Chapter 21
Blitz arrives in Chicago the day before opening night. I want to go pick him up from the airport, but I’m stuck in final rehearsals and fittings.
I remember Juliet telling me that ballerinas do their own makeup, and it turns out it is true, even in big productions like this one. I frantically call around and secure a makeup artist who can travel with me. It will cost a good chunk of money from my Dance Blitz days, but it’s worth it not to have to worry about some reviewer saying I look ridiculous, or worse, having it sweat into rivulets partway through a dance.
Dominika hears about what I’ve done and asks if we can split the cost and share her. I’m glad to do so, both for the money savings and in hopes we can bridge the divide between us over the publicity.
The day finally ends well past dinnertime. I hurry out of the studio, frantically texting Blitz to see where he might be.
When I get to the hotel, there’s a party or something going on in the bar to the left of the lobby. The noise is tremendous. I’m wondering if it’s something to do with the ballet, when some girl cries out, “I love you, Blitz Craven!”
Of course.
I try to make my way through the melee, but it’s a mob. I spot Blitz’s parents sitting off to one side in a booth and head for them instead.
David stands when he sees me. “Your boy is trapped,” he says. “You might want to go save him.”
“Let him save his own wretched self,” Renata says, reaching her arms out for a hug.
I lean in for a quick squeeze and drop my dance bag in the booth.
“This could go on for hours if he doesn’t have a bodyguard,” I say.
“We didn’t bring anyone,” Renata says. “We flew here with him.”
I let out a long sigh. I had forgotten what this is like. Apparently so did Blitz.
I spot an empty chair at the end of the bar. The mob is at the center of the long wooden counter.
Okay, I can work with this.
I slip off my Crocs and leave them by the booth. I have dance slippers on underneath. I take a small bouncing run to the chair, leap onto the seat, then up onto the bar.
My movements catch the attention of the bartender, then the edges of the crowd. I leap over tip jars and empty glasses until I’m in the center of the mob. As I expected, Blitz is trapped by it, pressed against the bar.
I hold out a hand to him.
He looks up. “I never thought I’d be rescued by a ballerina,” he says.
“Won’t be the last time,” I say.
He hops up on a chair, then he’s beside me, standing on the bar.
Cheers erupt from down below as he kisses me. There are cell phone flashes and the general lighting of the place increases as all the screens flicker on to video us.
Blitz picks me up and turns us in a circle on the bar. The whoops grow louder.
“You are light as a feather,” he says. “Don’t they feed the dancers around here?”
“Ten hours of dancing a day,” I say. “And no McDonalds in sight.”
“We’ll have to fix that,” he says. “The first burger is on me.”
He starts walking along the bar. The crowd tries to move with us, but I see a couple hotel employees with gold badges trying to shift them toward the door.
Blitz steps down on the last chair, gripping me tightly as we hop to the ground. The crowd is kept at bay as we escape to the far side of the bar.
We circle the long way back around to his parents’ booth. Most of the fans have been escorted out.
David scoots over to make room for us. “About time they kicked those kids out,” he grumbles. “A man can’t have a decent drink without getting mobbed.”
He frowns into his beer and takes a drink.
“Thank you for fetching him, Livia,” Renata says. Her hair is piled elegantly on her head and her black linen jacket looks new.
David is the same as always, in a loose navy guayabera with elaborate stitching. His hair is combed over, curling on the ends over his ear. He looks like a curmudgeonly grandfather.
A waitress stops by to ask for our drink order. I just get water. “Big day tomorrow,” I say. “The last thing I need is a hangover.”
Renata nods. “Sensible,” she says.
“So what happened?” I ask Blitz. “Did somebody out you?”
“Right off the bat,” he says. “We checked in, got on the secure floor, and came down for a drink. At first it was just a couple girls, but then they texted people, and it snowballed.”
“You just need to be a little more forceful with them,” David says. “Show them who’s boss.”
“It was fine,” Renata says. “Just unexpected. How are you, Livia? You look so different!”
“Grateful not to be injured,” I say. “It was a lot more workout than I’m used to.”
