Slave to the Rhythm (24 page)

When he’d washed his hands four times, he dried them carefully. I’d noticed that they’d become callused. It made me smile when I saw him pump some of my rose-scented lotion onto his hands.

“Ash is a gi-rl!” I sang, thoughtlessly teasing him into a lighter mood.

A strange expression shadowed his face and his eyes glittered dangerously. Then he shoved away from me and left the room.

Uh-oh
.

I followed slowly and found him sitting on the couch with his head in his hands.

“Ash . . .”

“I’m not a girl,” he growled. “But I cannot be a man to you!”

“What?”

“You feed me, give me a roof, a place to stay. But I can’t pay you enough. I can’t work without fear. I can’t even dance. I am nothing!”

He strode out of the apartment, disappearing into the night.

Stupid, stupid Laney!

I was sitting on the edge of my bed, summoning up the nerve to push the short needle into my thigh. It wasn’t particularly painful, but it did sting. I just hated, hated doing it.

Tears gathered in my eyes, and I cursed myself for weakness, for my stupid body that needed chemicals to keep it working, keep it moving. I hated to be so dependent.

I heard Ash arrive home, concentrating on the quiet sounds as he moved around the kitchen: the tap running, the coffee machine. Two soft thuds as he kicked off his heavy boots. The sounds were fainter now as he padded around in his socks. Then I heard music start—he’d found my iPhone and was listening to Bruno Mars.

He tapped on my door and poked his head around.

“Laney, can I . . . ?”

His words cut off and he stared at me. I flushed, covering up my bare legs, even though it was nothing he hadn’t seen before.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice pitched higher than usual.

“Drug addict, remember?” I laughed awkwardly.

His eyes widened and then he gave a short nod of understanding.

“Your medicine.”

“Yes, I’m just trying to get up the nerve. I do it every week, but I just . . . I’m being stupid, I know.”

He took a step closer, moving into the room.

“Does it hurt?”

“No, not really,” I sighed. “It’s more the idea of it. I told you it was stupid.”

He sat down on the bed next to me, his large body radiating heat and comfort.

“I’ll do it for you—if you want.”

I think my eyes nearly jumped out of my head. If I waved a needle around Collin, he looked like he was going to faint.

I stared at him in disbelief.

Ash shrugged. “I’ve done it before. My mother was diabetic. I used to help her.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“I won’t hurt you,” he said, leaning in and gently taking the needle from my hands.

Before I could protest, he’d pressed the point into my skin, depressed the plunger, and it was all over.

He placed the plastic cap over the empty needle and left it on my bedside table without a word.

It was an oddly intimate moment.

Laney

THE FRONT DOOR
crashed open, making me jump. I dropped the knife I’d been holding, glad I hadn’t lost a finger while slicing onions. I looked over my shoulder, ready to hand Ash his ass, but the smile on his face stopped me in my tracks.

I’d become so used to seeing him devoid of expression, that my heart jolted with pleasure and a warm feeling filled me.

His dark eyes sparkled, and I saw the dimples in his cheeks for the first time in so long. Too long. He strode toward me, happiness flowing around him.

Without pausing, he yanked me into his arms and twirled me around, making me feel graceful and giddy all at the same time.

“What’s going on?” I gasped, half laughing.

“We’re celebrating!” he shouted, waltzing around the tiny kitchen as my feet dangled above the ground.

His joy was infectious and soon I was shrieking with laughter as we whirled in circles.

“W-what are we laughing about?” I hiccupped.

“I have an audition,” he shouted happily. “A real audition in a real theater—to dance!”

“Oh my God! How did that happen? When? Where? How? Did I say when? What is it? Ash, put me down, I can’t breathe!”

I slid down Ash’s chest, my cheeks reddening as I felt every hard ridge and plane of his body, until my face was pressed against his heart, listening to the wild pounding begin to ease as he rocked me gently, his hips undulating in a slow rumba.

“This is what I’ve been waiting for,” he whispered, his breath blowing across my neck as he buried his face in my hair. “Let’s go out and celebrate—anything you want, anywhere you want to go.”

I started to remind him that he was saving his money and couldn’t afford to treat me, but I bit the words back. Ash was a proud man, and being reminded of how little he had would only annoy him. I wouldn’t spoil this moment.

“That sounds wonderful!”

Ash grabbed my hand and started tugging me toward the door.

“Wait!” I laughed. “I need a few minutes to get changed and you’re still in your work clothes.”

Ash looked down at his filthy jeans and boots with steel toecaps, and gave a rueful smile.

“I guess I’d better shower.”

He bent over to unlace his boots, and don’t judge me, but I couldn’t help checking out his ass. I knew I shouldn’t, but he had such a great ass: tight and round and squeezable as he filled out his jeans deliciously.

I glanced away quickly as he stood up again.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you—you’ve got mail,” and I pointed at the coffee table in the living room.

Ash frowned, glaring at the brown envelope as if it would bite him.

“It’s from the Embassy,” I said.

He ripped open the envelope, pulling out several pieces of paper, then swore in his own language.

“What’s wrong?”

“They won’t send me a passport yet. It’s still being investigated.”

My heart flip-flopped uncomfortably.

“I have temporary ID, but I don’t know if that will be enough to get access to my bank account,” and he scowled.

“We’ll work on that tomorrow,” I said quickly. “We’re celebrating tonight, remember?”

