The Blitzed Series Boxed Set: Five Contemporary Romance Novels

by JJ Knight

  He closes his eyes as if the thought of it is painful. “My lawyer has advised against it.”

  “I’m sorry I keep bringing this up,” I say. “I really didn’t know anything about this until I met you.”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “I wouldn’t go out with me either without the third degree.”

  “I don’t even have a Twitter account,” I say. “So at least I can’t jump on the Burn Blitz Burn hashtag.”

  He smiles, kissing my hand again. “I’m hoping I never make you feel like you should.”

  My heart flips. This is intense. I lay my cheek against his hand, wrapped around mine. I want this moment to last, every moment to last. But I don’t even know how often I can see him, or how long he’ll be here.

  Lito returns with a pitcher of tea and two glasses. “It’s got sugar,” she says. “You can burn it off later.” She plops them on the table. Behind her, a short man sets down a basket of chips and an enormous bowl of queso.

  Blitz and I look at each other and laugh.

  “What?” Lito says. “Your girl will blow away otherwise. You too!” She throws her hands up in the air. “Humans are supposed to eat! And don’t tell me you want vegetarian frijoles! They aren’t any good without lard!” She takes off again, followed by the server.

  “My LA friends would run screaming from this place,” Blitz says, dunking a tortilla chip deep into the melted cheese. “But Lito’s right. We can burn it off.” His eyes dance with mischief. “One way or another.”

  My chest constricts. I look away, picking up a chip and nibbling on the corner.

  “Come on,” he says. “Dunk it good. Don’t make me eat all this cheese alone!” He picks up another chip and buries it in the queso, then lifts it to my mouth.

  I bite it, feeling the queso drip. Blitz catches it with his finger, then brings it to his lips. “You cannot take the San Antonio out of this LA boy.”

  “You think you’ll go back?”

  “I haven’t succeeded in convincing them to let me yet. I’ll have a decision then.” He picks up another chip and taps it on the edge of the bowl. “I really don’t know what to do.”

  The thought of him leaving just as I get to know him, to pick out a dance partner on live television, is just too much.

  At least it isn’t a wife.

  Or so he says.

  Lito returns with a steaming platter and a tortilla warmer. She plops them down. The metal plate, nestled on a wooden base, is filled with shrimp and chicken, peppers, and onions.

  “Flour tortillas,” she says with a huff and makes the sign of the cross. “Because you’ve gone as white as the belly of a whale.”

  “Lito, you are so cruel to me,” Blitz says. “Come give me a kiss.”

  Lito rolls her eyes, but leans down and presses her lips to Blitz’s forehead as if he is a child.

  “You know you love me,” he says.

  “I do.” She laughs and shakes her finger at him. “Bring your mama around. I haven’t seen her in too long.”

  “Will do.”

  The other server comes up and sets down more plates. A bowl of pale orange rice. A plate of refried black beans. Then a pile of something green, flat, and somewhat squishy looking.

  I don’t want to ask what it is in front of Lito. She looks over the plates that have been placed on the table and nods in approval. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she says.

  “It looks great,” Blitz says. “Thank you.”

  Lito waves her hands at him as she leaves, the server trailing in her wake.

  When she is gone, I poke at the green things. “What are these?”

  “Nopales.”

  When I look at him quizzically, he adds, “Cactus.”

  “Oh!”

  “It’s really good when done correctly,” Blitz says. He adds one to my plate. “And Lito really knows how to prepare them.”

  I poke at it tentatively. “I’m game to try anything.”

  “Really?” His fork halts in the middle of spearing a piece of shrimp. His smile is positively devilish. “How are you with handcuffs?”

  My face blossoms with heat. I scoop a spoonful of beans and plop them on my plate.

  “Too cliché,” he says. “I knew it.”

  When I still don’t look at him, he places his hand over mine. “I’m sorry. I forget sometimes that you’re real, not part of a studio audience.”

