by JJ Knight
I close my eyes, reveling in how the pain yields to this woman’s work. She heads back to my ankles, moving my foot in circles. I should do this more often.
When I look at Blitz again, he has covered his face with his forearm. The drink dangles from his other hand, near the floor.
“Would you like to extend the massage?” the woman asks.
Blitz and I answer simultaneously, “No!”
I smile at her. “I mean, that was wonderful. I think it’s time for a nap now.”
The woman nods and helps me sit up. I hold the towel to me, for her sake, even though Blitz keeps making motions with his eyes for me to drop it.
I shake my head, a smile on my lips.
I change into a light sundress while she packs her things.
The front door has barely closed when Blitz comes up behind me and reaches for the hem of the dress. “I don’t think so,” he says as he lifts it up and over my head.
“What if she comes back for something?!” I exclaim as he tosses the dress aside. I’m not wearing anything beneath it.
“Then she’ll see you naked,” he says. His hands are all over me, running along the places the massage had been. “I seriously could not wait one more second.”
Blitz pulls me to him, his lips crushing against mine. My body glides along his in the shiny workout clothes, slippery still with the absorbed oils.
He lifts me up and wraps my legs around his waist. I can feel him through the shorts. His mouth is feverish and demanding as we walk through the house to the bedroom.
Each step causes me to slide against the length of him, building a need in me that makes me impatient to arrive. We make it to the bed and he leans forward, dropping me onto the mattress.
The smooth comforter is cool against my back. Blitz steps aside and tugs at the curtains that cover a set of French doors leading out onto a small patio.
Light floods into the room from the backyard.
“I want to see every delectable inch of you,” he says.
“You’ve already seen every inch of me.”
“Not enough,” he says.
He swiftly gets rid of his shirt and shorts. The sun wraps around his golden skin, each muscle defined, lighting up his dark hair. He is glorious, maybe even more now than when I met him. The aerial silk work has forced him to become stronger. His shoulders are broader, the sides of his chest more built out than before.
He places a knee on the bed and I reach out to slip my fingers along the shadows and planes of his body. He lets out a groan and leans over me, dropping another kiss on my mouth.
We connect only there until his hand reaches for me, starting at the curve of my waist and gliding up. His hand encircles a breast, his thumb crossing the nipple.
I sigh against his mouth. Being with Blitz never gets old. He is patient. He pays attention.
When my hips shift toward him, his hand starts its journey down. He pauses to circle a pattern around my belly button, making my body lift again, coaxing him to make his way to where I want him.
He smiles against my mouth. “Impatient, Princess?” he says. “I had to wait through an entire massage.”
Instead of moving on down, his hand goes to my hip. “I should make sure she did a thorough job on these muscles.” His fingers shift down my thigh, squeezing the muscle lightly. “Seems nice and relaxed. Does it hurt?”
“I don’t know,” I say, my voice strained.
“Mmm, I should keep checking.” His hand shifts to the other thigh.
His face gravitates toward my breast, taking a nipple in his mouth.
I lift up again, feeling hot, and wet, and full of need. “Blitz,” I say, almost a gasp.
“Mmm-hmm, I hear you,” he says against my skin. His mouth moves over to the second breast, and I shift again.
His hand reaches way down for my shin, massaging my calf. I grasp his head, hanging on to his thick hair. If his hands won’t obey, maybe I can convince his mouth to go where I want.
I push.
I feel his smile against me as he moves down, spreading hot kisses along my belly.
Then he’s there, no more coyness, his hands spreading me wide, mouth delving into the folds. When his tongue hits my clit, I cry out in exultation and relief.
He wastes no time now, adding fingers, slipping them deeply inside.
My body responds, caught in the intensity, the pleasure already flooding my veins. Then he gets me there, over the brink, and I’m calling his name, shuddering and pulsating as the orgasm takes over everything else.
