Slave to the Rhythm (The Rhythm #1)

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  “I’m so what?”

  “Um, I was going to say, so masculine,” Laney muttered, clearing her throat.

  “Gay men are masculine.”

  “I know. I meant, well, just that it’s obvious you’re not gay. Oh God, I’m saying this all wrong!”

  Her cheeks flushed and her gaze darted to my body. My shoulders relaxed and I grinned at her, leaning in closer, my eyes still fixed on hers.

  “You think it’s obvious that I’m not gay? I could make it more obvious . . . but you have a boyfriend.”

  I smiled triumphantly then moved away from her.

  Her eyes narrowed. Then she surprised the hell out of me by grabbing a pillow and tossing it at my head.

  I raised my hands reflexively and just missed getting hit.

  Once my surprise melted away, I gave her an evil smile. She squealed as I started to swing the pillow at her. But then I remembered that she was disabled—it was hardly a fair fight. I dropped the pillow back on the bed, shrugging sheepishly.

  “Sorry.”

  Her expression was something between annoyance and sadness, and I knew that I’d done the wrong thing.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” she muttered.

  She was upset, and I could have cheerfully kicked myself in the balls. I’d never known a disabled person before—I didn’t know how to behave and the fact that I kept forgetting she used a wheelchair caught me off-guard.

  “Could you just look the other way?” Laney said quickly. “I’m a little underdressed here.”

  I shot her a look. “You could pretend I’m gay.”

  “Turn around!”

  I turned, standing with my back facing her, hands on hips.

  There was a sudden silence.

  “How are you?” she asked tentatively. “How’s your back?”

  I stiffened immediately.

  “Okay,” I lied.

  “I doubt it,” she said gently. “Ash, I’m the last person you need to hide pain from.”

  My head drooped to my chest at her words, and I threw a quick look over my shoulder to see her staring at me, her eyes flitting over my back, compassion on her face. And I knew she could see the fresh blood that had seeped through my borrowed t-shirt.

  “It’s sore,” I admitted. “I’d really like to shower. I need . . . could you help me take off the bandages?”

  Laney nodded.

  “Of course. Let me just . . . give me a minute, okay?”

  She slid into her wheelchair, trying to hide her underwear, but at least she seemed to be moving more easily.

  I couldn’t hear the shower running and wondered how she managed things like that, especially when she had . . . what did she call it? A flare-up?

  I tugged off my shirt, frowning at the patches of blood. It was worse than I’d thought.

  A few minutes later, Laney wheeled herself out again. She took one look at my body and her eyes glazed with tears. I didn’t want her crying over what those bastards had done to me. But she forced herself to speak evenly.

  “Okay, let me take a look.”

  One by one, she eased the bandages from my skin. I already knew that bruises were coming through as well, and the mirror told me that I was a kaleidoscope of black and purple.

  “Can you kneel down so I can reach your shoulders?”

  I knelt in front of her, my feet beneath her wheelchair and the backs of my thighs pressed against her knees. Her hands trembled slightly while she worked, but even though her touch was gentle, I couldn’t help hissing with pain, and my muscles twitched under her fingers.

  I knew that I’d be permanently marked, carrying the scars forever. I’d never outrun Oleg’s handiwork. Or the sickening memories. If it looked really bad, I might have trouble getting theater work again. People go to see dance to feel good, not to have their stomachs turned by Quasimodo.

  There’d be few Paso vests in my future.

  Anger and frustration surged inside me: I’d never outrun the Bratva.

  I felt Laney’s cool hands on my burning skin. I liked the way she touched me—gentle but not hesitant. She understood pain and wasn’t cowed by it. She didn’t let illness beat her. It didn’t own her. I gritted my teeth: I might be marked, but Sergei was not going to win.

  My mind twisted with bitter thoughts of revenge. I’d never held a gun in my life, but I wanted to, very badly.

  If the monster was standing in front of me right now, I’d pull the trigger. I could, I knew I could. And I’d feel . . . nothing.

  It was as if the intensity of the last few weeks had left my emotional reservoir dry. I felt empty, with nothing inside.

