Chapter 1
It's a long, long way down.
I wind my foot around the fluttering blue tail of silk. My hands grip the fabric like a lifeline. The highest cushioned mat is a solid ten-foot drop. If I miss it, it's another ten feet to the floor.
Blitz stands below, hands on his hips, looking up. He seems small, like an action figure rather than a man. His black hair shines and the sexy scruff on his face looks darker from up here.
Bex, our instructor, also watches me, her gaze occasionally shifting to the tall mats, as if she fears she might have to dash up the stairsteps of cushions to rescue me.
I'm attempting the biggest aerial silk drop I've ever done.
The other dancers in the gymnasium have paused to watch. They've gotten used to us being here, and the novelty of two reality TV dance show stars in their workout space has worn off. But this is new. I'm at the tip-top of the silks, swaying near the swivel hook, and I've hung out there too long.
“Do the twist and the turn like we practiced,” Bex calls up. “You're fine!”
Except I'm not fine. My arms are shaking even though I'm not putting any stress on them. I have a foot lock engaged, so it's like I'm standing on the ground.
As long as I can ignore that the ground is way, way down there.
Blitz and I have been working on this move for a couple months. We first learned it from our instructor in LA while we were still filming the last season of Dance Blitz. Then we picked it up again here, back in San Antonio. We don't plan to do any more television episodes, and aerial silk work is fairly impractical, mostly used by circuses and talent shows.
But we enjoy it.
Usually.
Currently, I'm not a fan.
“You've got this, Princess,” Blitz calls up. He's deadly calm. He has total faith. There isn't so much as a hint of concern on his face.
Not that he's close enough that I could see it.
I close my eyes. I'm not sure what's really getting me. We have practiced the parts of the drop closer to the ground a hundred times. It's just that to do the full extension of it, I have to be high. We had to pick a day where I did it all.
Today is the day.
And I'm feeling anxious.
“Let's take this one step at a time,” Bex says. She's climbing the mat tower now so she can get closer. “Don't think about anything, just do what I tell you.”
I open my eyes and watch her get closer. “Okay,” I say.
“The triple turns will slow your descent,” she says. “You just need to finish the wrap. Start with the left.”
My right foot is the one in the lock, so it's not hard to go ahead and sweep my left leg around the loose silk.
“Good,” Bex says. She's at the top of the mat now and reaches out for the black silk hanging next to my blue set. She pulls it toward her, then quickly climbs her way up to me. Now we're next to each other, as if we're having any common conversation.
“Release the foot lock.” She holds herself up on the silks and wraps her left leg so that we are in the same position.
This is harder to do. As soon as I release the foot lock, I have to suspend myself.
“Release it,” Bex says. Her voice is no-nonsense.
I let out a long rush of air and release the foot lock.
“There you go,” Bex says. “Now engage the right leg in the wrap.”
My arms continue to shake. I don't look down, though, not even to get another glimpse of Blitz. I wrap my leg and slide down into the splits.
“Now pull up the extra and wrap for the drop,” Bex says.
I'm better now, all business, as I catch the tails of the silk and pull them up. I twist and turn the way I've practiced, making additional rolls to accommodate the extra height, and adding loops to allow for brief free falls.
“You've got it,” Bex says. “Everything looks good.”
She releases her own foot lock and slides down until she is level with the mat, then swings over. She lands lightly on its surface, taking the black silks with her to keep them out of my way.
“Check, catcher,” she says.
“Check, catcher,” Blitz says.
“Check, flier,” she says.
“Check, flier.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
Bex doesn't hesitate. “On three, two, one, GO.”
I dive forward.
The key to aerial silk drops is in the preparation, the turns of the fabric around your body. Once you start the sequence, there isn't much to do other than let the pattern unfold and keep yourself centered and falling straight.
The air rushes by. My hair is tightly bound to avoid getting caught in the fabric on the way down. I feel an occasional lurch as one of the looser drops lets me fall for a second, then it catches again. I roll forward, the last silk tight around my waist, then I'm done with the silks and dropping.
Into Blitz's arms.
“Gotcha,” he says.
The gym erupts in claps and cheers. Blitz turns around, keeping me tight against him, then rolls me over his back and I cartwheel out of the move to stand beside him.
More whistles and cheers. Bex rushes down the stairsteps of mats to reach us.
“You did it!” she says. “You're about to be as technical as I can take you. You only need to add some form to make the wrap look dance-like as you put it together.”
Blitz bows theatrically. Jenica, who owns the studio, claps her hands together over her head. Once the applause dies out, everyone returns to their workouts.
That's one nice thing about Jenica's. Everyone is focused on their work. Nobody videos or does live feeds or tries to take pictures. They respect each other's practice time, even if a private image of me and Blitz would fetch a decent price in the tabloids and most everyone here could use the cash.
Blitz turns me in a circle. “That was the most amazing move that no one will ever see!” he says.
“There is bound to be an act somewhere that would love this,” Bex says. “The name Blitz Craven draws a crowd.”
