Page 24 of Wicked Dance
“Hell, no, you ain’t worth a plugged nickel now that you’re practically hitched.” He winks at me. “Anyway, they said I better resume my duties or I was fired. I came on down to see what’s what with you.”
“Holed up in the hometown,” Blitz says. “Trying to get away from a pissed-off public.”
“I saw you kissed a pig at a rodeo,” Duke says with a laugh. Behind the blue Jaguar, a limo pulls up and honks. “Assholes,” Duke says, then he calls out, “Your celebrity ain’t any bigger than my celebrity!”
“It’s all right,” Blitz says. He leads me to the door and I duck inside.
As I slide across the seat, I remember what Blitz told me early on about all the cameras installed inside. He’d bought a new car to drive to Texas to avoid unauthorized footage of him.
I look around anxiously. I don’t spot anything obvious.
Blitz closes his door. He also glances at the ceiling, floor, and doors.
“Would we know if we’re being recorded?” I ask.
“Nope,” Blitz says. “Although I know there was one here.” He pushes a button on a rectangle of metal in the ceiling and a screen pops down. Loose wires spring out.
Duke gets in the car and slams his door. He glances back as he buckles up and says, “Oh, I scrubbed the car. No cameras.”
“You just jerked them out?” Blitz asks, stuffing the wires back against the screen to close the lid.
“Pretty much,” Duke says. “I didn’t do your place, though. That’s wired so hot you’ll probably have to level it to get them all.”
Blitz sits back. “I’ll just sell it,” he says. “I’ll need the money anyhow.”
Duke pulls away from the hotel. “That Giselle chick sue your ass into oblivion or what?”
“Nah, she dropped her suit for a new tactic. I quit the show.”
Duke doesn’t respond to that, merging into traffic.
Twilight is starting to fall, and streetlights pop on ahead.
“So what’s your next step?” Duke asks. “Should I ride this wave until it crashes or find another line of work?”
“It’s not settled yet,” Blitz says. “They’ll keep you on the payroll until I say.”
Duke catches my eye in the rearview mirror. The car isn’t terribly big. “So what’s your story, Livia? You grow up in San Antone?”
“I moved there four years ago,” I say. “From Houston.”
“That’s one hell of a city,” Duke says. “Couldn’t pay me to live there. All the traffic of LA but none of the eye candy.” We stop at a light and a girl in a bikini top and jeans saunters in front. He honks at her. She doesn’t look.
“Not with me in the car, Duke,” Blitz says. “I’ve got enough attention right now.”
“Now that’s the whole truth and nothing but the truth,” Duke says. “You check out Twitter today?”
“Been avoiding it,” Blitz says.
Duke messes with his phone, and when the light turns green, he tosses it back to us. “Check out what’s trending.”
The phone lands on the seat between us. Blitz ignores it, but I pick it up. “Did you post that picture of the girls in blue from the signing?” I ask him.
“No,” he says. “I can do that.” He pulls his own phone out of his pocket.
But as I look at all the Tweets about Blitz since the images of the finalists hit the media this morning, I hold out my arm. “I wouldn’t say a word right now,” I tell him.
“Why?”
I don’t want to tell him. It’s not as bad as the #BurnBlitzBurn that trended when he was in trouble. But it’s close.
There are pages and pages, as far as I can scroll, all saying the same thing.
#DanceBlitzRematch