  Perhaps I should be worried? Dance was my passion, but it came from inside me. If my passion was gone, what was left?

  Even that thought seemed distant and unimportant, as if a pane of glass separated me from viewing this fucked up life.

  Then Laney touched a particularly tender spot, and I shuddered, sucking in a breath to keep the pain inside.

  “Sorry,” she murmured.

  I tensed as she slid the waistband of my sweatpants lower, uncovering the upper curve of my ass as she tried to ease off another bandage. But a very different sensation rushed through my body.

  Shit! Not now!

  I cupped my hands over my dick, trying to hide the sudden tenting in my pants. Laney didn’t need to see that. She’d think I was some kind of freak who got off on pain.

  Then I started to wonder if she could have sex. Would it hurt her? Had she ever?

  She had a boyfriend, but that didn’t mean . . .

  I pushed the thought away, instead concentrating on counting ceiling tiles.

  Thankfully, my erection was mostly gone by the time she finished. Even so, I caught the flush in her cheeks as I turned around. Had she seen?

  “I’ll go shower now,” I said, jerking my thumb at the bathroom.

  “Wait! I should . . .” Laney stammered helplessly. “I should take a photograph. For evidence.”

  My face went blank. “Your friend took a picture. And your phone is dead.”

  Then I turned and walked into the bathroom.

  I was just a charity case—I wasn’t a man to her.

  Laney

  I heard the water in the shower and gave myself a mental ticking off.

  He’d been brutalized and traumatized. He could be a rape survivor for all I knew.

  And not only that, it was hard being near him, touching him intimately. Ash was just so . . .

  Then I felt guilty about Collin. Sort of. We were broken up, weren’t we? He’d never replied to my last text—well, not that I knew of.

  My feelings for Ash were confusing. I wanted to help him, to take care of him, save him even. But I was attracted to him, as well. Those feelings weren’t wrong . . . unless I acted on them.

  I sighed.

  Note to self: only rescue ugly guys next time.

  Ash was in the bathroom for so long that I started to wonder what he was doing. But when he emerged wearing just a towel, he explained quickly, as if he was trying to reassure me that he wasn’t walking around half naked for the hell of it.

  “I washed my clothes. To get the blood out. I’ve hung them on the towel rack. They should be dry enough to wear soon. Or not.”

  And he gave me a small smile, because damp clothes were the least of his worries.

  I returned his smile as best I could.

  “I saw a Walmart next door,” I said, striving for a conversational tone. “I’ll go see if I can buy you some jeans and a few t-shirts or . . .”

  Ash held up his hand, halting my teetering words.

  “No. You’ve done enough. I can’t take . . .”

  “Ash,” I said, gently interrupting. “It’s not taking—it’s me giving. And we’re in this together.”

  He closed his eyes and muttered something in his own language.

  “I’ll pay you back. Everything.”

  “How about this,” I said carefully. “It’s a simpl
e idea—I’m sure you know it: pay it forward.”

  Ash stared at me blankly. “I don’t understand.”

  “I helped you because I could, because I wanted to. Maybe one day you’ll see someone who needs help, so you’ll help them just because you can. And they do the same. Paying it forward, you see?”

  Ash swallowed and I watched the subtly erotic movement of his throat.

  “You are a good person,” he said.

  Was I? Was I a good person? Lusting after this damaged man while my boyfriend/unboyfriend stayed at home?

  Ash was still watching me.

  “What’s your name? Your family name, I mean.”

  I smiled. Getting-to-know-you talk—yes, I could do that.

  “Hennessey. Laney Hennessey. Irish American for five generations. What about you?”

  “Aljaž Novak. My father is Jure. Like how you say ‘George’.”

  I waited for more, but that was all he said.

  “That’s your whole family?”

  Ash nodded.

  No mother? No brothers and sisters? I found that unbearably sad. I forced myself to keep the tone cheerful.

  “Well, if we’re doing my family, we’ll be here forever.”

  The corner of Ash’s mouth lifted in a smile.

