Slave to the Rhythm (16 page)

“I . . .” Nothing came out. I shrugged. “Thank you,” I said at last.

Laney frowned slightly. “What for?”

For saving my life. For saving me from everything that fucked up sadist wanted to do to me. Thank you for trusting me.

But I didn’t say any of that. Instead I nodded at her denim jacket, folded on the corner of the bed where I’d left it.

“Thank you for your jacket.”

She smiled softly. “You’re welcome.”

We continued to stare at each other until I gestured toward Laney’s wheelchair.

“Do you need help?”

“No, I can manage, thank you,” she said. “I actually feel better today, so that should make things easier—a bit quicker, too.”

She laughed, but it sounded forced.

It was my turn to frown. “You don’t use it always?”

“No. Not that often really. Just when I have a bad flare-up.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

It was a full five seconds before I realized how bad that sounded.

Laney arched one eyebrow.

“My boyfriend says that liking ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’ is wrong because it’s a show made for adolescents and I’m 29. I disagree—Buffy kicks ass. Is that what you meant, about what’s wrong with me?”

I winced and ducked my head.

“I’m sorry. I just meant . . .”

Laney gave a thin smile. “I know what you meant. And the answer is Rheumatoid Arthritis.”

I knew the second word.

“I thought it was something old people get?” I said, my words hesitant.

I must have still looked clueless because Laney quickly explained.

“You’re thinking of osteoarthritis. Everyone gets it confused. That’s the wear and tear arthritis. Mine, you can get at any age, from birth if you’re unlucky—or special, you might say,” and she laughed sadly. “It means my joints can become swollen and painful, among other things. Bad days, I need the wheelchair; most times, I’m well enough. Luck of the draw.”

“There are no medicines?”

“Yes and no. It can be controlled, to an extent, but it’s pretty much guess work. There’s no cure.” Laney gave a small smile. “Sometimes the best medicine is to do the things that make you happy, things that remind you that life is good and being alive is the best gift.”

She smiled like she meant it and waved a hand at me.

“Ask: I can see that you have more questions.”

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the empty wheelchair.

“Have you always had it?”

“RA? Since I was seven. Please don’t say you’re sorry.”

I gave her a quick glance. “You hate that, don’t you?”

“You noticed?” Laney laughed wryly.

I nodded.

“The way you looked at the woman in the diner yesterday—it was a very strong look.”

“Oh dear! I try not to do that,” Laney laughed, her nose crinkling. “Sometimes it just slips out.”

I grinned.

“I know! My father’s friends always look sorry for him, having a dancer for a son. They think it’s . . .” I struggled to think of the word in English. “Effeminate,” I said at last, my smile fading.

I looked at her intently, demanding that she understood.

“I’m not gay.”

Laney’s snorting laugh surprised us both.

“I’m not!” I said defensively. “I tell people that I dance ballroom style and they think I must be gay. Every time!”

“People believe stereotypes because they’re predictable,” she said, shaking her head. “But why ballroom? What first attracted you to it?”

“The Paso,” I said with certainty. “So strong, so masculine—the man versus his own demons, his own weakness, fighting to be brave.”

Laney’s eyebrows shot up. I could see that she’d never thought about it like that, but I think she understood. Not with the same intensity, but she understood.

“Any woman would know from a thousand yards that you’re not gay. You’re just so . . .”

She stopped suddenly and I cocked my head to one side, wanting her to finish the sentence.

“I’m so what?”

“Um, I was going to say, so masculine,” Laney muttered, clearing her throat.

“Gay men are masculine.”

“I know. I meant, well, just that it’s
obvious
you’re not gay. Oh God, I’m saying this all wrong!”

Her cheeks flushed and her gaze darted to my body. My shoulders relaxed and I grinned at her, leaning in closer, my eyes still fixed on hers.

“You think it’s obvious that I’m not gay? I could make it more obvious . . . but you have a boyfriend.”

I smiled triumphantly then moved away from her.

Her eyes narrowed. Then she surprised the hell out of me by grabbing a pillow and tossing it at my head.

I raised my hands reflexively and just missed getting hit.

