The Blitzed Series Boxed Set: Five Contemporary Romance Novels

by JJ Knight

  Then the initial approach. I realize I don’t have a prop for the spindle and mime it. Dominika shies away, and I hear Ted say, “This is great stuff.”

  On the second approach we begin our push and pull. Then I try to convince her to take the spindle.

  This time when I go up en pointe, I feel the twinge again. But nothing is wet, no searing pain. I keep going.

  It’s a challenging scene. A few dancers enter, and I settle down a little. I will only have to get through this one time and I’ll prove myself.

  By the time we get to the hardest part of all, where I must match Dominika’s style, the front rows are filled with dancers. I don’t have time to look at their faces or see if Ivana has entered. I concentrate fiercely on my movements, determined to make this rehearsal the best I’ve ever done, despite the fear, the risk, and some pain.

  It’s still not perfect, but it’s another step up from where I’ve been. When we get to the end of the scene and Dominika collapses, the pianist stops.

  The dancers all clap, which sometimes happens during rehearsal, but not often. I finally look around. The corps dancers are there, happy that I’m back, including a shining-faced Fiona and relieved Andrew.

  Then Ophelia, the understudy, arms crossed and scowling. Then Ivana, looking annoyed.

  We’ve reviewed the contract. Ivana can’t fire me. Just Dominika has that power. Otherwise only a doctor saying I’m out for injury, or noncompliance with rehearsal or misconduct, can oust my position.

  Dominika glances at Ivana. “I hate dance politics,” she says. “If she’s well enough to dance, she dances.”

  “I want her cleared through the trainer first,” Ivana says. “I won’t have permanent damage to her foot on my head.”

  I’m perfectly relieved to hear this. I don’t really want to dance for several hours more, not yet.

  “I’m glad to check in with him again,” I say. “I’ll do as he says.”

  Blitz and Ted still stand below, but they aren’t all serious anymore. Blitz is positively giddy.

  I pick up my dance bag and wave to everyone. I pause by Ophelia. “Thank you so much for standing in for me yesterday,” I tell her. “You do beautiful work.”

  She can’t very well scowl at me for that in front of the entire company, so she nods and relaxes her expression.

  I quickly walk to the door, casually tossing my bag on my shoulder, super careful to show zero evidence of pain or injury as I head out.

  I’ve pulled it off.

  Chapter 29

  Another day of rest is really all I needed, and I’m back to full rehearsals by Wednesday. The cast settles back in with me as Carabosse, and even as we do our last performances in Baltimore, we prepare for the adjustments to the stage and props for the longest run of the ballet in New York.

  My twentieth birthday marks our second night in the Big Apple. As a gift to me and the whole cast, Blitz buys tickets for everyone to the New York City Ballet’s production of Swan Lake, which has just opened for the start of their fall season.

  It’s a big night as everyone dresses up to see the dream career for a ballerina. Dancers begin training at age six with the School of American Ballet housed across the street from Lincoln Theater.

  None of us will ever dance on this stage, as their apprentices are taken very strictly from their own school.

  So watching Swan Lake is bittersweet for many of the cast, since it is too late for any of us to be a part of this ballet tradition. I sit with Blitz and Ted, who will be helping as a driver and security as we start the DVD shooting in a few days. Our seats are low and center, as I wanted to be right up on the dancers. Most of the cast is scattered throughout, whatever last-minute seats Blitz’s assistant Shelly could gather up at such a late date.

  I look around during intermission, spotting friends and cast members chatting in clumps. Many of them approach me for hugs and to wish me a happy birthday. I feel very much like the belle of the ball, a complete turnaround from Baltimore.

  Andrew stays close to Bluebird. Fiona and Carla hang out with them. Carla sees me looking and glances away. I’m not sure how to bridge the gap between us. We should talk about it, but now that I’m staying with Blitz full-time, there never seems to be an opportunity.

  We settle in for the last part of the ballet, where Odette realizes she has been betrayed and will be a swan forever. I hold on to Blitz’s hand. It’s interesting to me how so many of these classic ballets revolve around love. At least Sleeping Beauty isn’t tragic.

  After it’s over, Blitz and I escape in the limo to Times Square.

