by Ally Blake
Ryder somehow nodded, even while he was blistering on the inside from the effort not to hold her, touch her, lose himself in her every last moment they had together. But mostly from the effort not to make good on his prayer and do whatever it took to make her stay.
Because it was going to be brutal. Hell, if she hadn’t come to him that night, by five minutes to ten he’d have been ripping her door off its hinges. Like some seductive vapour she’d invaded his thoughts, his needs, his life. At times when they were apart he could have sworn he could feel her energy flowing through him as if she’d seeped into his very marrow.
And considering her history, he had no doubt he could chisel that fissure of hesitation into full-blown uncertainty. A kiss just below her ear, a thumb run softly along her jaw, a stroke of her inner thigh and he could make her his. But for how long? Until another opportunity like this came along? Until things naturally simmered down? Until disillusion leached in, restlessness took hold, and he realised he’d had enough?
He knew how badly she wanted the job, how much of her own self-worth was wrapped in whether or not she had it in her to succeed on her own, how much healthier it would be if she got as far away as possible from the insidious destructive influence of her mother, and yet he’d yearned for her to fail. Just so he could keep her close.
If he’d ever harboured any small hope that he might one day be able to love a woman in a more honest way than his own father ever had, that doubt had just been pulverised.
He was a selfish bastard. Which was his problem, not hers. His hit to take.
As he saw it he had one chance at redemption. He had to let her go. And he had to do so in a way that meant she’d never look back.
“You appear a little shell-shocked, Miss Nadia.”
In profile her forehead scrunched into a frown. “Probably because I am.”
“I thought you’d be bouncing off the walls. Literally.” He said it with a smile that felt as if it had been cut into his face.
Then she turned to him, her eyes wide, her lips pursed, her expression...lost. “What if I’m not ready? What if I’m kidding myself? What if it’s not what I really want? What if I’ve been too busy running towards what I think I should want to see that what I really want is something else—something right under my nose?”
Dammit. Nadia. Sweetheart.
Ryder lifted off the pillow and slid a hand up her spine before it curled around the back of her neck. Her soft skin and sleepy warmth carved a hollow in his chest. “You forget, I’ve seen you spinning circles in the sky. Of all the people I’ve met in my life, you are the one who’s had the most manifest purpose. That show is what you were born to do.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
“Ryder,” she said, pulling away. Her eyes glistened, swarming with emotion he understood more than he let himself dwell on. What had happened between them might be real, it might feel rich and thick and true, but he couldn’t promise it would last. And he wouldn’t risk hurting her simply for the chance to find out.
“I know,” he said, holding her gaze until she breathed out, and belief poured back into her dark, soulful eyes.
And then she leant into him. Snuggling into his touch. Trusting and soft and small. Adorable, he thought. And between breathing out and breathing in again, Ryder felt something inside him split right in half, the pain of it cracking through him like a gunshot.
But she didn’t need to know the arguments his conscience and his ego were battling out inside him. What she needed was sleep. And to feel damn proud of herself. So he laid her down, and rolled her into his arms, wrapping her up until her head fitted just under his chin and her breath shifted against his chest.
He lay there, all night, staring at the phone still clutched in her hand, telling himself he’d done the right thing.
* * *
When Nadia woke up the next morning, Ryder was gone.
She reached out for him to find his side of the bed empty and cold and on his pillow a note. A note and an apple.
For the road, the note read.
And the lump that had formed in her throat the moment she’d seen the Sky High producer’s name on her phone dislodged itself and the tears that had gathered behind it poured from her eyes like a damn waterfall.
Because she loved the idiot.
Up and down, through and through. She’d known it with absolute certainty the moment Bob had told her she was in. She should have felt elated, over the moon, vindicated, relieved. Instead all she’d felt was a keening sadness whistling through a hole in her heart.
Even while she’d seen in his eyes that he felt...something, if not love then a definite desire to keep her close, he’d congratulated her, wished her luck, and held her with such tenderness she’d slept like a log. And woken not to the man who’d misappropriated her heart, but a damn apple, and a note that as good as warned her not to let the door hit her on the backside on the way out.
Was that it? Good luck and thanks for all the sex? Because he simply didn’t care, or because he cared too much for some drawn-out farewell?
She couldn’t think surrounded by his heat, his scent, the bachelor pad to end all bachelor pads. She had to get out of his bed. She swiped her palms over her damp cheeks, and then tried to untwist herself from the sheets, but they fought back. By the time she’d yanked herself free she tumbled out of bed and onto the floor with a thump.
And there she lay, breathing heavily, looking up at the ceiling as she had the first night she met him. Only this time it wasn’t the ceiling of her lonely little flat. And this time she wasn’t lost, wasn’t filled with hope that she might one day get her act together. This time all her dreams had come true.
All the dreams she’d ever had until she met him.
With a groan she pulled herself upright, wincing at the bruises on her backside, which would be black and blue by the time she got to Vegas in a few days. A few days. That was all the time she had to tie up the loose threads of the life she’d built. And the more she thought about it, the more threads there were. So many unexpected goodbyes.
