A Terrible Love Page 3

  Come on Jewell! Get a grip, you're not a blushing virgin, I chastise myself. Yet, it has been so long since I've felt that delicious pressure, my body against another... well, I just can't go there mentally.

  No men, no relationships, no connections. Maybe in a few years...

  My mind interrupts my musings, it's already been two years.

  I realize everyone's been staring at me. “What?” I ask.

  “She's such a daydreamer,” Carlie apologizes for me.

  “Are you?” Mitch asks, wiping his mouth and tossing the napkin in the trash can.

  “What?” I ask.

  “A daydreamer?” he asks softly and the question feels like a caress, loaded with something I can't name.

  “Yes,” I whisper honestly.

  “Good,” he says, standing as he swallows his milk in one gulp.

  “Huh? Why?” I ask in confusion, craning my head to look up at him.

  “I don't like planned people.” Then his palms are on either side of my elbows that are perched on the table. His gray eyes pierce my false blue ones.

  “Meet me for coffee,” he says. I can see from his intensity it isn't really a question.

  “Where?” I hear myself asking.

  “Java Head.”

  Shit, that's where I work. “Alright,” I agree.

  Mitch gives me the time to meet and slips out of the cafeteria.

  “Girl!” Amber slaps the table and my untouched food bounces. “Can you... do you even know how to play hard to get? Have ya heard of that?”

  “I don't think she's the one that's hard!” Carlie says, cackling.

  Oh my gawd, I despair.

  “So,” Carlie ticks imaginary points off on her fingertips, “you are going to be a prima ballerina,” she puts her left index to her right, “and you're finally gonna get laid,” as she repeats the motion on her middle finger.

  “Ah-huh, that's what I'm talkin' about, baby. Lay the pipe!” Amber says in a whisper that I'm sure carries to every table.

  Before I can defend my position, establish a platform or whatever, they continue as if I'm not there.

  “I say expand your horizons,” Carlie says and Amber mutters, “and other stuff.”

  I roll my eyes. I'm not keeping promises very well. Already I've lied to myself.

  I have a couple of girlfriends I adore.

  And one that I lost.

  I promised there'd be no men.

  And now there is Mitch.... and Devin Castile, my mind whispers like I need reminding as I squelch that second name ruthlessly from my subconscious mutterings.

  I put my head in my hands in defeat. I guess I'm giving in to life. It’s like the ocean breaking against the rocks: it simply wears me down until I give in.

  It was only a matter of time.

  3

  The call came and I pull the nail I'd been massacring out of my mouth, trembling as I answer it. I always abuse my nails when I'm nervous.

  And I was so nervous.

  I'm one of five girls that have been selected for the spring integration program. It's a fledgling cooperative program that the U Dub has with Seattle Pacific Ballet. They have a touring artistic director that will ready us for an actual audition to the company, with a chance at a principal role. The thought of being a lead dancer with SPB is too surreal to contemplate. So I don't.

  I'm not speaking with the Patrick Boel. No-oh. It's his assistant, but I am so excited the butterflies in that jar in my stomach have flown out long ago. They tremble with their silk wings inside me, caressing the tender underbelly of my emotions.

  “May I speak with Jess Mackey?” a tinker bell voice trills on the line.

  I'm still not used to my adopted name, even after two years and pause for a fraction of a second before I answer, “Yes, this is she.”

  “I am phoning on behalf of Instructor Boel. Do you know who he is?”

  Hell yes I do. “Yes,” I answer out loud.

  “Excellent.” I hear a vague rustling of papers and I'm certain she's looking through notes or something else equally horrifying. She gives a delicate throat clear and says, “Instructor Boel will expect you in the auditorium at four o'clock each afternoon for two hours mandatory pointe work.”

  I die. I haven't been en pointe for two years. My feet are soft, my callouses have almost disappeared. I furiously grind through any response, my brain throwing up that I do have my old pointe shoes, thank God because I could never stand the pain of breaking in a new pair.

  “You are en pointe, Miss Mackey?” she asks with disdain.