Blitz picks up his towel and shakes his head. “That's okay. We are more than happy to step far away from the limelight.” He takes my hand. “We're looking for a house. Working on our ballet. Taking it easy.”
Bex nods. “I get that.” She glances at her watch. “And, on that note, time for me to pick up my little guy.”
“Thanks for getting us to this level,” Blitz says. “See you next week.”
“Sounds good. Schedule with Weeza!” Bex hurries toward the door, scooping up her bag from the cubbies on the way out.
“Ah, Weeza,” Blitz says. “I don't think she'll ever love us.”
“You can't win them all,” I say.
Weeza works here as the scheduling manager, and she despises Blitz and his commercial dance. The more successful his TV show got, the more she would speak up with her disdain.
We walk through the gym, admiring the ballerinas at the barre and the ballroom couples in the far corner.
“It's not Dreamcatcher, but I like it here now that we've found the right instructor,” Blitz comments as we slip on our shoes. We have to do our aerial work barefoot.
“There's definitely room for more than one studio for us,” I say. “But Dreamcatcher will always be special.” I learned ballet there, and it's where I met Blitz. I also teach a wheelchair ballerina class, which includes my four-year-old biological daughter Gabriella. She doesn't know I am her mother. No one knows except Blitz. Dancing there keeps her close.
It's why we're settling down in San Antonio instead of LA. Plus Blitz's parents live here.
My parents are in town as well, but even though almost six months have passed since I left home, they still won't talk to me. I've tried twice since the show ended to see them again. But unfortunately, they heard about some of the sexier clips, and my father said a “dirty whore” like me had no place in their family.
I don't know any way to fix that.
We've just collected our things when we spot Weeza blocking the door. She's in her usual outfit of slashed tights and plain black leotard, her short blond hair in little spiky pigtails all over her head.
“Weeza!” Blitz says. “Let me guess. You finally figured out that you can't live without me.”
Weeza's expression is more self-satisfied than usual. She leans against the door frame and crosses her arms. “You're not going to be laughing when you check your phones,” she says.
Blitz's smile doesn't falter. “I KNEW you were a secret fan,” he says. “You've been following me all along.”
“As if,” she says. “Besides, it's not even about you this time.” She angles her head at me. “It's about her.”
Weeza's otherworldly green eyes, probably colored contacts, pierce mine. My heart hammers inside my chest. The press and social media mentions since the final episode of Dance Blitz a month ago have been more positive than not. Everyone felt our relationship was genuine and was glad for how the show ended.
Besides, the machine has already kicked in to promote the new bachelor for the show, Mack Williams. Within a few months, Blitz and I will be distant has-beens. Our only appearance will be on the final episode of the next season.
I don't know what anyone would say that would make Weeza come seek us out. But my heart is still a little accelerated from the intense aerial drop. So I'm probably a little edgier than usual as I tell her, “I'm used to it.”
She shrugs. “It's none of my business. But if my ex's new girlfriend decided to fork over a story about my secret baby to the Internet, I'd be pretty dang mad.”
My head whips around to Blitz. His eyebrows have hit his hairline.
“Show me,” he demands.
Weeza turns her phone to him.
He takes it from her, swiping rapidly with his finger.
I can't look, imagining the worst, pictures of Gabriella next to mine. Her adopted mother's anger.
Never getting to see her again.
Blitz passes the phone back.
I manage to get out a few words. “How bad?”
He takes my arm. “They don't know who she is. Only that she exists.” He nods at Weeza. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
“My pleasure,” she says with an attempt at sarcasm, but it doesn't have its usual bite.
My legs threaten to wobble out from under me as we head outside to my little white Volkswagen convertible. I finally got my driving permit, something my family hadn't allowed, and I have been working through my driving hours so I can take the test.
But I’m not up for that extra stress today. I pass the keys to Blitz and he gets behind the wheel.
When we're sealed up in the car, no one to overhear us, I ask him, “So what happened?”
Blitz starts the engine. “It wasn't Denham. It was some girl he was dating. They broke up and she decided to talk to the tabloids. She said you had his baby when you were teenagers. That you put the baby up for adoption and he never got to see her.”
“Nothing else?”
“That's probably all she knew.”
“Denham didn't talk?” My pulse flutters madly, as if my heart itself is trying to run away.
“Apparently he's back in jail.”
I stare out the window. I had hoped somehow that he'd get his life back together after we bailed him out that last time.
But he told this woman our secret. And she'd seen an opportunity.
“Why does anyone believe her?” I ask.
“Because I bailed him out of jail and the attorney’s agreement mentioned a kid. She has the paperwork.”
“That handwritten thing he made in jail?”
“They have shots of it with the date. Everyone knows I was there that day.”
Crap.
We drive along the bright streets, green and vivid for late spring. When my heart calms a bit, I pull out my phone. As long as they don't know who Gabriella is, it's still okay. They can say what they want about me or Denham.
I don't know what Blitz read or how much he saw, but I only have to look at a few headlines to see that he's wrong about how much has gotten out.
Yes, the girlfriend told everyone about the baby. And the adoption. But she also told one very telling detail. One that will sink us.
The secret baby is now in a wheelchair.