Page 68 of Wounded Dance
Denham continues to stare at the ground, as if he can’t wrap his head around this. “I can’t do anything with that,” he says. “That’s too much responsibility.” He still won’t look me in the eye. “What’ll everybody say when they see me with a kid in a wheelchair?”
We all stop to watch him. I’m so angry I want to hit him, hurt him like he is hurting my heart.
“You don’t deserve her,” I say.
He does glance up at me at that, just for a second. “Yeah,” he finally says. “You’re right about that.”
He digs in his pocket for the keys to his truck. He pulls a silver cross off the ring, banged up but heavy and well made. He tosses it to me.
I trap it against my chest and it falls cold into my palm.
“Give her that,” he says. “It was my gramma’s. Only thing I have of hers. Tell baby girl that her daddy was no good, and her daddy’s momma was no good, but her great-gramma, she was good. Her name was Lucille. It’s engraved on the back.” He points at the cross. “Lucille Young.”
I hold the heavy cross in my hand. “You aren’t going to at least meet her?”
He shakes his head. “I’m gonna move on now. Thanks for getting me out.” He peers up at the building, and the sun, squinting his eyes. “You’ll do right by her. It’s your way.”
And with that, he takes off in long strides across the parking lot, through the cop cars, and turns down the street. We stand there, watching, until he’s out of sight.
“That saves you quite a bit of trouble,” Jeremy says.
I can’t speak. I feel like my breath has been forced from my lungs.
Blitz gathers me up against him. “I’m here, Livia,” he says.
“My driver is pulling up,” Jeremy says. “Let’s head on to the street.”
Blitz holds me tight as we follow the path Denham took through the cars. When we get to the sidewalk, a black Mercedes stops at the curb. I look up the street, trying to get one last glance at Denham, Gabriella’s father, the love I once knew.
But he’s disappeared, the tall buildings cutting off the view.
Just like that, this whole dark period of my life is over.
Chapter 25
By the time we’re all the way back to the hotel, Blitz’s social media team is working the #WhatDidBlitzDo hashtag, explaining how he was helping a hometown criminal get his life back on track. Somehow, they manage to move the activity over to #WhatWillBlitzDoNext and have people suggest nonprofits or causes Blitz could get behind.
By the end of the next day, it’s all blown over. At least the jail part.
Danika calls to say Denham’s truck is gone from the block. That’s over too.
On Thursday morning, I pick at the breakfast Blitz orders up to our room. Normally we would be heading up to Dreamcatcher to have our private lesson with Gabriella. I have no idea where we stand on that.
“We can still go up to the academy,” Blitz says. “Unless you want more punishment from Jenica. She’s asking where we are.”
“No, thank you!” I say, but I can’t even muster a smile.
Blitz comes up behind my chair and lifts my hair to kiss my shoulder. “I think we should dance,” he says.
I’m reluctant to go, sure I’ll feel even more despondent when the hour for our lesson with Gabriella arrives and she isn’t there. I pack my dance bag slowly so that we can get there after we would have danced with her.
We’ve just requested for the car to be brought downstairs when Blitz’s phone buzzes. “It’s Ted,” he says.
“Is he still working as security for Danika?” I ask.
Blitz laughs. “Yes,” he says. “And he sent a picture.”
He holds up his phone. I’m not particularly interested in the shot until I see a familiar black head in a wheelchair, Ted kneeling beside her.