  “Of course.” I tell the second biggest lie in the last two years.

  “We cannot acquire dancers who have not had at least two years of pointe.”

  “Yes, I understand.” I do.

  “Excellent, Mr. Boel will be expecting you then.”

  “Yes, thank you,” I say into the open line. Because his assistant, who didn't deign me to give me her name, has hung up.

  I shoot up off my bed and look at the sweaty leotard and tights that stick to my body, my two thick braids tacked into a bridge above my head and see the clock reads five minutes until five.

  Shit, I'm already late for coffee with Mitch.

  I swoop into the shower and do a fifty mile an hour job on my body, skip shaving and swipe mascara on my eyelashes while bouncing on one foot and throwing my flats on. I leave my ballet stuff piled on the floor, slamming the door on the way out.

  I jog the entire way to my car, a little out of breath, all the while thinking I should have told Boel's assistant that I couldn't do it.

  But I didn't want to say that. I want to do it. Even though it puts me at risk, I want to dance again. Outside of my dorm room. I smile to myself and jerk open the door of my beater Kia.

  I jam the key in the ignition and with a vicious twist... it doesn't start. I sit staring at it, willing it to come on then I hit the steering wheel with the flat of my palm, and I give a yelp of pain, grabbing my hand with the other and putting them between my legs.

  An engine comes to life beside me and I hear a kickstand hit the ground with a sharp tap.

  I look up and Devin Castile sits on a bike.

  Wow... just wow. Could this day get any more complicated?

  His bike doesn't roar like an obnoxious storm but is what my horrible stepbrother would have termed a “quiet Harley.”

  He stands, walking over to my shitty car and puts a hand on the roof, I watch his sleeve ride up, revealing a sculpted bicep with an inky black tattoo that twines up his arm like a snake. I suck in a breath, my hand still throbbing. I'm late for a date with a real, actual guy and here was this guy who made every alarm bell I had and ones I didn't go off. I'd lied about being en pointe and now I was facing off with the spawn of Satan.

  Devin studies me for a moment, saying nothing. Then the corners of his full mouth turn up slightly. “Need a ride... Jess?” he asks. Again I notice him using my name in an odd way.

  “No,” I say too quickly, shaking my head. He turns his head, his hair a shadow of black on a perfectly round skull. When I look closer, I see scars peppered over the surface, then he says, “Get out.”

  “No,” I say, indignant. I'm not going to be bossed by a guy I met a day ago. No matter how hot he is.

  He sighs, raking a hand over his skull trim. “Let me look at it.”

  “Oh,” I say slowly. I slide out from behind the wheel and he folds himself into my car, his knees close to his chest. I giggle and he gives me a dark look, using the hand lever underneath the seat to makes the seat go all the way back. Finally he fits.

  Kinda.

  He tries to turn it over and it protests. Finally, after some coaxing it buzzes to life. I watch him peer into the gauges.

  The car dies.

  “You know, Jess,” he spears me with his black gaze, “a car runs better if you put gas in it.”

  I run over there and stick my head in the car and my gas gauge reads zero.

  Wonderful, Jewe
ll, way to go. I turn my head and our faces are an inch away from meeting. Devin stays where he is, completely fine with our closeness, I rear back and hit my head hard on the underside of the top of the car.

  I see stars and start to slip.

  Devin catches me and I swear I go under for a second. Then I am very awake and in his arms.

  The first thing I notice is how interesting a person's size can be. Devin Castile is a big guy. He is a huge guy when he's holding me.

  “How tall are you?” I slur.

  He smiles, brushing the hair that's escaped my damp bun out of my eyes in a gesture too tender for our superficial acquaintance.

  “You really hit your head hard,” he comments and smiles, those white teeth contrasting with the duskiness of his skin tone.

  He gathers me up and sets me slightly away from him.

  The reality of where I need to be seizes me and I try to make it important in the soup of my brain. “I need to go!” I say, coming to my senses in pieces.

  He cocks an inky brow. “Where? I'll take you.”