  I can’t look him in the eye. It’s not that I’m offended by him mentioning handcuffs. It’s just how casually he treats sex, like it’s something you do with anyone, like sharing a pair of headphones to listen to a song. Or passing over a cup so someone else can sample your peppermint coffee.

  I almost want to bring up the paternity suits. If there were fifteen of them, there had to be a lot of women. Like a ridiculous amount. But instead, I open the tortilla warmer and pull out a fluffy warm tortilla, flour, just like Lito said.

  Blitz sits back in his chair. “I’ve wrecked things,” he says. “I’m really sorry.”

  He sounds so contrite that I take pity on him.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I’m probably more uptight than you’re used to.”

  I want to tell him that I’m not really prudish. I’m more passionate than he can imagine. I can ignore anything, even the red sirens going off that tell me I’m wrong, so wrong, because I am buried in such bliss.

  But I don’t say it. I’m not sure it’s even true anymore.

  “I don’t believe that,” he says. “I’ve danced with you.”

  Our smile at that is genuine and the tension falls away.

  We dig into the meal. Lito checks on us, opening the tortilla warmer and squinting at the dishes to make sure we are eating to her satisfaction.

  It’s delicious. There’s some sort of spice on the shrimp that builds with every bite, but the fat in the refried beans cuts the heat so that I can keep going. The food starts to make sense, like culinary chemistry. It’s so much better than the plain meat and potatoes that serve as the base of most of our meals at home.

  I want to keep the mood light, so I lean over to Blitz and say, “So if you do choose a wife from your show, are you going to make sure she knows how to cook like this?”

  His smile spreads slowly. “Are you interested in the position?”

  I sit back. I hadn’t expected that. “I can cook. Give me a recipe and I’ll try anything.”

  I can tell he wants to make another innuendo out of that, but he resists, folding his cloth napkin and setting it beside his plate. “Can I have you for the whole day? Can we just keep going all afternoon and into the evening and until it’s a new day?”

  If only. I check my watch. It’s already been three hours. I can spare maybe one more.

  “I’m sort of a daytime Cinderella,” I say. “I’m supposed to be back to scrubbing floors at three.”

  He sighs. His hand reaches across the table for mine. “Tomorrow, then? I didn’t see you last Thursday.”

  I wonder if I can get away with dancing tomorrow. Maybe, since I didn’t today. I can remind Mom that I’m working for my toe shoes and need the practice. Three times a week minimum, Betsy has said.

  “When are you at the academy?” I ask him.

  “After school,” he says. “It’s hip-hop day.”

  “Come early,” I tell him. “Like at two. We can dance.” This will also create a deadline. When it’s time for the hip-hop class, he’ll have to go and I can run home.

  “I’ll be there,” he says. He lifts my fingers to his lips. I’m so used to this gesture now that it’s almost like our private code. I refuse to think about him kissing anyone else like this. I’ll assume it’s a Benjamin thing, too old-fashioned for the fast lane with Blitz Craven.

  Lito comes out. “I hope you liked it all. You know you aren’t paying for it.”

  Blitz nods. “I wouldn’t dare offend you like that.”

  She kisses his cheek and turns to me. “You will be good for this ne’er-do-well
,” she says. “I think you have him by the tail.”

  What does she mean by that? I look at Blitz, who shrugs. “Probably so.”

  We head back to Blitz’s car. A couple of guys are standing by it, taking pictures.

  I hang back. “Do you think they know who you are?” I ask.

  “Nah,” he says. “The Ferrari always draws a crowd.” The car chirps as he approaches and the boys back away.

  “Sick ride,” one says.

  “Thanks,” Blitz calls back.

  They look at me, and one elbows the other. He says, “I bet she is too.”

  Before I can even process what is happening, Blitz has rushed the guy and punched him in the face.

  “Blitz!” I say. “Stop!”

  The guy is sprawled out on the asphalt.

  “Don’t talk that way about her,” Blitz says.

  “What the hell?” the guy says, holding his jaw.