Once my surprise melted away, I gave her an evil smile. She squealed as I started to swing the pillow at her. But then I remembered that she was disabled—it was hardly a fair fight. I dropped the pillow back on the bed, shrugging sheepishly.

“Sorry.”

Her expression was something between annoyance and sadness, and I knew that I’d done the wrong thing.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she muttered.

She was upset, and I could have cheerfully kicked myself in the balls. I’d never known a disabled person before—I didn’t know how to behave and the fact that I kept forgetting she used a wheelchair caught me off-guard.

“Could you just look the other way?” Laney said quickly. “I’m a little underdressed here.”

I shot her a look. “You could pretend I’m gay.”

“Turn around!”

I turned, standing with my back facing her, hands on hips.

There was a sudden silence.

“How are you?” she asked tentatively. “How’s your back?”

I stiffened immediately.

“Okay,” I lied.

“I doubt it,” she said gently. “Ash, I’m the last person you need to hide pain from.”

My head drooped to my chest at her words, and I threw a quick look over my shoulder to see her staring at me, her eyes flitting over my back, compassion on her face. And I knew she could see the fresh blood that had seeped through my borrowed t-shirt.

“It’s sore,” I admitted. “I’d really like to shower. I need . . . could you help me take off the bandages?”

Laney nodded.

“Of course. Let me just . . . give me a minute, okay?”

She slid into her wheelchair, trying to hide her underwear, but at least she seemed to be moving more easily.

I couldn’t hear the shower running and wondered how she managed things like that, especially when she had . . . what did she call it? A flare-up?

I tugged off my shirt, frowning at the patches of blood. It was worse than I’d thought.

A few minutes later, Laney wheeled herself out again. She took one look at my body and her eyes glazed with tears. I didn’t want her crying over what those bastards had done to me. But she forced herself to speak evenly.

“Okay, let me take a look.”

One by one, she eased the bandages from my skin. I already knew that bruises were coming through as well, and the mirror told me that I was a kaleidoscope of black and purple.

“Can you kneel down so I can reach your shoulders?”

I knelt in front of her, my feet beneath her wheelchair and the backs of my thighs pressed against her knees. Her hands trembled slightly while she worked, but even though her touch was gentle, I couldn’t help hissing with pain, and my muscles twitched under her fingers.

I knew that I’d be permanently marked, carrying the scars forever. I’d never outrun Oleg’s handiwork. Or the sickening memories. If it looked really bad, I might have trouble getting theater work again. People go to see dance to feel good, not to have their stomachs turned by Quasimodo.

There’d be few Paso vests in my future.

Anger and frustration surged inside me: I’d
never
outrun the Bratva.

I felt Laney’s cool hands on my burning skin. I liked the way she touched me—gentle but not hesitant. She understood pain and wasn’t cowed by it. She didn’t let illness beat her. It didn’t own her. I gritted my teeth: I might be marked, but Sergei was
not
going to win.

My mind twisted with bitter thoughts of revenge. I’d never held a gun in my life, but I wanted to, very badly.

If the monster was standing in front of me right now, I’d pull the trigger. I could, I knew I could. And I’d feel . . . nothing.

It was as if the intensity of the last few weeks had left my emotional reservoir dry. I felt empty, with nothing inside.

Perhaps I should be worried? Dance was my passion, but it came from inside me. If my passion was gone, what was left?

Even that thought seemed distant and unimportant, as if a pane of glass separated me from viewing this fucked up life.

Then Laney touched a particularly tender spot, and I shuddered, sucking in a breath to keep the pain inside.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

I tensed as she slid the waistband of my sweatpants lower, uncovering the upper curve of my ass as she tried to ease off another bandage. But a very different sensation rushed through my body.

Shit! Not now!

I cupped my hands over my dick, trying to hide the sudden tenting in my pants. Laney didn’t need to see that. She’d think I was some kind of freak who got off on pain.

Then I started to wonder if she could have sex. Would it hurt her? Had she ever?

She had a boyfriend, but that didn’t mean . . .

I pushed the thought away, instead concentrating on counting ceiling tiles.

Thankfully, my erection was mostly gone by the time she finished. Even so, I caught the flush in her cheeks as I turned around. Had she seen?

“I’ll go shower now,” I said, jerking my thumb at the bathroom.

