Slave to the Rhythm (17 page)

I cleared my throat.

“Why don’t you order from one of these takeout menus, and while we’re waiting, I’ll go see what delights Walmart has to offer?”

Ash fiddled with the edge of his towel, a frown on his face, and I sighed.

“We talked about this,” I reminded him gently. “You pay it forward when you have the chance. Now what shoe size are you?”

“Forty-six,” he muttered after a short pause.

I raised my eyebrows in confusion. “Excuse me?”

Ash looked up at the surprise in my voice then shook his head as if to clear it.

“Twelve in US sizes. Sorry.”

“You had me worried there for a minute,” I laughed.

I glanced down at his bare feet, suddenly reminded that there was a lot of naked male flesh on view. Even sitting on the edge of a motel bed he looked elegant, his muscled calves leading to thick, strong thighs, and his stomach was a flat slab of muscle above the towel, his ridged abdominals moving with each breath, the planes of his chest defined but not bulging. But the bruises . . .

I tore my gaze away before I met his eyes. I didn’t want him to see my thoughts.

“What size pants?” I asked quickly.

“Thirty waist, 34 inseam.”

“Right, I’ll be back,” I said, my voice too bright, over compensating. “Order whatever you want—I’m starving!” And I placed some bills on the small table.

“You don’t have your shoes,” Ash commented, his voice serious.

“I don’t need them,” I said, not wanting to mention that I couldn’t face forcing my feet into the Louboutins again.

“It’s cold out there, Laney.”

God help me, but I loved the way he said my name.

I felt as though every time I looked into his eyes or let my gaze linger on his hard, beautiful body, my IQ dropped another few points.

“Your shoes?” he prompted.

My sneakers were in my suitcase, but I couldn’t reach my feet to put socks on or to tie laces. I wasn’t going to bother with shoes today.

“I don’t need them,” I argued, unwilling to admit there was something I couldn’t do, especially in front of him.

“You’re stubborn!”

His voice was quietly amused, but it was true. And sometimes stubborn was useful. Stubborn was refusing to give into pain. Stubborn was getting out of bed when my body was screaming not to be moved. Yes, I was stubborn.

“I . . .”

My voice caught as Ash didn’t wait for my reply but rifled through my suitcase and pulled out a pair of red socks.

“Okay?” he asked, his voice edged with uncertainty.

I nodded wordlessly, and then he knelt in front of me again, carefully easing the bright cotton over my feet. He did it all so instinctively with no fuss, no drama.

Tears rose in my eyes as I studied his dark head bent over me, his hair still wet.

He eased my swollen feet into the sneakers and tied them loosely, then handed me my jacket and purse.

“You won’t get cold now.”

“Thank you,” I said weakly.

He opened the door and I wheeled myself out, welcoming the chilly slap of air as I left the building.

Ash’s gentle thoughtfulness moved me more than I wanted to admit, and I wasn’t sure why.

Ash

After she’d gone, I paced the small room.

My thoughts tormented me. I wanted to gouge out my brain so I wouldn’t remember anymore. But I couldn’t. Instead, they preyed on my mind. And I started to think about what would happen when we reached Chicago, whether she would still want to know me. I’d have to tell her father
everything
if Sergei and Oleg were going to be caught and punished, if Volkov was going to be stopped. But then I’d have to admit how stupid and weak I’d been, how they’d played me. I’d have to admit that I watched helplessly while Oleg murdered the girl, beat the Korean cook to death, and while Marta had been forced into prostitution. I’d watched and known and done nothing.

I’d have to admit what Sergei had done to me, not once, but twice.

The thick, choking memory made me gag and I ran to the bathroom to throw up. My knees hit the floor and the cold porcelain pressed against my bare chest. Hot, furious tears burned behind my eyes and I wiped them away angrily.

But then I slammed my hands on the basin. The bastards didn’t get to win this one.

I rinsed my mouth and then went to sit on the bed to order breakfast.