  My head swivels to the massive black bike, softly purring at the ready. I shake my head no and it swims a little with the motion.

  Suddenly, his huge hand wraps my elbow. “I said I'll take you,” his eyes bore into mine. Commanding me.

  I look at the bike, then at him, caving. “Okay.”

  He releases my elbow but looks ready to catch me again if I really do commit to passing out. “Where?” he repeats, already moving toward the bike.

  “Java Head,” I reply.

  I don't tell him I have a date and he doesn't ask.

  *

  I slip behind him, searching around quickly for some place to hang on and Devin grabs my hands, moving them around the hardness of his flat belly. It's beyond awkward but necessary.

  I give in as he turns. “Hang on.”

  He gives the throttle a vicious pump and lifts the kickstand as he pulls away in one fluid motion. Devin Castile is an economical man; with his words, with his movements.

  Against every smart thing I promise myself, I find myself wondering how economical he'd be in bed.

  He is a mystery and I discover I'm hanging onto my carefully cultivated indifference by the slimmest of margins.

  We cruise through the University District, double-parking in front of metered slots that are filled with cars, the coffee house rising up against the sidewalk with great walls of glass.

  I scramble off the back, feeling instantly more comfortable. There was just something about having your crotch plastered against the back of some hot guy that was beyond awkward.

  At least against the back of Devin Castile it was. I didn't analyze why it was awkward. I didn't want to.

  He stared at me for a minute as I smoothed down hair that had tried to unravel from the tightish bun I'd thrown it into.

  Devin's gaze roams my body, beginning at my feet, he lingers over the parts men will, finally resting on my face. I swear he can see my skin jump over the pulse that beats at my throat. He smiles suddenly and my breath catches, the expression so utterly changes his face. “See ya, Jess.”

  He turns away, pulling out into traffic smoothly, becoming a dot of black leather in the distance.

  I watch until he's out of sight and shiver.

  But not from the cold.

  It's the second time he's made me physically react to him, and he hadn't even touched me.

  I slowly turn away, going for the entrance of Java Head and meet Mitch's eyes through the distorted glass of the window. He's seen the whole thing.

  Shit-damn-shit.

  The bell tinkles as I slink inside and make my way between the tables. I notice Mitch has chosen a table at the furthest corner of the vintage-style coffee house. Actually, Java Head is housed in an antique building that had been converted for commercial use. The mechanicals of the building hang from the twenty-foot ceilings, exposed brick mixed with stainless steel, old moldings that had the residual paint of another century still framing the doorways and windows in a vintage rainbow of antiquity.

  The staff call this table the “first date table.” I give a small laugh as I sit down and Mitch smiles in return.

  “What's so funny?” he asks, his gray eyes were so pale they look almost white at this time of day. A trick of the light maybe.

  “I work here,” I say.

  He lifts his dark brows and replies, “I know.”

  I frown in confusion. “You did? Well then...”

  “I wanted to ask you to go somewhere familiar.” He smiles again, spreading his palms away from his body. “You seemed shy. I didn't want to screw my chances by asking you to meet somewhere you didn't feel safe.”

  I scrunched up my nose. Was he like... totally amazing or a stalker?

  Mitch laughs. “Let's get that look off your face!” His light eyes brim with humor.

  “Ah... I do feel safe,” I say and realize I mean it.

  We smile at each other.

  His fades as he asks the question I wish he wouldn't, “I saw Castile brought you. I thought you didn't know him?” His pale eyes gaze without guile into mine. Or presumed lack of guile. I notice he doesn't make a verbal note of my tardiness.

  I flip the spoon that will stir my breve over and under, thinking. Finally, I blurt out the truth and find it makes me a little mad to feel like I have to explain myself. “My crappy car wouldn't start and he was there...”

  “Ah,” Mitch said and I see tension ease out of his broad shoulders. If he knew what I thought of Devin, that wouldn't have eased him, I think with a pang of guilt.

