Page 9 of Life

Once I’ve removed my clothes and set the temperature on the shower, I step in. My knees and thighs smart once the heat hits them. The pain has been increasing with the endless hours of rehearsal, reminding me of the broken femurs that took a full year of hard-core physical therapy and heaping doses of determination to heal as well as they have. Doctors were amazed I could dance again.

The problem is, those old wounds ache and are showing signs of strain these past few years. As much as I hate to think about it, I’m not going to be able to dance forever. I’m twenty-eight—in dancer years, that’s closer to fifty. The average dancer is retired by thirty-five and only if they’ve been perfectly healthy. I definitely need to start considering what’s next.

Frustrated anew, I snap off the water, not feeling an ounce better. My headache’s gone, but the tension, the steady ache of loss, is still pumping inside of me. Every step has my nerve endings tingling. Spending my teen years with my ailing grandmother after my parents died was hard. More so when my grandmother died and I had to spend two years bouncing from foster home to foster home. Some were nice. Most were awful, disgusting places any sane, knowledgeable social worker would put out of commission. Not the case in my experience.

I open the towel and wrap it around my long, wet hair. When I stand up, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Big breasts, not too saggy for their double-D size. My body is in great shape. Dancing on stage for a thousand people most nights of the week, not to mention rehearsals, ensures my fit status. Still, the hourglass shape and the Italian-Spanish genetics give me a Bubblicious ass I can’t tame no matter how hard I work on it.

With each hand I run my fingers over my waist. Most of the cuts on my abdomen have healed. The five jagged ones, however, still have the stitches. I touch a couple of them to make sure they’re staying put and the skin around them is healing. It is. That should be a comfort. It’s not. I’d rather have the physical reminders. Proves I tried to save Kat.

Thinking about Kat reminds me I need to jet down to the burn center and pay her a visit. I didn’t make it there yesterday, but I’m not going to go more than a day without checking in.

A knock on my front door startles me. This is strange, because I have a doorman who announces visitors prior to letting them up. When Gigi moved in with Chase, I moved here. From my perspective, the change would allow me to pay a lower rent. Since Chase refuses to accept payment, I’ve kept the money in a savings account. Now I could put it toward their kids’ college fund or something—not that they need it. Honestly, I don’t even know why I’m saving it. Years of needing to take care of myself must have ingrained that trait in me.

The banging starts again. I grab an embroidered black and red Japanese silk robe. It has cherry blossoms in bursts of bright white with red trim tracing each petal against a solid black background. Something I picked up for myself in Chinatown. I rush to the kitchen where I left my purse and grab my phone. I press 9-1-1 and then keep my finger hovered over the green call bubble.

“Who is it?” I say through the door, too afraid to even look through the peephole.

“Uh, hey, it’s me. Elijah Redding. I wanted to talk to you.”

Elijah Redding. Why the hell is he here? Instantly the flame of anger starts small in my gut but quickly builds as I swing the door open.

“What are you doing here? Better yet, how the hell did you find out where I lived?”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, his eyes take in my attire the same way he did at breakfast. They spend a little longer on my silk-covered breasts, which causes my nipples to tighten and become erect under his lusty gaze. He’s into me. My boyfriend’s brother is into me.

“Jesus.” His jaw tightens, and he rubs a hand through his hair.

I stare stupidly at him staring at me. Insanity. This is my life.

“No hay manera de mierda,” I grumble and tap the wooden door with my index finger.

“What do you mean by ‘o fucking way’?”

It’s as though my head is separated from my body as it jerks back and I clock it into the door. “Ouch! Fuck me!”

Before I know it, I’m pressed into the house, the door is kicked shut, and I’m in Elijah’s arms. His green eyes seem concerned as he pushes the towel off my head with one hand and rubs his other big paw over my scalp. I groan at the feeling of his fingers massaging my aching head. I lose myself to the moment, holding on to the lapels of his leather jacket as he manipulates my entire head with supremely talented fingers. He smells of leather and spice, two scents I adore.

“You okay? That was quite a knock on the noggin,” he whispers, his face so close I can feel the heat of his breath against my cheek.

“Yeah.” I practically moan as he works those fingers down to my neck where he exerts more pressure. I’m putty in his arms, almost completely a limp noodle as he works the tension out of my shoulders and neck.

One of his hands trails down my back, sending a jolt of excitement right between my thighs, reminding me exactly how long it’s been since I’ve been intimately held by a man.

Realizing what’s happening, I push off and away from him. “Lo sentimos, que no era una buena idea,” I respond, pushing my hand through my wet hair before tightening the belt on my robe.

He grins and leans against the closed door. “Why isn’t it a good idea? You seem to be enjoying it. Needing it even.”

I wince and walk into my kitchen, attempting to find something to do with my now shaking hands. I can’t even wrap my head around the way I responded to Elijah, and I don’t want to think about it. Ever. Because it won’t happen again.

“Tea? Water?”

“I’ll take a cup of coffee if you have it.” He follows me into the kitchen and sits on the stool at the island.

I nod. “Café, si.”Insert pod into machine. Fill cup of water and pour into top.Got it.Press start.I talk myself through the motions, still reeling from the embrace, even though it was completely innocent.Right?

It dawns on me he responded to my questions even though I’d asked them in Spanish. “Oh, you understand Spanish?”

He smiles, and on his rugged unshaven face, it’s more than handsome. The man is sex incarnate, and if he wasn’t my boyfriend’s brother, I’d have definitely chased after him or had a great one-nighter with him prior to Tommy.

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