I’m gasping, barely functional, when he grasps my waist and flips me over. My hair is everywhere, escaping the loose knot from the massage, as he pushes me to my hands and knees and falls in place behind me.
“Not going to wait another minute,” he says, his voice low.
His hands hold my hips as he slides inside in one smooth stroke.
I cry out again, my head down, pressing back into him.
His moves are powerful, like a jungle cat. Each stroke hits new territory, different from what he was pleasuring just a moment ago. My muscles clamp down, eager to move with him, take what he’s offering, and make it work for him.
I lift higher and push back harder. Blitz moves faster behind me, his handhold tight and firm. It’s quick-paced and hard, pounding against my body mercilessly, creating a drumbeat inside me.
“Jesus, Livia,” Blitz says, his hands everywhere now, my back, my breasts, down across my belly. His fingers caress me again, and I want to weep, so many sensations, hard and soft, fast and long.
Then he slows down, each stroke luxurious and slow. I can’t take it. I want more. I need him. Need it now.
But he takes his time, bringing me higher, making me wait for it, until I’m an archer’s bow, stretched as far as I can go.
When he grasps my hips this time, one hand between my spread thighs, there is no stopping what’s coming. His powerful thrust into me sets off the lightning storm of reaction. I’m gasping, crying, shaking with the intensity of this orgasm. I feel him flooding me, holding still, his hand on my back.
I drop my head to the bed, holding myself together by a mere thread. It’s so often this way with Blitz. His desire, his care, his power. They all come together to reach parts of me I still try to hold inside. It’s his love. It’s mine. My losses. My baby girl. The dance.
I can’t contain it all and have to let it spill out. Hot tears come down my face.
Blitz knows me. He understands the places I go. He smooths my hair away from my face and wraps his arms around me.
We shift sideways on the bed and he curls me up inside the protective shell of his body. I’m surrounded by him, his skin, his comfort, his love.
I’m going to move through this. I couldn’t do it alone. But I don’t have to. I have Blitz.
Chapter 6
Having Mindy back is a big part of my recovery from losing contact with my daughter. I follow the progression of her conversations with her cowboy Preston through her failure to move her lessons to his inability to change his schedule. She asks for another trail ride, and her father says no.
I remember those frustrating days, being unable to do anything for myself, always at the mercy of my parents.
I pass my driving test and get my license. There's a bit of a disaster at the DMV when Blitz and I are spotted and we end up getting escorted out of the public area due to our presence creating a “public disturbance.” At least I get a private test with no wait.
But for days after that incident, I hear the ringing shouts of people asking, “Where is your secret baby, Livia? Are you going to get her back? How could you abandon her?”
It’s doubly hard because I don’t get to see her on her birthday. It was the first one I would get to spend with her, as she started the ballet class a couple months after it passed last year. Just like with her first four birthdays, she turns five without me.
I spend the day at the condo, listening to The Nutcracker and watching the dance vide
o the girls did with Blitz when I first met him.
Blitz has flowers delivered at 8:52 p.m., the moment she was born five years before. It’s pretty much the sweetest gesture anyone has ever done.
I know I have to pull myself out of this. I just have to find a way.
With my ability to drive, I start volunteering at the church again. Irma, the church secretary, agrees not to mention it to my parents, on the basis that she wouldn’t call the parents of any other adult member of the congregation. She still gets upset when she remembers how my father almost struck me the day I came for the adoption paperwork.
Mindy and I enjoy our time up there, filing things and gossiping and making plans for next year when she is eighteen too. Her relationship with her parents isn't nearly as troublesome as mine was, and I tell her to think about just coming clean about the cowboy and asking if she can go on dates.
Irma doesn’t follow celebrity gossip, even mine, and hasn't realized that there is a public frenzy surrounding my daughter's adoption. When I tell her, we relocate the files to a safety deposit box the church owns, just in case.
