “It’s hip-hop day.”
“Come early,” I tell him. “Like at two. We can dance.” This will also create a deadline. When it’s time for the hip-hop class, he’ll have to go and I can run home.
“I’ll be there,” he says. He lifts my fingers to his lips. I’m so used to this gesture now that it’s almost like our private code. I refuse to think about him kissing anyone else like this. I’ll assume it’s a Benjamin thing, too old-fashioned for the fast lane with Blitz Craven.
Lita comes out. “I hope you liked it all. You know you aren’t paying for it.”
Blitz nods. “I wouldn’t dare offend you like that.”
She kisses his cheek and turns to me. “You will be good for this ne’er-do-well,” she says. “I think you have him by the tail.”
What does she mean by that? I look at Blitz, who shrugs. “Probably so.”
We head back to Blitz’s car. A couple of guys are standing by it, taking pictures.
I hang back. “Do you think they know who you are?” I ask.
“Nah,” he says. “The Ferrari always draws a crowd.” The car chirps as he approaches and the boys back away.
“Sick ride,” one says.
“Thanks,” Blitz calls back.
They look at me, and one elbows the other. He says, “I bet she is too.”
Before I can even process what is happening, Blitz has rushed the guy and punched him in the face.
“Blitz!” I say. “Stop!”
The guy is sprawled out on the asphalt.
“Don’t talk that way about her,” Blitz says.
“What the hell?” the guy says, holding his jaw.
“Please get in the car,” I say. “It’s okay.” My hands are shaking. I’m scared to death. I’m so afraid they’ll make a scene, that there will be a big fight. Blitz could get hurt, the police could come, someone could video us. I could be discovered. It’s all blowing through my mind like a horror film.
Blitz stands there a moment, staring the guys down, daring them to do or say anything else. But they walk away, shaking their heads.
Finally, he turns to the passenger door and holds it open for me. I slide into the seat. He walks around the front and sits as well, but he doesn’t start the car.
“You okay?” I ask him. “Did you hurt your hand?”