  “My clothes are drying—and I’m not going anywhere in a towel.”

  Yep, I was an altruist—saving women the world over from a gorgeous man with abs I could count, wearing nothing but a towel.

  “Hmm, a captive audience!” I teased him. “You asked for it. My father is Brian, he’s a police captain, like I said. My mother is Bridget, she’s a homemaker; and I have three sisters, Bernice, Linda and Sylvia; they’re married to Al, Joe and Mario, with seven kids between them. My Uncle Donald is in the fire department and he’s married to Carmen. They’ve got four children—my cousins, Stephen, Paddy, Eric and Michael. My mom’s sister, Lydia, is married to Uncle Paul, and they have two children, Trisha and Amelia. Heard enough yet? Because there’s a ton of second cousins and family friends who are nearly family, too.”

  “Wow!” Ash blinked, shaking his head. “That’s a lot of people.”

  “They’re great, most of the time,” I smiled. “But having a big family . . . I’m the youngest of the first cousins, so it’s like I have six moms and dads and a dozen brothers and sisters, and they’re all up in my business the whole time.”

  I shook my head.

  “You should see our house at Thanksgiving—crazy.”

  I waited for Ash to say something else about his family, but a distant expression clouded his face. I already knew he wasn’t close to his father, and he hadn’t mentioned his mother. Perhaps she wasn’t in his life? Or perhaps it was none of my business.

  I cleared my throat.

  “Why don’t you order from one of these takeout menus, and while we’re waiting, I’ll go see what delights Walmart has to offer?”

  Ash fiddled with the edge of his towel, a frown on his face, and I sighed.

  “We talked about this,” I reminded him gently. “You pay it forward when you have the chance. Now what shoe size are you?”

  “Forty-six,” he muttered after a short pause.

  I raised my eyebrows in confusion. “Excuse me?”

  Ash looked up at the surprise in my voice then shook his head as if to clear it.

  “Twelve in US sizes. Sorry.”

  “You had me worried there for a minute,” I laughed.

  I glanced down at his bare feet, suddenly reminded that there was a lot of naked male flesh on view. Even sitting on the edge of a motel bed he looked elegant, his muscled calves leading to thick, strong thighs, and his stomach was a flat slab of muscle above the towel, his ridged abdominals moving with each breath, the planes of his chest defined but not bulging. But the bruises . . .

  I tore my gaze away before I met his eyes. I didn’t want him to see my thoughts.

  “What size pants?” I asked quickly.

  “Thirty waist, 34 inseam.”

  “Right, I’ll be back,” I said, my voice too bright, over compensating. “Order whatever you want—I’m starving!” And I placed some bills on the small table.

  “You don’t have your shoes,” Ash commented, his voice serious.

  “I don’t need them,” I said, not wanting to mention that I couldn’t face forcing my feet into the Louboutins again.

  “It’s cold out there, Laney.”

  God help me, but I loved the way he said my name.

  I felt as though every time I looked into his eyes or let my gaze linger on his hard, beautiful body, my IQ dropped another few points.

  “Your shoes?” he prompted.

  My sneakers were in my suitcase, but I couldn’t reach my feet to put socks on or to tie laces. I wasn’t going to bother with shoes today.

  “I don’t need them,” I argued, unwilling to admit there was something I couldn’t do, especially in front of him.

  “You’re stubborn!”

  His voice was quietly amused, but it was true. And sometimes stubborn was useful. Stubborn was refusing to give into pain. Stubborn was getting out of bed when my body was screaming not to be moved. Yes, I was stubborn.

  “I . . .”

  My voice caught as Ash didn’t wait for my reply but rifled through my suitcase and pulled out a pair of red socks.

  “Okay?” he asked, his voice edged with uncertainty.

  I nodded wordlessly, and then he knelt in front of me again, carefully easing the bright cotton over my feet. He did it all so instinctively with no fuss, no drama.

  Tears rose in my eyes as I studied his dark head bent over me, his hair still wet.

  He eased my swollen feet into the sneakers and tied them loosely, then handed me my jacket and purse.