I wonder how Gabriella is doing, if she misses us. I doubt Gwen told her about me. She has completely sealed up her Facebook page and I can no longer see anything about my daughter.
“You want to go over to Jenica's and dance?” Blitz asks. “It always helps.”
I reluctantly agree. I really just want to collapse on the sofa again. But I can’t do that.
I get myself up and pack my ballet things. Dance is always the solution.
When we arrive at the gym, Weeza doesn't make any rude remarks as we pass. I guess even she knows when to quit.
Inside, the aerial silks are down and the tall mats pushed aside. A huge line of at least twenty ballerinas fill the entire length of the barre.
We set our bags in a cubby and approach Jenica, who is presiding over the lesson led by Ingrid, who coaches most of the ballet students. The two could not look more opposite, with Jenica loose-haired in her usual bright jewel-toned leotard and scarf skirt, while Ingrid wears traditional pale pink and a tight ballet bun.
“What's this?” Blitz asks. “Invasion of the tutus?”
Jenica laughs. “One of the most famous Russian ballerinas has defected from her country and is putting together a tour here in the US. She needs an entirely new corps of ballerinas, principals, soloists, and chorus dancers, to back her. Male and female. She's holding auditions right here at the Dancery.”
“Wow.” Blitz turns to me. “You going to audition, Livia?”
I shake my head. There's no way I could keep up with a traditional ballet schedule. I have only been en pointe for six months. While I trained hard during the show, I spent a lot of time doing other types of dance. And with the Gabriella issue, I haven’t worked out in almost two weeks.
Jenica looks me over. “Are you sure? You looked quite good on Blitz's show. You should throw your hat in the ring. Your celebrity could benefit you, as ticket sales are always a factor.”
I don't bother to argue with either of them. I’m not really myself, low energy, depressed. The last thing I want to do is tour with a Russian ballerina.
But I did come here to dance. So when Jenica takes Blitz over to the trampolines to work on flips, I slip on my toe shoes and get in line with the ballerinas who are moving through the standard ballet poses with Ingrid.
I'm a little rusty, but after a half hour, I fall into the rhythm with the others. It's nice to turn off my brain and just move, toe out, plié, relevé, first position, step-step-leap.
Other ballerinas join us as the time passes, but no one leaves. The other girls are focused and determined, showing no signs of fatigue. I've heard a touring ballerina's day can last ten hours or more, so it makes sense that they would push themselves.
I watch Blitz when I'm angled the right way. He's working with two of the acrobats who often perform stunts on the triple trampolines. I keep my pattern with the girls, second position, third position, hold-two-three-four.
Weariness begins to set in, but I keep going. At one point, a man who looks very out of place strolls through the gym.
He’s trying to fit in with jazz tights and a dance shirt. But the cut is wrong, same as his hair and the style of his short round beard. He's not from here, or anywhere I've been. His skin is pale, his eyes translucent. He misses nothing as his gaze runs down the line of ballerinas, pausing on a few.
He sees me, but I don't impress him much, and his attention focuses elsewhere.
This is enough to make me want to stop. I finish the eight-count, then step away from the barre.
Blitz notices when I break ranks and hops off the trampoline to head my way.
“That was quite a workout you did!” he says.
He seems pleased. We head toward the cubbies for our bags, and I pull out a towel to smooth the hot sticky strands of hair at the back of my neck.
The man notices Blitz and stops walking, his eyes wide. Then he looks at me again, his gaze falling to my ballet shoes. He's recognized us, and he's not as nonchalant about it as the others.
He takes out a phone, and I groan. He's going to Tweet or Facebook or otherwise disclose our location.
“Come on,” I tell Blitz. “Before that guy tells the world where we are and we lose another secret dance spot.”
Blitz turns to look at who I'm talking about. “Oh, that's Dmitri, the casting supervisor for that Russian dancer. Jenica said he might stop by. He's been pre-scouting the ballerinas.”
“I thought they were doing auditions,” I say.