I’d force myself to eat. I’d force myself to stay strong.

Laney

As I made my way around Walmart, I wasn’t surprised that people stared. Most tried not to get caught, but one or two did it openly. If I was being charitable, I’d say they were concerned, but no—they were just staring.

I did my best to pick out some clothes for Ash. I’d been in too much of a hurry to leave that claustrophobic hotel room. Ash’s presence filled the space. He brimmed with masculinity, testosterone flowing from him in heady waves; and I don’t think he knew he was doing it, but I saw him checking out my boobs when I woke up. It was just a quick glance—well, two quick glances—but it was definitely there. It was a mystery to me how anyone could ever think he was gay, although it obviously bothered him a lot.

I suppose assuming a male dancer must always be gay was like assuming a woman in a wheelchair always needed an aide. We’d be fighting stereotypes our whole lives. After our conversation, I was okay with that comparison.

As well as two pairs of jeans, shirts and a coat, I bought Ash toiletries and more Advil, plus boxer-briefs and socks. It felt a little awkward buying underwear for a man I hardly knew, but compared to what we’d been through together, that small discomfort wasn’t important.

Luckily, I was able to buy a phone charger, as well. It would be a relief to be in touch with the world again. I wondered how much trouble I was in with Vanessa and Jo.

I made my way back to the hotel, so loaded up with bags on my lap that I could hardly see over the top. This could be tricky. At any moment, they could all go sliding off, and then I really would be reliant on the kindness of strangers. Again.

But I made it back in one piece, and Ash opened the door as soon as he heard me outside.

“Clothes and a phone charger,” I said, pointing my chin at the mountain of plastic bags.

I caught the scent of food, happy that it had arrived. We were both too hungry to wait and unpack what I’d bought for him, so I plugged in my phone while we sat on the bed, Ash wrapped in a blanket, as we fueled up for the day ahead.

Every few seconds my phone buzzed with another message or missed call.

“I guess people are worried about you,” he said.

I nodded, my mouth full of eggs and bacon.

“I bet Jo and Vanessa have been blowing up my phone with messages. I’ll call them as soon as we get in the car.”

Ash glanced up at me. “Not your boyfriend?”

I pulled a face. “I don’t know. Maybe. We kind of broke up. He didn’t want me to go to Vegas.” Then I gave an awkward laugh. “Looks like he was right, even if it was for the wrong reason.”

Ash looked down at his half empty plate. “I will always be grateful that you came.”

I was silent, and slowly Ash’s eyes rose to meet mine. There was a connection there, I could feel it. Then he looked down again and resumed eating. The moment had passed, but I knew I hadn’t imagined it—I just didn’t know what it meant.

It was strangely personal, sitting side by side on a bed, eating breakfast. It was the kind of thing you did when you were dating not . . . whatever we were. It was too early to call ourselves friends. I hardly knew him, and Ash certainly didn’t know me.

After we’d drained the coffee pot, I handed over the bags stuffed with clothes.

“I forgot to ask your shirt size, so look forward to more clown clothes,” I said with a smile that I hope softened my words.

Ash pulled out a three-pack of dark gray briefs. He didn’t seem to know how to feel about them either, his dark eyes flashing with some quick emotion. But while I kept my back to him, he pulled on a pair without comment.

The jeans weren’t a bad fit—slightly too loose on the waist—but the long-sleeved Henley fit better. And there were two more in the bags: one navy and one pale blue.

I’d also bought him a heavy peacoat in black, with matching gloves and wool hat necessary for Chicago. And sneakers. With socks. And, a toothbrush. I’d forgotten to buy a razor. Oh well.

Ash finished dressing and turned to face me.

“How do I look?”

I withheld a sigh.
Heartbreakingly handsome
. That was the truth, but it wasn’t what I said.

“Not bad, although the towel made a statement.”

“You think?” he asked, going along with my teasing. “What did the towel say?”

