Very Wicked Things

I rolled my eyes. “He’s forty years younger than you. Stick with the mailman.”

She laughed and ushered us both up to the porch and through the entrance. I didn’t relax until we were all in and the deadbolts were in place.

Cuba gazed around the foyer, his eyes stopping on a collection of black and white photos of me at different dance recitals. He moved toward them as I pulled Heather-Lynn to the side.

“Sarah asleep?” I asked her.

She nodded and then cut her eyes at Cuba. “What’s going on with you and the heartbreaker? He is the one, right?”

I sighed. “Yeah. My car broke down, so he gave me a ride home. And there’s a weird car on the street, so I asked him in.” But, at this point I didn’t care about Cuba. I wanted to know more about what had happened with those goons. “Anymore visits today?”

“No. We’re fine.” She gave me a pat. “Now, go chat with him while I make the tea.”

Go chat with him? That just sounded odd.

But it did seem as if we’d crossed a barrier in the car. Just a little.

She left, and I made my way over to him.

He turned and smiled at me and one of his dimples flashed. Whoa. I stopped in my tracks, sucking in air. That smile, that face…I hadn’t seen it in over a year.

“You look like a Degas painting in these pictures,” he mused.

He probably owned a few Degas’s.

“What do you mean?”

He traced his finger over a picture of me in a shimmery ball et tutu. “Your body is pure art, all straight lines and…I don’t know…perfect curves? Does that even make sense?” He shrugged in a self-deprecating way. “I don’t know how to describe it with the right ballet terms, but I like watching you dance. Maybe because I can tell you love it.”

Then why have you ignored me?

He sighed, dropping his hands. “You were right before, you know. Back at the parking lot. I have lost touch with my goals, but you never have.”

“You lost your mother,” I murmured, my body shifting toward him.

“I lost more than that,” he growled, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

I fidgeted, not sure what to say. Did he mean me? He couldn’t.

So, I changed gears. “Speaking of goals, take a look at this,” I said, showing him a picture of me in a white, sequined tutu, posed en pointe, arms in fifth position.

“This is me as Aurora in Sleeping Beauty. The role required me to dance en pointe for long periods of time. Trust me, supporting your entire body on your toes is not easy and some ballerinas never get it. It takes years and tremendous strength in the legs and ankles. Yet, every time I look at this picture, I don’t see my accomplishment. I see her,” I said, pointing at Sarah. The photographer had inadvertently captured her expression as I posed, her hands pressed prayer-like against her lips, elation and joy on her face. Unshed tears brightened her eyes.

It gave me goosebumps every time I studied it.

I shrugged. “There’re many reasons why I dance. My body craves the impossibility of it, all those crazy twists and turns. It’s where I pour out all my fears and frustrations. But really, dance gave me life once when I think I was close to dying.” I touched Sarah’s face in the picture. “She gave me hope for a future. My parents…” I stopped, realizing I’d said too much already.

I turned back to face him.

He smiled, the warmth of it giving me butterflies. Dammit. What was wrong with me? He was a deceitful ass, and yet I still wanted him.

“She sounds like a beautiful person,” he said softly. “You must love her very much.”

“Yes,” I said. “She devoted her life to me. I’d do anything for her.”

He ran his eyes over my features, as if memorizing them. “I want someone to talk about me the way you talk about Sarah.”

Oh. My heart raced at his gentle words. I don’t know why.

And then he laughed, perhaps feeling self-conscious. He quirked an eyebrow at me. “Maybe all I need is some inspiration like that to get my mojo back. Maybe then I could improve my grades, be a better person.”

I shrugged.

“Now, if you volunteered yourself up, I might be inspired to try harder,” he murmured, his voice low and sexy.

I stiffened. “Seriously. Cut the smooth talk and listen to yourself. You and I are over. You screwed that up, not me, so don’t give me any of your bullshit lines about being your inspiration. And I’m getting whiplash from all your mood swings, so pick one and stick with it.”

He shook his head, grinning. “Damn, I love how you don’t take my shit.”

What? Why wasn’t he mad?

His hand brushed mine as he moved closer to me. “Forget the bullshit. The truth is you’re not like any girl I know. The way you talk about hope like it’s easy, like anyone can have it. I want that so fucking bad. Maybe that’s why you made me so crazy for you last year.” Slowly, as if he were unsure, he reached out and pushed a wisp of bangs from my eyes. Shocked by his words—and touch—I allowed it, forgetting what happened between us, forgetting everything in my head.

But then it came back. “You weren’t crazy for me. You wanted my body. That was it.”

Sadness flickered across his face. “I can’t deny I wanted you in my bed. Who wouldn’t? But, I’m not lying when I say you’re the best person I know.”

My teeth dug into my bottom lip, biting back the words I wanted to say to him. Because right at this moment, with his eyes lingering on my face, it almost felt as if we might—