Ash smiled, his good mood instantly restored. Then he headed toward the shower in my bedroom, shedding clothes as he went.

“You are so messy!” I yelled after him, not really caring. “And you’re going to tell me everything about the audition!”

Happy laughter was his only reply and I found myself grinning inanely at the bedroom door. Happy Ash was a beautiful thing, and it had been so long.

We’d gotten a rhythm going when it came to sharing the small space of my apartment. Being in the bathroom meant you had run of the bedroom, too. It worked, kind of, avoiding embarrassing moments of nudity.

But because Ash was in a hurry to go out, while he showered I rifled through my closet to find something to wear.

I’d just pulled out a pair of skinny jeans and silky tank-top when the bathroom door opened, a cloud of steam following Ash as he stepped out buck naked, his towel still in his hand.

It was several seconds before my brain kicked into gear and I turned away, Ash winding the towel around his waist, hiding an endowment that was still generous, even in the resting position.

“Sorry,” I muttered. “I just . . . um, I’ll be outside.”

I hurried from the room, my cheeks glowing.

A moment later, my bedroom door opened and Ash walked out wearing a pair of clean jeans and tugging a plain black t-shirt over his head. He was head-to-toe in thrift store clothes and he looked like a million dollars.

I scuttled past him, ignoring the amused, questioning glance he sent my way.

“I’ll be ten minutes.”

I took twenty, taking the time to curl and style my boring straight hair, as well as recover from my embarrassment.

When I re-emerged, Ash had put away his dirty work clothes and cleaned up the kitchen, putting the half-chopped onion in some Tupperware. Someone had trained him well.

I was surprised by the pinprick of jealousy I felt at that thought.

“Let’s go!” he said, tossing my heavy winter coat across the room.

He wore an old army surplus coat that reached down to his calves, and a woolen beanie pulled low over his forehead. I blinked at the transformation. He looked dangerous, like the kind of guy you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. Gorgeous, of course.

Bundled up against the cold, we slogged down the icy streets. It was just five weeks before Thanksgiving and the stores were brightly lit and jammed with shoppers.

The cold wind whipped my hair into my eyes and I slipped on the slick sidewalk. Ash put his arm around my shoulders and tugged me into his side.

My hand crept around his waist and I felt guilty for enjoying it too much. Was Collin right? Was it impossible for men and women to be just friends? Or just impossible for Ash and me to be friends?

Without needing to discuss it, we headed toward a small, family-run pub with an Irish theme near the lake. The food was cheapish, and it had a warm, laid back atmosphere.

It was packed, being a Friday night, but Ash found us a couple of low stools near the fire. I was sweating before I managed to take off my coat. So much for trying to look nice.

Ash shrugged out of his coat and immediately attracted the attention of several women and a couple of gay guys. If he noticed, he ignored them, and headed for the bar.

The waitress had already taken my order for two Shepherds Pies, something that I knew was Ash’s favorite, before he returned with two pints of beer.

Collin would have bought champagne and insisted on a French restaurant for a celebration.

“Cheers!”

“
Na zdravje!
”

“Now will you tell me everything?” I asked impatiently as our glasses clinked against each other.

Ash’s excitement was contagious, and by the end of his story, I was on the edge of my seat, my drink in danger of tipping over.

“Tomorrow?! The audition is tomorrow? Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, preparing?”

Ash smiled. “I’m thinking about it all. I need to use your iPhone. Is that okay?”

“Of course you can. What song are you going to use?”

“I’m not sure. Can I borrow it tonight, to listen while I sleep?”

Ash

I’d miss work for the audition, and I knew it meant that I’d be fired. And I got the impression that Viktor knew a lot of people, so it might not be easy getting hired on another construction job. I didn’t care. I fucking hated it, and every day I was reminded that my dad’s blood ran in my veins was a fucking miserable one.

I passed this old theater on my way home . . . I mean to Laney’s home. It was usually closed, but tonight it had been brightly lit and a poster outside said ‘open auditions’. I nearly walked past, assuming it was for actors, when I saw a girl with a huge bag over one shoulder and a pair of salsa shoes in her hand.

It was like seeing a rainbow, or drinking freshly ground coffee. It was seeing a beautiful woman, smelling a favorite perfume and following the scent because even if you tried not to, you couldn’t help yourself.

I walked close behind the dancer, following her inside and scaring the woman checking names at the door.

“Can I help you?” she sniffed, looking me up and down.

I must have seemed ridiculous in my Army surplus coat, steel toecap boots and baggy jeans covered in demolition dust. I’d never looked less like a dancer.

“The open audition is for dancers?” I asked politely.

“Yes, and we’re very busy,” she huffed, trying to shoo me away with her hands.

I doubt if she was a day under 80, stood five-foot nothing, and weighed less than half my body weight. But she wasn’t intimidated, just annoyed. It was kind of funny.

“Guys, or just girls?”

“Really, young man! I’m very busy!”

“I’m a dancer,” I said, giving her my best smile, the one that usually worked on women.

“This isn’t some Hip Hop club,” she snapped. “This is for
trained
dancers.”

“Yes, ma’am. I am two time finalist in All-Stars International Ten Dance . . . in my own country.”

She blinked, then tapped her pen against the thick pad of paper, narrowing her eyes at me.

“Hmm, very well. Then tell me, in which dance would you see a syncopated separation?”