Page 37 of Wounded Dance
“Good,” I said. “I want you to remember everything.” I hesitated, my heart hammering. “Because I’m in love with you.”
His eyes glittered as he searched my face. “Really?”
“Yeah. I think I have been for a while.”
His smile was lazy and irresistible. “You’re one crazy kid.”
I thought I might cry. I wasn’t a kid! I would show him that. “Kiss me some more,” I said.
Denham watched me, his breath coming fast. I knew it was working. We were beating the obstacles, knocking them down. Nobody knew what we felt. Nobody had to know.
“No way I can resist you,” he said. “No way.”
And he kissed me again, not just my mouth, not just my skin, but every sensitive place, inside and out. He showed me the things he knew, and I felt like a flower opening its petals to the sun.
We were careful then, not going too far, learning each other, taking no risks.
But he was right. Once we started, there was no going back.
Chapter 14
I never did write Mindy. The shame came over me again. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know who Denham was then, or that in the end he wasn’t my half-brother. The shadow that darkened those years crossed over me and I couldn’t talk to anyone, not even in messages.
I was glad I was alone.
For an hour or so, I distracted myself by poring over Gwen’s Facebook page, saving photos of Gabriella to my iPad. Then I felt guilty for stalking her without her knowing and shut it down. My life was a mess. So many lies and half-truths. I thought about this woman who was Denham’s mother and the Aunt Didi who dumped him on us. But they were dead.
I wondered if Denham knew his father by now. That would be Gabriella’s grandfather. He might be alive. Another person cheated from knowing her.
I stood up and changed from my dance clothes into sweatpants. The loneliness began to pierce me. I needed to do something useful so I could get my mind off these thoughts of Denham and Gabriella.
But I had loved Denham. And eventually, he had loved me.
That first month of high school was amazing.
We knew our limits. Now that the floodgates were open, Denham and I sneaked around any time we could. After Mom and Dad had gone to bed, he would come to my room, and we would push the envelopes of touching, tasting, and teasing each other.
I wanted more, but Denham was dead set against it. And we were careful not to be seen together too much. There was this glow about us that would be so easy to spot.
Denham quit sneaking out. He still wore boots and leather, but he was softer now, less angry and bitter. He even stopped smoking. Most nights he played with Andy, and he and I stole happy glances at each other from across the room.
One night at dinner, Mom remarked that Denham sure was fitting in well with us.
“I like playing with Andy,” Denham said carefully. “He’s a great kid.”
Andy leaned over in his chair to rest his head on Denham’s shoulder. “I love Denum.”
My dad grunted, but I could see he was pleased with how it was all working out. Later, I wondered why he hadn’t gone ahead and told us that night that Denham was his son. If he had, he could have saved our family so much heartache.
With two seemingly responsible teenagers at home now, Mom and Dad decided to go to San Antonio overnight for their anniversary. I thought about having an entire night to be with Denham, going anywhere we wanted in the house, and felt flushed with anticipation.
We put Andy to bed as usual, and waited a solid hour to make sure he was sound asleep before crashing into each other.
“On the sofa,” Denham said. “And the kitchen table.”
“Backyard?” I asked. October was still warm in Houston.
“Anywhere you want,” he said.