  “You won’t get cold now.”

  “Thank you,” I said weakly.

  He opened the door and I wheeled myself out, welcoming the chilly slap of air as I left the building.

  Ash’s gentle thoughtfulness moved me more than I wanted to admit, and I wasn’t sure why.

  Ash

  After she’d gone, I paced the small room.

  My thoughts tormented me. I wanted to gouge out my brain so I wouldn’t remember anymore. But I couldn’t. Instead, they preyed on my mind. And I started to think about what would happen when we reached Chicago, whether she would still want to know me. I’d have to tell her father everything if Sergei and Oleg were going to be caught and punished, if Volkov was going to be stopped. But then I’d have to admit how stupid and weak I’d been, how they’d played me. I’d have to admit that I watched helplessly while Oleg murdered the girl, beat the Korean cook to death, and while Marta had been forced into prostitution. I’d watched and known and done nothing.

  I’d have to admit what Sergei had done to me, not once, but twice.

  The thick, choking memory made me gag and I ran to the bathroom to throw up. My knees hit the floor and the cold porcelain pressed against my bare chest. Hot, furious tears burned behind my eyes and I wiped them away angrily.

  But then I slammed my hands on the basin. The bastards didn’t get to win this one.

  I rinsed my mouth and then went to sit on the bed to order breakfast.

  I’d force myself to eat. I’d force myself to stay strong.

  Laney

  As I made my way around Walmart, I wasn’t surprised that people stared. Most tried not to get caught, but one or two did it openly. If I was being charitable, I’d say they were concerned, but no—they were just staring.

  I did my best to pick out some clothes for Ash. I’d been in too much of a hurry to leave that claustrophobic hotel room. Ash’s presence filled the space. He brimmed with masculinity, testosterone flowing from him in heady waves; and I don’t think he knew he was doing it, but I saw him checking out my boobs when I woke up. It was just a quick glance—well, two quick glances—but it was definitely there. It was a mystery to me how anyone could ever think he was gay, although it obviou
sly bothered him a lot.

  I suppose assuming a male dancer must always be gay was like assuming a woman in a wheelchair always needed an aide. We’d be fighting stereotypes our whole lives. After our conversation, I was okay with that comparison.

  As well as two pairs of jeans, shirts and a coat, I bought Ash toiletries and more Advil, plus boxer-briefs and socks. It felt a little awkward buying underwear for a man I hardly knew, but compared to what we’d been through together, that small discomfort wasn’t important.

  Luckily, I was able to buy a phone charger, as well. It would be a relief to be in touch with the world again. I wondered how much trouble I was in with Vanessa and Jo.

  I made my way back to the hotel, so loaded up with bags on my lap that I could hardly see over the top. This could be tricky. At any moment, they could all go sliding off, and then I really would be reliant on the kindness of strangers. Again.

  But I made it back in one piece, and Ash opened the door as soon as he heard me outside.

  “Clothes and a phone charger,” I said, pointing my chin at the mountain of plastic bags.

  I caught the scent of food, happy that it had arrived. We were both too hungry to wait and unpack what I’d bought for him, so I plugged in my phone while we sat on the bed, Ash wrapped in a blanket, as we fueled up for the day ahead.

  Every few seconds my phone buzzed with another message or missed call.

  “I guess people are worried about you,” he said.

  I nodded, my mouth full of eggs and bacon.

  “I bet Jo and Vanessa have been blowing up my phone with messages. I’ll call them as soon as we get in the car.”

  Ash glanced up at me. “Not your boyfriend?”

  I pulled a face. “I don’t know. Maybe. We kind of broke up. He didn’t want me to go to Vegas.” Then I gave an awkward laugh. “Looks like he was right, even if it was for the wrong reason.”

  Ash looked down at his half empty plate. “I will always be grateful that you came.”

  I was silent, and slowly Ash’s eyes rose to meet mine. There was a connection there, I could feel it. Then he looked down again and resumed eating. The moment had passed, but I knew I hadn’t imagined it—I just didn’t know what it meant.