“Then you’d better get cracking,” she said, the croak less convincing than she’d hoped.
She was dressed and out of the door within minutes. She only held onto the doorknob a moment. Okay, a few moments. But she had to be sure this time, certain of what she was walking away from.
“Love,” she said out loud, the word picked up by the sea breeze and carried away on the wind. For the first time in her life, love.
But Sky High was what she wanted. It was. It had better be, because it would be her whole life now. Her days and her nights. Her blood and her sweat. Her bruised bones and her tweaked tendons. And as for her inflamed heart?
With a growl she pushed away from the door and jogged down the steps to the footpath.
She’d had her heart crushed a thousand times in her life and survived. So long as she had dance, she’d survive Ryder Fitzgerald too.
With that mantra on a loop inside her head as she walked down the beach road towards her tram stop, Nadia didn’t look back.
ELEVEN
Melbourne put on a most beautiful day. After the weeks of rain and overcast skies the heavens were clear, only a few puffy white clouds marring their perfection. Down on the peninsular the air was more fresh, the salty breeze a reminder how close Ryder was to the sea.
With a plane taking Nadia away that day, Ryder hadn’t trusted himself not to bite the head off some poor contractor on site, so he’d taken a road trip south until he found himself on a very different kind of site, the kind he hadn’t set foot on in years.
Before him loomed a big old house. It listed away from a dangerously pitched cliff face as a result of years of buffeting winds and was now held in place by carefully built scaffolding. Around the property lay pale
ttes of stained glass, piles of old wood, and mounds of new bricks peeking out from beneath paint-speckled tarps.
And just like that his palms itched with the memory of having an actual hammer in his grip, wood and nail meeting with a satisfying jar. It was a memory of his summer days learning the trade in places like this, and of watching his mother grin as she knocked together creations of her own. Either way it felt...good. And after the oblivion of the past few days he’d take all the therapy he could get.
“Ryder!” a familiar voice called out, and he turned to find Tom Campbell bearing down on him.
It had been over a decade since he’d last worked for the guy, acting as labourer’s apprentice down in Portsea in his determination to pay his own way through college. Even with the salt-and-pepper hair and deeper crinkles around his eyes, he looked more robust than ever.
“You look ridiculously healthy,” Ryder said, shaking his hand. “Sea air? Honest work? Botox?”
“Try the love of a good woman.”
Right, shouldn’t have asked. “Show me what you’re up to.”
With a grin of pure delight, Tom distracted Ryder beautifully by taking him through his latest house project, a renovation job he didn’t need for the guy was loaded, but one he did for the thrill of bringing old glory back to life.
And as Ryder took in the beautiful mouldings, the original stone fireplace now peeking through a hole in the horrendously wallpapered plasterboard, of all the spots he could have gone in an effort to find his feet again, this was the place. He felt more grounded here than he had in a long time. More stimulated by the random house than any building he’d produced from scratch. Because this was what he’d gone into architecture for.
Uncovering the inherent beauty in lost things.
And the years began to tumble in on him, brick by brick, till he was breathing in the dust of his memories, the ache of that long ago day when, covered in sweat and grime and speckles of paint, he’d had the future of his dreams in sight only to have his father corrupt it with his cruel words and snatch it right away.
Only from the outside looking in he realised that it wasn’t that simple. Fitz had been his usual ruinous self—but so full of spit and fire and hostility the decision to quit had been Ryder’s own. His father had altered the course of his life because Ryder had let him.
The irony hit like a roundhouse kick to the solar plexus. Like that long ago day, he’d let the bastard do it again. And this time he hadn’t even been in the same room.
Needing air, space, perspective, Ryder excused himself and steered himself back outside. And the moment he stepped into the sunshine he saw it—a plane soaring overhead. Who knew where it was headed? Probably Sydney, or Brisbane. Outer Mongolia for all he knew. The chances it was heading to Las Vegas were slim to none. And yet he didn’t look away. He couldn’t. He watched, lungs tight, skin tingling, feet pressing hard into the rocky ground until the plane was well out of sight and he could tell himself Nadia was gone. Really gone.
He’d lost her. Hell, he’d miss her. He tried telling himself he’d done the right thing. The benevolent thing. That nothing lasted for ever. Not relationships. Not old houses built on windy bluffs. Not even skyscrapers built of the strongest materials known to man.
Except for the fact that he hadn’t lost Nadia, he’d let her go.
And she’d let him let her go because she’d been let down so many times in her life it was all she knew how to do.
Dammit, thought Ryder, closing his eyes tight, blocking out the light as he tried to capture any one of the fragile threads of thought shifting through his head. That somewhere there was an answer. A different answer. The real answer. His answer.
Something about Sam. His little sister finally putting her foot down and living her life on her terms. Because of Ben. Because the kid’s love meant more to her than their father’s betrayals.
And then—lungs filled with the heady scents of paint stripper and putty, of wood varnish and plaster dust, of imagination, dedication, and optimism—he caught it.
He loved Nadia.