“They are, but still, he comes. He wants to see their work ethic.”
I'm sure he thinks mine is trash, but that doesn't bother me.
“I’m sure me quitting makes them look good.”
Blitz waves to the other acrobats and takes my hand. “Anybody who knows who you are will recognize you have what it takes to perform. Being on a show like we were is grueling.”
“It was.” Ten weeks of twelve-hour days. I remember them well.
We cross the empty foyer. Weeza isn’t there to torment us.
“You going to chauffeur me home, licensed driver?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say. The more I drive, the better I'll feel about it. The producers are already making noise about Blitz coming up to do some clips for the next season of the show, and I want to be able to stay home and drive myself if I want to. Maybe I can even sneak Mindy away to see her cowboy.
I had plenty of people help me when I decided I wanted Blitz. Danika and the instructors at Dreamcatcher. Bennett and his wife Juliet.
Time to return the favor. Helping Mindy will definitely help me too.
Chapter 7
The official appointment with the real estate agent arrives, and I vow to be involved and optimistic. We start out in the sunny kitchen of our rented house, reviewing the properties on the laptop so we can prioritize which ones we want to visit in person.
Annabella is the total opposite of the coiffed celebrity agent we had in LA. She’s mid-sixties, wears jeans and an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse, and keeps her hair in a braid down her back. She’s a friend of Lita’s, who owns the restaurant Blitz and I went to on our first date.
She frequently lapses into bursts of Spanish, mostly expressions I have learned to interpret, some as inexplicable as “I’m going to throw my flip-flop at her.” She calls all girls “Mama,” even toddlers.
I like her fine. She’s practical and if she sees us looking at a house that’s “too big or too stupid,” she whips the screen around and clicks to the next listing.
I want to feel something for the glamorous homes that flash across the pages, but it’s not happening. It’s one set of doors and lawns and rooms, then another. I pause on a limestone one with pale yellow trim, and Annabella immediately says, “That’s the one I picked.”
We agree to drive over and see it. It’s in Alamo Heights, not far from Blitz’s parents. Annabella sticks us in the back of h
er banged-up Prius. She’s chatty on the way over, pointing out taquerias that have the best guacamole and other little hole-in-the-wall businesses I would never have noticed otherwise.
When we pull up to the house, I really hope that it will feel right, the way our house in LA did. I want to picture myself living there with Blitz, making breakfast, installing a barre in a spare room, sitting on the back porch.
But it’s like there’s a gray mist between me and everything else. No color can get in. Instead I think of Gabriella, and how she couldn’t roll up those steps without a ramp. And I imagine a birthday party with girls in tutus and ribbon sticks. Something that can never happen.
It takes tremendous effort to open the door and get out of the car. Blitz is animated, commenting on the towering oak trees and a magnolia in the front corner. He points out the explosion of pink flowers by the walkway and the cute Adirondack chairs on the porch.
But all I see is what isn’t there. What can’t be there. I follow them up the stone path and step onto the porch. Annabella fumbles around with the key and gets the door open.
The foyer is bright and white, a curved set of stairs heading up to a landing. Above us are tall windows, and a chandelier dangles from the second floor.
“Perfect spot for a really big Christmas tree,” Annabella says.
“It’s May,” I say with more edge to my voice than I intend.
Both Blitz and Annabella turn to me. Annabella glances at Blitz, and I can tell what she’s thinking. What are you doing with this Negative Nelly?
“You okay, Princess?” Blitz asks.
This grates on me today. I’m not a child. Princess makes me think of the little girls, rolling around the ballet room, holding their light-up sticks like scepters.
“Will you ever stop calling me that?” I ask.
Annabella glances between us. “I’m going to check on the other rooms while you two settle in,” she says and not-so-subtly escapes the tension.
Blitz folds his arms around me, pulling me close. “I thought you wanted a house. We don’t have to do this now if you’re not ready.”
