Page 10 of Wounded Dance
“No, no,” I say. “I’ve already waited a month to meet them.”
Blitz gives me one more squeeze and stands. “We’ll get past this, Livia. That guy will be nothing more than a blip in our very long lives.”
I head back to the bathroom to get ready for dinner. I want Blitz to be right. But I knew Denham very well. And I can still hear his threat.
I’m going to find that baby.
Chapter 6
Blitz’s parents live in a modest house just outside Alamo Heights. When he pulls his red Ferrari into the drive, a middle-aged couple comes out on the porch, which is still decked with Christmas lights since they just got back in town.
I’ve never done this before, met anyone’s parents. I’ve barely met anyone at all since I was fifteen, just a few people from our tiny church and the dance instructors at Dreamcatcher Academy. I arrange the skirt of my new dress and fuss over the collar of my coat. Blitz comes around to open my door and peeks his head in.
“Remember, if they howl the cry of my pack, howl with them or they will attack you as an enemy.”
“Blitz!”
He steps back, laughing, as I get out of the car.
He pulls me into his arms once I’m out and whispers close to my ear, “Just remember, my dad is pretty rough around the edges. Hopefully Mom will make up for him.”
My fingers clutch his sweater as I try to steady my nerves. “I’ll be fine,” I tell him.
Blitz’s mother looks friendly as we approach. She wears black dress pants and a shimmery tunic. Her hair is deep black and twisted in a simple bun. She’s not flashy, just small earrings and only a bit of makeup.
His father seems to have a natural scowl, his big eyebrows turned down. He wears khaki pants and a deep blue short-sleeved button-down shirt that I know from Blitz is called a guayabera. He’s oblivious to the chill. He seems considerably older than the mom, his gray hair thin and combed over.
The house itself is simple, sandy brick with slender white columns on the porch, a single-car garage at one end.
Blitz takes my hand as we reach the steps. “Mamá, Papá, this is Livia. I think you saw her on the show a few weeks ago. Livia, this is David and Renata.”
His father snorts, but his mother holds out her arms. “What a brave young girl you are,” she says, stepping forward to pull me into an embrace. “You must have been terrified going in front of all those people! Benjamin tells me you are a ballerina.”
The father snorts again.
“Yes,” I say as she releases me. “Well, I dance ballet. I’m still a student.”
This makes the father raise his eyebrows. “Are you in high school?”
“No, Papá, I did not rob any cradle,” Blitz says. He seems annoyed by his father’s suggestion. “She is at a dance academy.”
“Let’s go inside,” his mother says. “Before this foolish old man in his short sleeves freezes right to death.”
“This cold is nothing,” his father says. “You are all just too soft.”
Wow. This is going to be interesting. I’m starting to see what Blitz is talking about with his father. I take a few deep breaths, prepared for a tough evening with him.
We head inside the house. It’s warm, and I take off my coat immediately before I break out in a sweat from the anxiety. Blitz takes it from me.
“I’ll get some tea,” Renata says and disappears down the hall.
David stretches out in a big brown chair like he’s going to act any way he wants, no matter the company. Blitz pulls me next to him on a flowered sofa.
There’s a fire burning in a small brick hearth near us. “How was Colorado?” Blitz asks.
“Snowy,” David says. “Your mother drags me there every damn year.” He picks up a large glass of iced tea from the table by his chair and takes a drink. “I live in San Antonio to stay away from all that mess.”
I have no idea what to say. I concentrate on Blitz’s hand. He’s taken mine and bends each finger one at a time as if he, too, is trying to manage his discomfort.