He loved her with a depth he couldn’t see to the bottom of. And, try as he might, he couldn’t imagine a time when he wouldn’t feel the same way. Because Nadia wasn’t some girl he was trying to forget for her own good. She was his girl. His equal, his foil, his conscience, his advocate. His partner.
Ryder had believed it was in his genes that he’d never be able to love that way, and time had never proven him wrong. But the truth was, he just hadn’t known how until he met her. She’d filled his life, connected him deeper to himself than he’d ever been. And in that darkness, deep down inside, she flickered. She’d always flicker. His truth. His light. His love.
Ryder ran a hand through his hair and took a few steps right, then left. But he had no idea where he was meant to go. Only that he hoped it wasn’t too late. That he hadn’t martyred himself out of the best thing that had ever happened to him.
When it finally hit him where he was meant to be he called out his goodbyes to Tom and took off towards his car at a run.
* * *
Nadia leant her head against the window of the cab and watched the Las Vegas scenery flicker by—wide plots of vacant land populated by dry brown scrub and tumbleweed, huge outlet malls, wedding chapels, drug stores and casinos so big that the time away had made far smaller in her mind.
The years she’d looked out over Vegas’ shimmery horizon every day felt like a lifetime ago. Her year in Melbourne was still far too significant. The memories too raw. The people left behind like anchors around her neck.
But seeing old friends, visiting old haunts, making new memories would take care of that. As would setting up her silks, getting back into the swing of the hoop and enduring the punishment of the rehearsal schedule. She would immerse herself so deeply in the dance that by the time she came blinking back out into the real world the permanent ache in the centre of her chest would have faded. Some of it at least. Oh, she hoped so.
And then Norah Jones came on the cab’s radio.
Her mind filled with the memories of other car rides. Of Melbourne rain sliding down other windows, and down her back. Of dancing with a deep voice in her ear, a hot chest against her own as she swayed with no purpose other than to be near. Of sharp suits and shiny shoes. Of bare feet curled over hers in bed, a strong arm wrapped possessively over her naked waist—
“We’re here, missy.”
The taxi driver’s twang snapped Nadia out of her reverie. She stared blankly at the guy, who grinned as he leant his arm on the back rest of his seat, no doubt mistaking her silence for awe.
“What’s the plan?” he asked. “Gonna win big? Get yourself hitched?”
“I’m a dancer,” she said, the words settling her some. “In the new Sky High show.”
His eyebrows disappeared beneath a thatch of dyed black hair; the guy probably moonlighted as an Elvis impersonator. “Never seen a show, but my girlfriend can’t get enough of them. Know what? I’ll be sure to see yours, since I can say I met you and all.”
Nadia paid out the fare. “Do. It’ll blow your mind.”
The driver shrugged, as if being local to this part of the world it’d take a hell of a lot more than a fancy dance show to surprise him.
Check-in papers in one hand, handle of her small wheelie case packed with her meagre worldly possessions in the other, Nadia looked up at the multicoloured façade of the structure that would be her home until she found herself a place. She would be sharing accommodation with a bunch of the other dancers, no doubt. Rehearsing all day. Partying all night. And when the show began it would be two shows a day, six days a week, for months on end. Her ankles killing her, her knees protesting, her hands worn till they resembled those of a woodchopper...
Her dream come true.
The double doors slid open and
she was instantly hit with the sound of slot machines a level above. The carpet was a Harlequin pattern in a riot of eye-watering colour, the walls just as chaotic.
She joined the line at Reception behind a group on a girls’ weekend, and another at a buck’s party. She could all but see tomorrow’s hangovers in their eager faces.
Better get used to it. They were the minutiae of her new life. Her people. Day trippers and weekenders. Honeymooners and gamblers. And a dance company of thick-skinned kids with hollow legs and a taste for danger. Transient and impulsive. Drawn to the bright lights and constant noise. Never wondering if they were really living the dream or simply blinded by fluorescent lights, endless buffets and not a second’s down time to just think.
No shiny-faced Tiny Tots who thought her an honest to goodness fairy princess here.
No senior pole dancers who found more simple joy hooking a leg around a chair than most of her peers did successfully completing a triple-twist death drop.
No boss who remembered her birthday and gave her the day off, and gift certificates to get massages if she looked worn out.
No local markets where the stall owners knew her by name.
No Sam and Ben. Or the sweet crew of fun, crazy friends who actually cared about one another and would have laughed themselves silly at the very thought of competing against one another for anything.
Nadia breathed deep, held the suitcase handle tighter again, and did her all to stop the next name from slipping into her mind. But there was no stopping it. No stopping him. There never had been. From the moment he’d waltzed into her studio, so magnificent and foreboding, it was as if her soul had said, So there you are.
But he wasn’t there now. Not any more.
As it always did at such moments, her mother’s voice seeped in knocking her to get up, move on, stay tough. And most of all not make the same mistake she had, in letting her future go up in smoke for some guy. Well, it had sunk in all right, because here she was, with the job of a lifetime in the palm of her hot little hand, while the guy she loved was thirteen thousand kilometres away.
