Page 31 of Wounded Dance
I hesitate. I can’t have him roaring off with me locked inside.
“I’ll stay out here.”
“I’m not going to bite,” he says. “Although I’ll admit you look damn delicious. But I don’t have enough gas to get me very far, so you’re pretty safe.”
I glance around. If I stay out here, I’ll be spotted by someone eventually. Suze might ask questions. Or Danika. I wouldn’t know how to explain this. And God help me if anyone took a picture and uploaded it somewhere. Blitz would go ballistic.
So I step up and sit on the torn-up cushion and close the door. But I keep my fingers wrapped around the handle.
“You look good, Livia,” Denham says. His voice is more casual now, without the drawl and the leer in it.
“Thank you,” I say. “So how did you figure out where I was?”
“Googled the hell out of your man,” he says. “Wasn’t easy to link it all up.”
That’s good, I think. I wouldn’t want a million crazed fans here if they knew Blitz was back after the promo video he did with the wheelchair ballerinas a couple months ago.
“We were careful to leave this academy out of the interviews,” I say. “How did you find it?”
“When I saw y’all onscreen, I figured you hadn’t been together long. Saw he’d been in San Antonio and followed his trail on Twitter and those sleazy celebrity sites. When you got up on those ballet toes, I figured he met you here.”
“He did,” I say. No use denying that.
“You been an item long?” He breaks his gaze on me for that question, staring out the front windshield. His earbuds are piled in his lap now, white cords on faded blue jeans. He still has the black leather jacket on.
“A few months,” I say, stretching it a bit.
He doesn’t have the young rebel attitude anymore. His face is more filled out, still handsome, but not the lean, spare look he had as a teen. He’s rough around the edges, his whiskers grown out more than Blitz lets his get, and lighter colored. He looks hard, like he’s seen a lot. He’s been in jail, I remember.
“He doing all right by you?” he asks. His hand drapes over the steering wheel like he’s feeling laid back, but I can see the tension in his jaw.
I know this face, I realize. At one time, I knew what he was thinking just by the expression he was trying to hide. Watching him now sends a million memories flooding back to me.
“He is,” I say. “Although he’s worried about this. About you. What do you want, Denham?”
He turns to me then, his light eyes piercing me. “I came here to tell you about the DNA.” He sniffs. “But now I need to know about my baby.”
I don’t know what I should tell him. I could lie, say it is a boy and he lives in Nebraska. I could say he died when he was three. I could say I don’t know anything, that I hadn’t even seen the baby or found out the gender.
But I’m not good at those things. I think the less I say, the better.
“I hired a lawyer,” I say. Maybe I can intimidate him into leaving. “I know you have a criminal record. You won’t be able to get her.”
“So she’s a girl,” he says. “Imagine that. A baby girl.” He turns back to the windshield. “Is she as pretty as you?”
This is why I shouldn’t talk. Heat rises in me that I’ve even said that much. “I don’t have her, Denham. She was adopted at birth. It was all legal and square. It’s a good family. Please don’t mess up her life.”
He taps his thumb on the steering wheel. “I don’t see how it could be all legal and square if I didn’t sign anything. And I might have a past.” He glances at me. “But I do know one thing about the courts.” He flashes me a smile. “They love reforming bad guys.”
My blood chills. “Denham, this is not about you. It’s about her. Leave her be. I wasn’t happy to let her go either. I was too young to make that decision. But I stand by what’s happened, for her sake.”
This is the wrong thing to say. I know it immediately. Denham’s face lights up and he takes my hand. I want to pull away, but he’s got me.
“Livia! Then let’s do this for us. Let’s get our baby back. We can raise her. You got your man. And that’s all right. But let’s get her. Let’s right this wrong.”
I jerk hard to get my hand away. “That’s selfish!” I say. “It’s not what she would want. She thinks of her parents as her parents!” I must be careful not to say the father has died. This will only fuel Denham’s determination.
“She’s a kid. She’ll recover. When she gets older, she might be mad that she never got to meet us.”
