by JJ Knight
He shakes his head. “I have no idea. I’m sure we’re going to find out this afternoon.”
“Are there always contract meetings on weekends?”
“Hollywood doesn’t work on a normal schedule,” Blitz says. “The industry is your life.”
“Interesting timing, though,” I say.
“Isn’t it?” Blitz says. “Makes you wonder what they have up their sleeves.”
We pull up in front of a rather simple white building with green pillars. “What is this place?” I ask.
“A diner,” Blitz says. “I’m going to have every type of pie.”
“Pie,” I say wistfully. “Now that’s something I haven’t had in a while.”
“We are going to eat so much pie,” he says.
The driver parks around the corner. “Doesn’t look too crazy,” he says. “Let me go check the situation.”
Blitz nods.
We sit snuggled against each other on the leather seat. I feel my anxiety levels start to drop a little. “I guess we should have brought a change of clothes,” I say. “Now we have to wait on Jerry.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “I just wanted away from Hannah, and I’m sure she went back to the hotel.”
“Can you fire her?”
“Sure, but there’s a hell of a kill fee for her. And she still gets a percentage of anything related to Dance Blitz. She covered her ass.”
“Was she different when you hired her?” I ask.
Blitz laughs. “You don’t hire Hannah. She chooses you. You don’t say no to her.”
“Does she have other clients?”
“Not currently. She drops them if they aren’t performing. If I’m lucky, she’ll dump me.”
“Sounds like she has plans to keep you working.” I watch Blitz’s face as his eyebrows draw together in annoyance.
“She knows I can cut and run. They will all play their hand at the meeting later.”
The driver returns to his seat. “They’ve reserved two chairs at the far side of the bar whenever you’re ready.”
“Thanks,” Blitz says. “We just need Jerry.”
“He shouldn’t be far behind unless he’s slow to leave,” the driver says. “The hotel is closer to here than we were.”
“Jerry can be indecisive,” Blitz says.
“Isn’t that him?” I ask.
A wiry man in familiar rectangular glasses gets out of a car down the street. “I’ll flag him,” the driver says.
We watch as they exchange a leather bag.
Then the back door opens and the driver hands it to me. “I can escort you to the bathroom if you like.”
“I really don’t want to be seen in this,” I say.
“The windows are dark,” Blitz says. “Just leave us to it.”
The driver shuts the door and discreetly walks half a block down.
“You sure?” I ask. He’s right about the back windows, but the front window is clear.
“I’m not going to let anyone get even the smallest look.” He turns and props himself between the two front seats, effectively blocking anyone’s view through the car from the windshield. “Except me, of course. I’m going to stare like a dying man.”
“You’re terrible,” I say, unzipping the bag. Inside is a soft white short-sleeved sweater and my favorite Juicy Couture jeans. “Jerry is a miracle,” I say.
“Your naked body is a miracle,” Blitz says. “Now let me see it.”
I slip off a shoe and toss it at him. He laughs as he catches it.
I’m not shy with Blitz, but we are in a car on an open street and I know what I’m wearing beneath this dress. That is to say, not much.
The diamond cutouts mean no bra, just built-in padding, and only a tiny string thong, low slung to avoid cutting across the belly opening.
I carefully lay out the clothes on the seat so I can grab them quickly.
I get the dress up and over my face when it catches for a second on my hair. Blitz sucks in a breath. “Oh, if I dared to take a picture of this,” he says.
“You learned your lesson on that,” I say, trying to pull the dress off, but several sequins have caught in my wild curls.
“Hold on a second,” he says, and moves forward. More light comes from the windshield.
“Stop!” I say. “People will see in!”
Blitz moves back into position. “Then I’ll just stay here and enjoy the show.”
My arms are still in the tight sleeves, the dress caught in my hair. Otherwise, I’m almost completely naked, only the whisper-thin straps of the thong leading to the smallest triangle of fabric imaginable.
My fingers work to sort out where the worst of the tangle is between my hair and the sparkly bodice of the dress. I’m not particularly well endowed, but I’m jerking hard enough that my breasts sway a little as I try to get free.
“God, I’m not going to be able to go out in public for a year with this hard-on,” Blitz says.
“I’ve almost got it,” I say.
“Take your time,” Blitz says.
Finally, no doubt with a solid swath of my hair, the dress comes free. I toss the silly thing on the floor.
“Oh, just like that, right there,” Blitz says. His eyes are on my body.
“Blitz!” I frantically look out the side window. There’s no one on the street, thankfully, although I know the tint is dark enough for our privacy.
“If we were in a limo, we would so not be going in for pie,” Blitz says. He reaches forward and slides his fingers along my collarbone, down a breast, and across my belly. For the barest second, he delves between my thighs.
It’s intoxicating to have him sitting there, his hands on my body. Thousands of girls were dying to fling themselves at him all morning, but he’s here in this car with me.
My heart races, the hot thudding between my legs impossible to ignore. I wonder what we could get away with in here, what I’m brave enough to do.
Blitz senses my hesitation and raises his eyebrow as he says, “Three more seconds and my face is going to be between your legs.”