  “Please get in the car,” I say. “It’s okay.” My hands are shaking. I’m scared to death. I’m so afraid they’ll make a scene, that there will be a big fight. Blitz could get hurt, the police could come, someone could video us. I could be discovered. It’s all blowing through my mind like a horror film.

  Blitz stands there a moment, staring the guys down, daring them to do or say anything else. But they walk away, shaking their heads.

  Finally, he turns to the passenger door and holds it open for me. I slide into the seat. He walks around the front and sits as well, but he doesn’t start the car.

  “You okay?” I ask him. “Did you hurt your hand?”

  “No.”

  Now that we are safely in the car, I’m less freaked out and more worried about him. “Let me see.”

  He grips his steering wheel, so I reach for his hand myself, pulling it toward me. Then I do what he has so often done for me, bringing his red angry knuckles to my lips to kiss each one.

  He comes down from his anger. I can feel it dropping, degree by degree. When his breathing is back to normal, I hold his hand to my chest. “You better now?”

  He nods. His voice is strangled when he says, “I’m sorry.”

  “Is this common, taking punches at people who insult your women?”

  Blitz laughs a little. “Actually, no. I’ve been in the tabloids for a lot of things, but never for hitting someone.”

  “Good to know,” I say. I wonder why this time was different. “Do people usually not dare to insult your dates?”

  He shakes his head. “No, it’s been done. I’ve just never felt quite so…” he falters. “Protective. And angry. He really pissed me off. Nobody should disrespect you like that.”

  I don’t point out that sending a naked picture of someone isn’t exactly respectful. But maybe he’s learned his lesson. Maybe these hard knocks are what he needed to realize he couldn’t keep living his life the way he had been.

  “Well, thank you,” I say. “For defending my honor.”

  He starts the car with a low rumble of the engine. “You’re welcome,” he says.

  We head back to my part of town. It’s been an interesting afternoon, full of reversals and revelations. My time with Blitz is always like this. He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met.

  And since I don’t know how long it will last, I have to hold on to every moment.

  Chapter 15

  I’m back in the light blue leotard, the one Blitz likes, on Thursday. I’m skating on thin ice at home because Mom is unhappy I’m going to the academy in the afternoon instead of the morning.

  But I performed beautifully at lunch for Dad, being extra useful with Andy’s studies and showing him my latest practice test results for my SAT.

  It was only afterward, when I came out in my leotard, that Mom tried to put her foot down.

  “You’re going up there every day now,” she says. “Your father won’t like it.”

  I admit to being a little flip with her, saying, “You act as though he is the only one in this family who can have an opinion!”

  My heart doesn’t slow down until I’m well along the path to the academy. I’ve never given my parents pushback about how they limit my activities. I let my shame control me, assuming I deserved what happened. I had taken a fall. A big one. With exactly the wrong person.

  But I feel differently now. I’m awake again, fully alive. And I don’t want to live their way. I want to choose my own.

  Danika is in the foyer when I arrive, dressed for a meeting in a suit and heels, not dance clothes. She pauses when she sees me. “This isn’t your usual day.”

  “I want those toe shoes!” I tell her.

  She nods and passes a set of keys to Suze. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she says to her. “Lock everything up for me tonight.”

  I’m relieved she’ll be gone. That means she can’t catch me with Blitz. Hopefully I’ve beaten him here so she doesn’t even have to worry.

  “What’s open?” I ask Suze.

  “Two, three, and four,” she says. “It’s quiet back there until the after-school classes begin at three.”

  “Awesome,” I say, practically skipping as I head to the studio hall.

  The corridor is quiet. In Studio 1, Betsy is doing a private lesson. All the toddlers are napping at home, and all the school-aged kids are in class. So there isn’t much going on.

  I head into Studio 4, the one with the Dance of the Shades, because it is officially my favorite. I met Blitz here for the first time, and it’s also where he taught me to waltz.

  I sit on a stack of mats and change out my tennis shoes for ballet slippers. I wish I had ballroom shoes, but I can’t possibly ask for a pair. Tipping my father off to my dancing with a man would definitely put my ballet work at risk.