“I’ll say,” Blitz says. He keeps squeezing parts of me, my arms, my shoulders, my waist. “You’re all muscle.”
“She was already damn skinny,” David says.
“It’s just a few months,” I say. “I’m sure I’ll be back to my old self by Christmas.”
“You think you’ll keep doing ballet work?” Renata asks.
I glance at Blitz. “I’m just taking it one job at a time right now.”
The bar quiets down. It almost feels as if no time has passed, and I’ve just walked up to meet Blitz and his parents in San Antonio.
Except. Well, some parts of me are waking up just being next to him. I think about how it’s been six weeks and I’m dying now that he’s here.
Blitz is probably in a similar frame of mind because he scoots out of the booth and takes my hand.
“If you’ll excuse us, I’m sure Livia is tired and would love to get some rest before her big opening night tomorrow,” he says.
David coughs into his hand. “Some rest. Sure,” he says with a laugh.
Renata taps his arm to make him stop. “Sounds perfect. We’ll see you tomorrow after the show, dear.”
Blitz scoops up my dance bag and my forgotten shoes. He drops his sunglasses on his face despite the darkness of the bar and we stroll out to the lobby.
The elevator doors have barely closed when he’s on me, pulling me against his chest. “I’m going to kiss every inch of these new muscles of yours,” he says.
I’m still fairly warm and limber from a day of rehearsal, so when he reaches down for my thigh, I can raise my leg straight up to rest on his shoulder.
“Oh man, oh man, oh man,” Blitz says, turning to bite my ankle through the stretchy leg warmer.
We’re in this position when the doors open on the sixth floor. I notice the number and know it’s where all the dancers are staying. But I can’t get my leg down before Weeza steps in.
Then backs out. “Forget it,” she says.
I wonder why she’s going up rather than down, unless she’s planning to visit Evangeline. But she doesn’t have a card that allows her on the secure floor.
She keeps backing away until finally the doors close again.
I put her from my mind and turn back to Blitz. “You were saying?”
He shifts and sweeps my other leg off the floor. He settles me against his chest, my dance bag banging his shoulder and my shoes dangling from his fingers beneath my back.
“You are going to be naked before the door is closed,” he says.
“Oh, really?” I say. “Will you at least let me shower first? I’ve been dancing since nine this morning!”
“In the shower, then,” he says. The elevator door opens on our floor, and he takes off down the hall. I spot the same elderly lady as on the first day and her eyes grow wide as she watches me being carried by Blitz.
I bury my face in his shoulder, stifling a laugh, as we hurry past the other doorways. I could run into anyone up here. Ivana. Evangeline. Dmitri. We might be staying next to one of them! They will hear!
But we continue through another set of doors that require a key card. Then more doors. I’m guessing they aren’t in here. At least not Ivana and Evangeline.
We’re safe.
Blitz shoves the card key in the reader and shoulders open the door.
When we’re inside, he tosses me on the bed. I let out a little shriek as I go airborne and he dumps my shoes and bag on the floor.
“That leotard is coming OFF,” he says, tugging on one of the wine-colored leg warmers.
He peels them down and tosses them across the room. I can barely take in the place, large and spacious but not quite a suite.
He assesses the rest of my outfit and goes for the skirt first, sliding it down and throwing it behind him in a puff of netting.
Then he grasps the top of the leotard to start peeling layers away.
The air hits my skin, chest, ribs.
Blitz lifts my hips to get it down to my knees, then it’s flying across the room.
“Always the tights,” he mumbles, grasping the waistband and pulling.
“Got to make it a challenge,” I say.
“Oh, you’re a challenge,” he retorts.
When I’m naked on the bed, he kicks off his loafers and pulls his shirt over his head. He starts to take off his pants, but then sort of dives forward, his mouth landing on a breast.
I arch up to meet him, reveling in the feel of him, finally. I’d shut those thoughts out for the most part, not wanting to get too lonely or too homesick for him.
But now it’s back, all of it, every memory, every need. My desire for him blasts through me like a shock wave. I feel consumed, covered in fire.