There was no way I could tell him what that small towel around his waist had me thinking. I improvised quickly.

“Um, rule breaker, loafer . . .”

“A loaf? Like bread?”

I smiled. His English was so good, it was too easy to forget that there were some phrases that he didn’t always get.

“It means someone who’s lazy . . . a loser, I guess.”

Ash’s eyes flashed with anger.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I said quickly. “It was a dumb joke. I’m sorry.”

He nodded stiffly but wouldn’t meet my gaze again. Instead he packed up my belongings silently, his face rigid in its blankness.

Kicking myself mentally, I watched him pace around the room, deliberately avoiding me. I deserved that: what a stupid thing to say.

Sighing, I picked up my phone and scrolled through the long list of texts and missed calls. I tapped out two quick messages to Jo and Vanessa to let them know that I was fine and would be home tonight. Well, very early tomorrow morning, even if Ash could keep going for the next 15 hours. I hoped that I’d be well enough to take a turn at driving later on.

I was surprised to see a number of texts from Collin that had started last night. He wanted to know if I was okay, but he didn’t comment on whether or not we were still a couple.

I sent a short message reassuring him that I was alright and that I’d be home after midnight.

Ash was still silent when he helped me into the car. Despite the fact that he was upset with me, the gentle, unobtrusive way he handled me hadn’t changed.

I wanted to apologize again for my clumsy remark, but I didn’t. It seemed best just to try and move past it.

Instead, I plugged in the phone and flipped through my contacts list to make the next call.

“Dad, it’s me.”

Laney

WITH A FRUSTRATED
growl, I tossed my cell phone down and closed my eyes. The conversation with Dad had been difficult to say the least. According to him, I deserved to be arrested for fleeing the scene of a crime, was completely irresponsible, with a flagrant disregard for my civic duty etc. etc. I began to think that he’d arrest me himself when I arrived in Chicago.

And he wouldn’t listen when I said I’d come to the station with Ash tomorrow. He was going to send a cruiser to wait for us.

“That sounded hard.”

I glanced over at Ash and gave him a tired smile.

“You could say that. Dad’s going to meet us at my apartment tonight. I tried to put him off until tomorrow, but well, you know what parents are like.”

“Does he know what the police in Las Vegas are saying?” Ash asked cautiously.

I winced.

“Uh well, they wanted to question us,” I said carefully. “The theater usher reported seeing a man with a gun.

Ash’s eyes widened and he glanced away from the road to stare at me.

“They think that was me?”

“No! No, but they’re not happy we left the scene.”

Ash’s hands gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles were white, and his skin looked pale beneath his tan.

“If your dad sends me back there, they’ll kill me.”

I rested my hand on his bicep, hoping my touch would reassure him.

“That won’t happen. I promise.”

The look he gave me seemed to say he didn’t believe I had the power to keep my promise.

I was horribly afraid he might be right. But I’d do everything I could.

It was frustrating. Dad hadn’t listened to a word I’d said, which didn’t bode well. But I had an idea of how to handle my father: I’d been watching my mother do it for years, and I’d learned from the best. So instead of trying to change his mind while he ranted at me, I picked up my phone again and started typing out everything that I’d seen and heard, from arriving in Las Vegas to this moment. I asked Jo to send me the photo she’d taken of Ash’s back, and added it to my file. Then I emailed everything to Dad. Hopefully, given time, he’d see how wrong he was.

Ash was driving across the undulating foothills of Nebraska before we spoke again.

“I was wondering about your tattoo,” I began.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ash twitch, as if he’d been so lost in thought that he’d forgotten I was there.

“Does it mean anything?”

Ash looked affronted. “Of course! Why would I mark my body without meaning?”

My thoughts flew to his scarred back.

Ash sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . .”

His sentence trailed off and I shook my head.

“It’s okay. But people do get tattoos because they like the picture or the words. After all, you can go into a tattoo parlor and choose one out of a book.”