  But he doesn't know. I don't either, not really. That doesn’t mean that I don’t want to flirt with finding out. I was circling a very dangerous new reality: losing my anonymity.

  I was still pretending to be Jess Mackey, Jewell MacLeod deliberately buried in a shallow grave. However, soon, I would begin dancing again, I was on a genuine date with La Hunk, a.k.a Mitch Maverick, and had a debilitating case of wet panties around Devin Castile.

  Hiding in plain sight has just gotten a helluva a lot harder.

  Mitch stood, stretching and his shirt rose, giving me a teasing sliver of abs. His eyes met mine, his arms coming to rest again by his sides. “What's your poison?”

  My oh my, he had interesting phrasing. I couldn't keep the smile back as my internal smart ass quipped to everything he said. Out loud I reply, “Breve with sugar free caramel.”

  “Don't get that sugar free shit, it's damn bad for you.”

  “Okay... dad,” I drawl and I see heat take up residence in those pale eyes as he continues to stare at me. Mitch reaches toward me and cups his large hand on my jaw, the loose cradle causing warmth to spread from the point of contact. He gives a small caress with his thumb, “Not. Having. Dad. Thoughts,” he says, then adds, “Nope!” He winks and drops his hand from my hot skin. A flush rises, heating my face and I feel the weight of his observation as he walks away, my eyes scoping his tight ass in jeans that fit him just right.

  I give a hard swallow and turn away from his broad back as he orders, looking out into the street, the pedestrians scurrying to whatever place called to them, needed them. My eyes scan the deep blue of the October sky, Indian summer in full throttle. I look down at my flats, the skinny jeans and lightweight sweater having slid off one shoulder and know that my days of wearing the lightweight clothes were numbered.

  I'd frozen on the short ride on the back of Devin's bike.

  I wouldn't trade the ride for anything.

  My chin was in my palm and I was a million miles away when Mitch returned with the steaming and fully-foamed breve, the rich smell of coffee causing me to sigh with comfort. There was just something about my favorite brew that gave me a happy flutter of contentment. The small daily pleasures of life separated us from the animals, soundly rescuing my humanity for another day of life worth living. I see Toby, the cashier, give me the nod of hi as I take my first sip and I give a small wave in acknowledgment. He wo
rks a different shift than me but all of us coffee compatriots know each other.

  “Thank you,” I murmur, that small package of happiness a gift. Mitch sees its effect when our fingers brush as he transfers the cup to my hand, his eyes flicking to mine as I cast mine down.

  “So... you're a dancing girl,” Mitch says by way of breaking the ice.

  Wrong move, but a normal one. He doesn't know I'm hiding from a psychotic relative.

  I nod in a non-committal way and he gives a bemused smile back, easily seeing my lack of details.

  I lean forward, wrapping both hands on the hot cup, the sleeve allowing my fingers to warm there instead of burn. “What about you? Why are you the number guy?”

  I realized my mistake the instant I say it and he grins. He now has absolute confirmation that he'd been the one Carlie was referencing at lunch a few days ago. Special.

  Mitch lets me off the hook, spinning his cup. How he'd downed that entire hot coffee in zero point five seconds is a complete mystery. “Lacrosse players are required to perform 'civic duty',” he makes air quotes, “for cross-related sports.”

  “Ballet is not technically a sport,” I reply, taking a small sip of my cooling but still delicious froth of coffee.

  Mitch's lips lifts in a smirk. “There are those who would argue that but since you're the one that said it first...” he threw up his palms in self-defense and I laugh.

  “There's way too much finesse required for ballet to be anything less than the finest example of athletic prowess. Sport is not a strong enough term,” I clarify.

  Mitch gives a low whistle. “How are your English skills, Jess?”

  I'd messed up and knew it. I could not let my upbringing peek through my carefully constructed façade. I hid my nervousness with another deliberate sip of coffee, formulating a careful response.

  “I do okay,” I laughed dismissively. I knew those years of being a Senator's daughter, albeit only by marriage, had marked me in ways that others couldn't identify but would note.

  I didn't want to be noteworthy.