A horn honks outside and a car slows down for a woman walking a dog across the street just ahead of us. I let out a little “Oh!” and dive to the floorboard, crossing my arms over my body.
Blitz laughs. “Here’s your sweater, Princess,” he says, passing it to me.
I don’t care that I don’t have a bra on. The sweater is fuzzy and will hide me. I jerk it over my head.
“So close,” Blitz says. “I almost had you.”
I reach over for the jeans and plop onto the seat, pulling them on as fast as possible. Only when they are zipped and snapped do I calm down.
Blitz moves back to his seat. “This is going to take a while to settle down.” He gestures to his crotch in the satiny jazz pants. It’s bulging out rather spectacularly.
“I thought you wanted pie,” I say demurely.
“To hell with pie,” he says, but he pulls his own jeans out of the bag.
When we’re both put together, Blitz in his hat and shades, and me with my hair in enough order to pass muster, we get out of the car.
The driver walks a little ahead, watching for anyone who might spot us. We enter the diner, which has red chairs lining a bar that surrounds a red-brick work area with cooks in white hats.
I hold on to Blitz’s hand and whisper, “This place is amazing!”
“Wait till you try the pie,” he says.
The chairs are full other than two on the far side, tucked near the wall. We take them and pick up a laminated menu.
“Just get one of everything,” I say. “I’m not wearing those stupid cutouts anymore.”
“You have no idea what I wanted to do to those cutouts,” Blitz says.
“Oh, I can probably figure it out.” We grin foolishly at each other behind the oversized menus, and I’m struck with the similarity to the scene in the movie Grease. I saw it so long ago, before movies were banned at home.
Blitz orders a pa
ir of burgers and all three of their signature pies. By the time we eat it all and stumble outside, I’m doubly glad I’m not in the green dress anymore. My belly bump is a food baby.
“I guess it’s on to the studio now,” Blitz says.
“Aren’t we early?” I ask.
“Yeah, but it might be fun to look around. I don’t think you saw much of it when you were on the show.”
“Just the dressing room, some viewing room, and backstage,” I say.
“Oh, there’s lots of fun places.” He leans forward. “Let’s head on over,” he says to the driver.
I’m excited to be headed back to the studio where I first changed my life for Blitz.
Just like last time, I have no idea what might be in store for us there.
Chapter 5
Blitz takes my hand as he leads me down the hall I remember from the finale. But then it was bustling with people, crew members and dancers. Now the rooms are all eerily quiet.
“You probably were in here,” Blitz says, tapping his knuckles on the door at the corner. He’s right, that was the room where everyone watched the show on mounted televisions. “It’s a viewing room.”
“Yes,” I say. “And a couple doors down was where the makeup artists were set up.”
Blitz knocks against that one as well as we pass. “I’ve never been in there,” he says.
“You have your own makeup person, then?” I ask.
“Yes, and my own dressing room.”
“I didn’t see it that night,” I say, but thinking over the episodes of Dance Blitz, I could remember scenes that took place there.
And some of the girls who snuck in.
I shove those thoughts away. “Are we going to it?” I ask.
“I’ll take you in if you like. It’s on the other side.”
He must see my frown, because he quickly adds, “It’s not important, though. And yeah, there were always lots of cameras in it.”
“Which girl took a bet from the others to try and catch you naked?” I ask, trying to sound as if none of that really matters. And it doesn’t, I guess. It’s his past. But still. The antics on the show are hard to watch now.
“I don’t remember her name,” Blitz says. “Was it season one?”
“I think so,” I say, glad the girl doesn’t stick in his mind. “She found you, though.”
“Yeah,” Blitz says. “It was scripted. I was literally in there freezing my ass off while she tried to be all ninja. The cameraman in the corner was giving me a countdown for when she’d arrive.”
“She was only wearing a towel,” I say.
“Also scripted. I think she was supposed to be pretending she was lost.”
“Everybody could see it was fake.”
“I’m sure.” Blitz grasps my hand. “Most of the show was fake.”
“Did you really have sex with her? The show makes it look like you did, right there with the cameras.”
He sighs. “I wasn’t in it to be subtle,” he says.
He didn’t answer the question.
It doesn’t matter. I have to keep reminding myself of that.
But there’s a little tension between us as we walk these halls. This was his space with all those girls.
The articles written about Blitz during the show say that twenty of the fifty contestants confirmed sleeping with him, sometimes more than one of them on the same day. But who knows? That was just what they would say to get headlines and airtime. I see how it works now.
I squeeze his hand. I can’t let his wild past impact how we are now.
We pass the doors to backstage. I pause, looking up at the red and green “on air” lights above the sign that reads STUDIO A. It’s all dark right now. “It was so wild to see you out there, and the audience. It was surreal,” I say.
“I can’t believe you did it. More than one contestant has frozen up when they stepped out.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, especially in season one. Two got eliminated over it. Only one girl got a dramatic story line about her stage fright.”
“Yes, I remember. The tall one.”
“Farrah,” Blitz says. “I really felt for her and tried to help her. But something about that camera light turning on would just freak her out.”