  Blitz has to know I don’t have much money. It’s obvious in the leotards that I wear over and over again and my worn shoes. This doesn’t seem to matter to him. Maybe it’s even a point in my favor.

  I go to the barre and begin a warm-up routine. I really do want to try and get some ballet in before Blitz arrives. The thought that he might get to watch my first relevé on toe shoes is a powerful motivation.

  Not that he’ll be there that long. As I run through my pliés, I picture the day he drives off in his cluttered red Ferrari, back to LA. My eyes burn, and I flick the back of my hand across my face. I have to stop that.

  Blitz is a happy space for me. A temporary reprieve. I can’t think of him as anything else. I’ll go crazy.

  “What has the princess so sad?”

  I pop up out of my plié. Blitz is here, standing by the door!

  “Oh!” I say. “Nothing important.”

  He walks up to me and is about to kiss me, when I point at the two-way mirror. “Everyone out there can see us.”

  “There’s nobody out there right now,” he says, and presses his lips to mine.

  I accept the kiss, but my anxiety is still high. Blitz feels it and pulls away. “Did you know you can defeat a two-way mirror?”

  “How?” I ask.

  “Well, it only works because it’s so bright in here.” He gestures to the room. “And dimmer out there.” He points to the mirror that is a window to the hall.

  “Really?”

  He walks over to the light switch. “All you have to do is make it dimmer in here than out there.” He flips off half the lights. “And now it’s equal.”

  I can see in the hall now, the mirror turning to glass. “Why did I not know that?” I ask.

  “You’ve never had to be sneaky.” He pulls me to the corner, where it is dark and we’re not easily spotted in the wall mirrors on the opposite side, and kisses me again.

  This definitely feels forbidden. Sneaking in the academy gives me a thrill I haven’t known for a long time. I’m anxious at first, but as his tongue slides against mine and I taste him, feel him against me, I’m lost.

  It’s safe here, things can only go so far. A surge of boldness courses through me and I lift one leg to wrap around his hip. He grabs my outer th
ighs and pulls both legs around him so that I straddle his waist. He presses me against the wall, his kiss heated and urgent. When my ankles are locked behind his back, he frees up one of his hands and goes straight to my breast.

  I gasp, shock waves blasting through me. I can feel him now, erect against me, our dance clothes hiding nothing. For a moment, I’m weightless, floating in a void where there is no academy, no studio, no window, no world. Just Blitz’s hands and mouth and body.

  Outside the window, the lights flicker. A transition is starting. There’s no one to move about the hall, but some may come if there is a class in the next session.

  Blitz groans and releases me. “We have got to stop doing this here,” he says. “I can’t take it.”

  My body is pliant and warm. “Agreed.”

  “Can I see you tonight? I want darkness and cover and just you.” His eyes are pleading.

  I can’t think of any way to make that happen. My parents. Dinner. Bedtime. Check-ins. My house is a prison.

  “My parents are very strict,” I say. “I’ll have to think of something.”

  Something flickers across his face. “How old are you, Livia?” he asks. I can tell he’s picturing another scandal, statutory rape or some underage sting operation.

  “Nineteen,” I tell him. “Nothing to worry about.”

  He releases a rush of air. “Thank God.”

  A couple figures pass the window, and Blitz pauses by the light switch, waiting for them to enter Studio 3 across the hall. When the corridor is clear, he turns on the lights. “Being alone with you is bad for my self-control,” he says.

  I have nothing to say to that, so I return to the barre, holding on with one hand as I stretch the muscles that are critical to toe work, calves and feet and ankles.

  “I could watch you all day,” Blitz says. “I wish I’d done ballet first.” He comes to the barre and mimics my movements.

  “You’re doing pretty well without it,” I say. “Pretty much every dancer wants to be you.”

  “Not lately,” he says.

  He’s very good at matching my poses. I’m sure he learns choreography very fast. “What happened to all the staff people on the show?”

  “They had contracts,” he says. “They should be okay. But many of them will have moved on, so even if we get to do the finale back, I’ll probably only have half the staff.”