“Wait! I should . . .” Laney stammered helplessly. “I should take a photograph. For evidence.”

My face went blank. “Your friend took a picture. And your phone is dead.”

Then I turned and walked into the bathroom.

I was just a charity case—I wasn’t a man to her.

Laney

I heard the water in the shower and gave myself a mental ticking off.

He’d been brutalized and traumatized. He could be a rape survivor for all I knew.

And not only that, it was hard being near him, touching him intimately. Ash was just so . . .

Then I felt guilty about Collin. Sort of. We were broken up, weren’t we? He’d never replied to my last text—well, not that I knew of.

My feelings for Ash were confusing. I wanted to help him, to take care of him, save him even. But I was attracted to him, as well. Those feelings weren’t wrong . . . unless I acted on them.

I sighed.

Note to self: only rescue ugly guys next time.

Ash was in the bathroom for so long that I started to wonder what he was doing. But when he emerged wearing just a towel, he explained quickly, as if he was trying to reassure me that he wasn’t walking around half naked for the hell of it.

“I washed my clothes. To get the blood out. I’ve hung them on the towel rack. They should be dry enough to wear soon. Or not.”

And he gave me a small smile, because damp clothes were the least of his worries.

I returned his smile as best I could.

“I saw a Walmart next door,” I said, striving for a conversational tone. “I’ll go see if I can buy you some jeans and a few t-shirts or . . .”

Ash held up his hand, halting my teetering words.

“No. You’ve done enough. I can’t take . . .”

“Ash,” I said, gently interrupting. “It’s not taking—it’s me giving. And we’re in this together.”

He closed his eyes and muttered something in his own language.

“I’ll pay you back. Everything.”

“How about this,” I said carefully. “It’s a simple idea—I’m sure you know it: pay it forward.”

Ash stared at me blankly. “I don’t understand.”

“I helped you because I could, because I wanted to. Maybe one day you’ll see someone who needs help, so you’ll help them just because you can. And they do the same. Paying it forward, you see?”

Ash swallowed and I watched the subtly erotic movement of his throat.

“You are a good person,” he said.

Was I? Was I a good person? Lusting after this damaged man while my boyfriend/unboyfriend stayed at home?

Ash was still watching me.

“What’s your name? Your family name, I mean.”

I smiled. Getting-to-know-you talk—yes, I could do that.

“Hennessey. Laney Hennessey. Irish American for five generations. What about you?”

“Aljaž Novak. My father is Jure. Like how you say ‘George’.”

I waited for more, but that was all he said.

“That’s your whole family?”

Ash nodded.

No mother? No brothers and sisters?
I found that unbearably sad. I forced myself to keep the tone cheerful.

“Well, if we’re doing my family, we’ll be here forever.”

The corner of Ash’s mouth lifted in a smile.

“My clothes are drying—and I’m not going anywhere in a towel.”

Yep, I was an altruist—saving women the world over from a gorgeous man with abs I could count, wearing nothing but a towel.

“Hmm, a captive audience!” I teased him. “You asked for it. My father is Brian, he’s a police captain, like I said. My mother is Bridget, she’s a homemaker; and I have three sisters, Bernice, Linda and Sylvia; they’re married to Al, Joe and Mario, with seven kids between them. My Uncle Donald is in the fire department and he’s married to Carmen. They’ve got four children—my cousins, Stephen, Paddy, Eric and Michael. My mom’s sister, Lydia, is married to Uncle Paul, and they have two children, Trisha and Amelia. Heard enough yet? Because there’s a ton of second cousins and family friends who are nearly family, too.”

“Wow!” Ash blinked, shaking his head. “That’s a lot of people.”

“They’re great, most of the time,” I smiled. “But having a big family . . . I’m the youngest of the first cousins, so it’s like I have six moms and dads and a dozen brothers and sisters, and they’re all up in my business the whole time.”

I shook my head.

“You should see our house at Thanksgiving—crazy.”

I waited for Ash to say something else about his family, but a distant expression clouded his face. I already knew he wasn’t close to his father, and he hadn’t mentioned his mother. Perhaps she wasn’t in his life? Or perhaps it was none of my business.