“Shower, please,” I manage to say.
He doesn’t move his lips from their soft surround against my tender skin. But he shifts me down so I’m closer to the edge of the bed. Then he’s able to slide off and get to the snap of his jeans.
His pants hit the floor, then his boxers.
He lifts me up, wrapping my legs around him so we walk together to the bathroom.
“This is going to kill me,” he says, shoving the glass door aside and reaching in to turn on the spray.
Thankfully the water is hot almost immediately. It’s a broad standing shower, so Blitz sets me down ahead of him and enters behind me, pulling the door closed.
The small space steams up quickly. I relax into the spray as I let down my hair, relieved to feel the sweat and stickiness of the day washing away.
Blitz tugs a washcloth from the rack on the wall and wets it. “I am going to make sure every inch of you is clean.”
He squeezes green body gel from a tiny bottle onto the cloth and works it until it suds up.
“I’m going to start here,” he says, bending down to slide it around my ankles. “I want to look at these legs.”
The soap makes my skin slippery, and his fingers glide along, feeling every curve and ridge. I haven’t quite gotten the boxy thighs of longtime ballerinas, but the muscles are defined and firm.
He makes his way up, the cloth coming around and behind until he squeezes the new version of my butt.
“Jesus,” he says. “It’s perfectly smooth.”
His face is near my belly button, and one hand slides up my abs, a finger slipping beneath my ribs. “We both have a six-pack,” he says. “We should do a photo shoot.”
I huff out a quick laugh, trying to imagine posing that close to naked. “I don’t think that’s my speed,” I say.
“I probably would have to buy all the copies so no one else would see anyway,” he says. “I’m the jealous sort.”
“Are you?” I tease. “The sort to punch somebody for saying I’m a ‘sick ride’?”
His laugh is low and rumbly. “My misspent youth.”
Water drips off my body and onto his head.
“Less talking, more action,” I tell him. “It’s been way too long.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” he says. He drops the washcloth, most of the gel washed out, and runs both his hands over my skin, back, waist, hips. He’s still kneeling.
Then he lifts one of my thighs to his shoulder. He cradles me with his arms as his lips slide down my belly, his tongue finding its way.
I press my hand against the tile for balance, my breath catching. The water cascades down my back as he works, warm and relaxing.
He’s back. He’s here. He’s mine.
The spiraling starts small and tight, just where he’s working my body. Then it begins to spread, a warmth that circles out like a pebble dropped in a river.
He adds fingers, and everything starts to speed up. I find the handle to the shower door and grip it tight. God, I’ve missed this. The tension. The anticipation. The pleasure. The tension gathers quickly now and I’m almost over the edge.
Then the rhythm begins, pulsing against Blitz’s mouth. I let it take me over, bliss washing over me in its wake. My tears mix with the shower water. I’m overcome with happiness and relief. The time apart hasn’t mattered. This is real.
Blitz lowers my leg but keeps his hold on me. I’m glad, as my muscles are shaking. He shuts off the water and pushes open the door to fetch a towel.
“To be continued in the bedroom,” he says. “I might not let you sleep, but I’ll let you rest.”
He stands over me, tall, solid, my Blitz. He wraps me in the towel, squeezing my hair.
We walk together to the bed, crisp and white, and when I lay down on it, it’s cool to the touch.
Blitz pulls the towel away and smooths my hair back. “I want a better look,” he says.
He glides his fingers along my shoulders, following the curve of those muscles. Then between my breasts, where my chest is tight and flat between them. And back to my legs, which he still can’t get enough of, lifting one to kiss the entire length.
“Amazing,” he says. “I bet you can jump grand jetés over my head.”
“I’m not sure about that,” I say. “But I won’t apologize for my form anymore.”
During the weeks of rehearsals, we’ve talked about Barb and Franco and all the instructors. He knows how hard it’s been. Now is for reunion, reconnection.
And Blitz takes his time. Kissing, kneading, touching. I know the night will go late, but as he promises, I am at rest, and he worships me.