Yeah. Not now, boy.
Not ever, dammit.
She comes back with the wrapped-up compress, gently lays it on top of my knee and I’m thankful for the cold seeping through the fire in my flesh. Then, instead of returning to her bed, she sits beside me, on the floor, leaning back against the sofa.
“Bad dream?” she whispers.
“Can’t remember.”
She’s so close. In the half-dark, with the outlines of furniture looming here and there, her face is like a goddamn star, drawing my gaze. She has a pale streak in her hair, and I wonder why.
“Want to talk?”
“About what?”
“Don’t know. Anything, to help you relax.”
“Does it work for you?”
She snorts, a soft exhale of breath. “If I had someone to talk to in the night, it might.”
All right. “So that boyfriend of yours… He doesn’t stay the night?”
“Why the obsession with my boyfriend?”
“I’m not obsessed.” Lie. Big fat lie. “Just curious. I mean, this is really helping me relax.”
She giggles. “You’re funny.”
“Thank you.”
She’s silent. I can hear her breathing, and this is relaxing. So much so, my lids are growing heavy again.
“Frederic is not exactly my boyfriend,” she says, and okay, this wakes me up.
Like, whoa.
“He’s not?”
“Not officially,” she clarifies.
Oh. Shit. Awesome. What the hell does that even mean?
“He’s studying music in the arts department. He’s two years older than me, and he’s just so…handsome. And self-assured. And all the girls want him. I’ve had a crush on him since I started there a year ago.”
Goddammit. Not sure I can hear more.
“I mean, he asked me out. But that was only a month ago. We almost kissed at a party two weeks ago—almost—and he walked me to my car many times. We stayed up talking loads of times. We really fit, you know? We both like music and dance and the arts, and he’s so sensitive and kind. I was going to meet him tonight, but he couldn’t make it.”
Okay, now I’m sure I can’t take this anymore.
“You know, those painkillers would be fucking great. If you don’t mind.”
She jerks guiltily, and I swear under my breath, feeling like all kinds of an asshole. “Of course. I’ll go get them.”
I swallow two with the water she brings me and lift myself up on the sofa. “Thank you. I think I’ll be fine now.”
She nods and takes a step back. “Goodnight, then.”
“Night.” Something in her expression doesn’t let me rest, though. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. No.” Her voice has a break to it. A crack.
Damn.
“Sit down.” I pat the spot next to me. “Tell me.”
“I hardly know you,” she says quietly, but she comes anyway.
“Is it a secret? I won’t tell. I swear.”
“No, it’s not a secret,” she mumbles. “Just a disaster.”
“Why? What is it?” She doesn’t protest when I put an arm around her shoulders and squeeze. “Your parents? Did something happen?”
“No, nothing like that.” She’s a bit stiff against me, but doesn’t move away. “God, no. Thanks for putting this into perspective.”
Don’t know what to reply to that. I guess my definition of a disaster is different than hers. Wouldn’t be the first time I assume murder when it’s just someone asleep on the carpet.
“I’ve been studying dance most of my life,” she says, and I grin. “What’s the grin for?”
“I knew it. Knew you were a dancer. It’s the way you move.”
She looks away, smiling, cheeks darkening. “Thanks.”
“Anytime. So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is…” She draws a deep breath I can feel in the lifting of her slim shoulders. “I’m out.”
“Out?”
“Of the dance school. I’m not good enough. Didn’t make the cut.”
“That’s it? They can just throw you out?”
“You don’t understand.” Now she pushes away from me, prepares to stand up, get away. “Not everyone makes it. Not everyone is made for it. My Achilles tendons are too tight, and my pelvis too stiff, and I broke my right ankle two years ago. It just never recovered completely, and I…”
There’s that crack in her voice again, and no way am I letting her go like this. I reach over, aching leg and all, and pull her back to me until her head is resting on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Yeah, me too. Worked for this since I was nine. All my life I’ve wanted to be a professional dancer, and I can’t…” She clutches at the front of my borrowed T-shit with one slim hand. “Can’t believe it’s over. They said if I continue training, I might damage my ankle so badly I’ll have trouble walking.”
Jesus. “How about doing something else dance-related? Like teaching ballet?”
“Maybe if I want to teach kids. But I don’t.”
“Okay. Hey, everything will be okay, you know that, right?”
She says nothing.
Again I want to remind her this ain’t the end of the world. The world is full of opportunities when you have a roof over your head and dough to spend. When your past isn’t haunting your every step, and your body and mind aren’t fucked-up to hell.
But I don’t. Because that’s not what she needs right now. She needs someone to hold her in silence and accept her pain and sadness.
So that’s what I’ll do, and bad idea or not, you couldn’t rip me from her side for all the money in the world.
***
When I wake up next, I’m again not sure where I am, but it’s warm, and comfortable, and somehow feels good.
Okay. Don’t panic yet.
Drawing a breath of a sweet scent—vanilla?—I take stock of my situation. Sofa. A slim body tangled up with mine. No pain.
This doesn’t seem so bad. Not bad at all. Actually, this is interesting, could be interesting—only we’re both dressed.
And this is Manon in my arms.
Who’s pretty and sweet and is dating another man.
Dammit.
Even worse, someone’s knocking on the door. Fuck.
I sit up, the blanket slipping off both of us. She’s wrapped up in a black, silky robe. It has fallen open in the front, and underneath she’s wearing a white nightie with black lace.
My mouth is dry, and my dick is growing hard. Not a good thing, all things considered.
Not when the doorbell starts ringing, too.
“Oh God.” She rolls over on her back, blinking those dark green eyes, and jerks. “Shit. Is that…?”
“The doorbell? Yep.” I throw my legs off the sofa and swallow a groan as I bend my knee. The compress fell to the floor sometime last night. I gather it up as I look around for my boots and socks. “Any idea who it might be?”
“No. Wasn’t expecting anyone today.” She’s tying up her robe tightly, covering up her nightie. “Stay here.”
“Don’t want me to hide in your closet?”
“You wouldn’t fit.” She sighs and goes to get the door, but she throws me a tiny smile over her shoulder before she does, and it burns through me like a wisp of fire.
I grab my cell phone from the coffee table and pretend to be busy with it as the door opens. I take out the battery, put it back in. Turn it on.
And it works. It’s working again. Fuck, yeah.
I’m so happy about this little victory that I miss the entrance of Manon’s visitor until she’s standing right in front of me.
“Hey, Seth. Whatcha doing here?”
The. Fuck.
Cassie, smiling at me like the Cheshire Cat from hell. Why is she here?
Oh, right. She’s Manon’s friend. Forgot about that for a moment—what with waking up with Manon in my arms and all. Go figure.
“I was just leaving,” I mutter and try to figure out how to grab my still wet clothes and boots and get the hell out of Dodge.