“Poor thing.”
Blitz keys in a code on the door and it pops open. “Let’s go in.”
It’s pitch black beyond the door, although when my eyes adjust, I can make out the pale glow of emergency lighting along parts of the floor.
Blitz flips a switch and red light bathes the backstage. I can make out some of the equipment and props, waiting for a season that will never come.
“When will they clear all this out?” I ask.
Blitz shrugs. “I’m guessing we’re about to negotiate someone else taking over. It can be like The Bachelor, where a new dancer auditions new contestants every season.”
“But you’re the Blitz of Dance Blitz,” I say.
“Maybe they want me to make appearances,” he says. “Based on today, I’m not sure I’m willing to negotiate even that.”
We wander closer to the stage, which is lined with emergency lights, presumably so nobody falls off in the dark. It’s a solid eight-foot drop to the floor if you don’t take the side stairs. The seats for the audience are set on risers.
The stage is completely bare. Blitz changes his grip on my hand and twirls me out. My hair flies as I reach the end of his arm and reverse back up against him.
“It all started right here,” he says.
“The end of the beginning,” I say.
He slips his arm around my waist. “True. We went from secret couple to public spectacle in a single dance.”
We cross to the other side of the stage. I didn’t ever venture this way the night I stormed onto the show. On this side, props are everywhere, stacked tightly against each other. We have to carve a way through them in the near-dark.
I bump against a lamppost. “I remember that one,” I say.
“These are mostly from the finale,” he says. “The crew strikes from this side. People enter from the other.”
We dodge a palm tree and a giant moon. “I don’t remember these,” I say.
“They would have come in for the final dance,” he says. “But it ended up being with you.”
A line of dim floor lights leads us toward a set of enormous double doors.
“This is where the real fun is,” Blitz says and keys in another code.
The lock pops and he pulls on the handle. One side opens and another red light automatically switches on. He turns to me. “This will be a lark.”
His expression is pure mischief. He leads me into the room.
Even bathed in red, it’s astonishing. It’s a storage room, big as a gymnasium, for all the props ever used on Dance Blitz.
I let go of his hand. “Oh! There’s the boat from season one!” I turn around. “And the tiki hut from that Polynesian number! I loved that one!”
Blitz laughs. “That was a fun one.”
I rush from one set piece to the next. There’s the shell of a sports car, a motorcycle, two staircases set in clouds, and a partial interior of a malt shop. I sit on a stool and spin around. “Shake, please!” I say.
Blitz runs forward and leaps onto the counter like he did on the show, sliding along its surface to land in front of me. Then he grimaces. “That’s a lot harder to do in jeans,” he says.
I burst into giggles. “It still looked good!”
Another staircase sparkles red in the light. “I remember this!” I say and jump from the stool, running up the glittery steps. “Be a star where you are, be a star!” I sing out loud.
“Hey, you’re not half bad!” he says. He jumps from the malt shop counter and follows me up the steps. He kisses my cheek, then turns and slides down the rail to the floor.
I gasp, then remember that he did it on the show. “No mat at the bottom or anything?” I ask.
“Nope,” he says
. “I perform all my own stunts.”
He holds his hands up to me. I descend a few of the steps, then leap over the last few. He catches me neatly and slides me down his body. “It’s way more fun on these props with you,” he says.
“You just had to audition a lot of dancers before you got to me,” I say against his cheek. He smells divine, like pine woods and diner food and leather.
“I knew you would love seeing all this,” he says.
“So sad to think it will all go away.”
“Other shows will use it. I think half these things came from previous dance productions.”
I turn around, and then freeze. Blitz feels me go still. “What is it?” he asks.
In the corner, almost hidden by a volcano, is the red satin bed.
I walk toward it. It’s still made up, as if somebody rolled it over and forgot about it. I smack my hand against the bedding, expecting an explosion of dust, but it’s fine.
“Yeah, that,” Blitz says. He runs a hand nervously through his hair. “They fixed it up again for the finale, in case I picked Giselle, but it just got shoved in the corner when we decided to go with the tropical theme.”
I sit on it. It’s an actual mattress, and it gives a little. “This was one of the first Dance Blitz numbers I ever saw,” I tell him.
“Really, that one? It definitely pushed the ratings into the stratosphere, starting off season two with a scandal and censored episode.”
“I saw the audience photos. She got naked!”
Blitz lets out a rush of air. “She did. I don’t know what she thought she was doing. They didn’t let her back on the show after that.”
“Did you want her back?”
He shakes his head. “No, she wasn’t professional. And they were already planning on a live finale, and you can’t let somebody like that be a part of it, even if there is a delay in the broadcast.”
“Really, there’s a delay?”
“Oh, yeah. The station can get shut down if something really bad goes on the air. FCC rules. There are engineers whose sole job is to bleep out anything not allowed, cuss words, or certain types of promotion. And nudity, of course.”
“You seemed really…attracted to her in the shots,” I say.
“I couldn’t believe she had done it,” Blitz says. “What you were seeing was utter disbelief.”
