Page 2 of Wounded Dance
Gwen waves to us and follows Gabriella out of the room.
I bite my lip to stay in control and turn to Blitz. “I should probably call you Benjamin too,” I say. “It’s the rest of the world who knows you as Blitz.”
He walks up and wraps his arms around me, resting his chin on my head. “You can call me anything you want.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I say with a laugh. “I can come up with all manner of depraved nicknames.”
He pulls back and presses a light kiss on my mouth. Then he says, “I like it when you’re depraved.”
He spins me out in a whirl, his hand and body communicating where I should go. For a few dizzying seconds, we dance together in dramatic turns, the world a blur. Then he pulls me against him, our bodies flush against each other.
A lot of our conversations end like this.
“Lunch?” I ask him, breathing hard.
He laughs. “Absolutely.”
I head to the corner where I’ve stashed my coat and a bag with normal shoes.
He heads for the sound equipment. “Make sure you save room for dinner, though. Mom will expect you to eat!”
My stomach flutters. Tonight I’ll be meeting Blitz’s parents for the first time. We would have done it before now, but they spent Christmas and early January in Colorado, so they’ve just now gotten back and settled down enough to have visitors.
Blitz shuts down the music as Aurora arrives to set up for her toddler class. She has a little girl with her, Cassandra, her boyfriend’s daughter.
“You have a helper!” I say to Aurora.
“No school today,” Aurora says. “I’m watching her while Samuel works.” Her eyes flit over to Blitz. Even though he volunteered here for a few weeks around Thanksgiving last year, everyone is still a little starstruck when they see him.
It’s been worse since the live finale of his show, which went completely viral and has been the highest-rated reality show episode of all time. My face still flushes when I think of how bold I was to march on that stage and demand he dance with me instead of the contestants.
Sometimes my friend Mindy sends me memes of a screenshot from the broadcast. It shows me crossing in front of the three finalists in their sparkly dresses. I look grim and determined. The captions are always changing.
What a hostile takeover looks like.
When you ain’t gonna let no ho dance with your man.
I try to ignore all the fuss. Blitz and I want to live as quietly as we can for as long as possible, at least until we can figure out what’s next. I know the finalists from his show feel robbed and angry. One of them, Mariah, has sued the producers, since she was supposedly slated to be the actual winner. She lost out on a lot of publicity and fame because of me.
It’s a mess.
Blitz takes my hand as I stand up from putting on my shoes. We head down the hall of Dreamcatcher Dance Academy, which is filling with moms and little girls for their classes. There’s more kids here today with school out, siblings of the tiny ones who usually attend alone. The mothers seem more harried than usual.
We cross the foyer, waving at Suze, who sits at the front desk. A few moms stop talking to point at Blitz. He smiles and is friendly, but doesn’t pause, his hand on my back as we head for the doors.
I’m on the steps when my brain stutters. My attention fixes on a man on the sidewalk, looking up, his cheeks ruddy from the cold as if he’s stood there a while.
My body gets some message from my brain before I can comprehend exactly what is happening, why I’m feeling a threat. My feet are rooted to the concrete, my chest buzzing with alarm.
Blitz stops with me. “You okay, Livia?” he asks.
His words are what bring the moment into focus. This man in front of me wears a black leather jacket, his layered brown hair flying in the wind.
It’s him.
God.
It’s him.