  I’ve never been to New York and feel overwhelmed by the crowds and blazing signs. There are so many people everywhere. Each sidewalk requires careful navigation or you get pushed into the street or jostled by people walking faster than you.

  Blitz takes us to a set of red stairs that lead to nowhere. They are lit and covered with literally hundreds of tired tourists just taking in the sights.

  “I love it here,” Blitz says, leading me to the top. “It’s one of the few places in the world that matches my level of high-octane energy.”

  I believe it. From atop the steps, we can see everything, the blinking signs, the giant screens flashing commercials and news. Lines of taxis fill the streets as people pour out of theaters and try to find their way home.

  “Well, look at that,” Blitz says. “I think New York is happy to have you.”

  He turns me and points to a TV screen so huge it takes up half the height of a skyscraper. An image of him and me flashes onscreen. We kiss, and fireworks light up the image and it reads “Happy 20th Birthday, Livia.”

  I squeal. “How did you do that?”

  He bows. “Anything for my love!”

  “This is the most amazing thing!” I exclaim. I can’t even take it all in.

  But, as almost always happens in crowds, we’re spotted, and suddenly cell phones are lighting up.

  “Blitz Craven! Over here!”

  “Livia is with him!”

  “Will you sign this?”

  The rush begins, and we could easily get trapped on the steps.

  But Blitz thinks quickly and lifts me up on his shoulder. The wide pleated skirt of my blue dress covers his arm and chest in his suit jacket.

  I know what he’s thinking and immediately roll across his chest, landing lightly on a stair and spinning out.

  People back away to give us space to dance, cell phones in the air.

  We make our way down the steps, the crowd parting to let us dance by. A couple guys with bongos start a beat and we match it. The moves are simple, things we could do in our sleep. Lift, turn, step step step, out, in, and then do it all over again.

  But it’s enough for the crowd. When we get to the bottom, we bow and quickly dive into the walking masses. Everyone’s too busy figuring out if they got good footage for many to follow, and soon we’re back in the flow and anonymous again.

  “Should have brought a hat,” Blitz says.

  “That wasn’t too bad. You were brilliant.”

  Blitz squeezes my hand. “I try.”

  “Did you talk to the director of the DVD today?” I ask.

  “Yep, while you were in rehearsal. We’re all square for filming on Tuesday.”

  It’ll be fun to be somewhat back in our world. I won’t feel quite so subservient to Ivana.

  “Have you given thought to Houston yet?” Blitz asks.

  I frown. We’re away from all the bright lights, just walking along souvenir shops and late-night diners. “You mean the tickets for my parents?”

  “Yes, those.”

  “I’ll mail them tomorrow,” I say.

  “You’ve been saying that for weeks.” He slides his hand through the crook of my arm.

  “I know.”

  “What are you more afraid of? That they won’t come? Or that they will?”

  I picture my dad calling me a dirty whore in front of Ivana and snort. “I don’t know. Both are b
ad.”

  “Do it for Andy. He’d love to see his big sister dance.”

  I know Blitz is right.

  He squeezes my hand. “How about we go back to the hotel and have crazy porn sex, then we’ll put those tickets in an envelope? It’s your birthday. It’s a lucky day. What do you say?”

  Blitz makes me laugh. “Okay.”

  “That’s my princess,” he says. He’s about to correct himself when I cut him off.

  “It’s okay to call me Princess,” I tell him. “I was just upset then.”

  “Good,” he says. “Because I was going to start calling you Porn Star instead.”

  I smack him on the arm, which he totally deserves, but he makes me laugh. Having Blitz helps me think less about my first birthday without the people who gave birth to me.

  Chapter 30

  The filming is fun. The addition of cameras and crew at our dress rehearsals, plus the thrill of being in New York, add to the overall excitement of the cast.

  Andrew, Fiona, and I get in the habit of hanging out with Blitz and the director to look at the new footage, which they call the “roughs.” We all start picking up lingo, more than I learned from Dance Blitz. I never really got to hang out with the film crew back then since the director was so daunting.

  They work to solve the sound problems of the hard toe of new pointe shoes banging on the floor. There is also echo effect from the orchestra, since there’s no audience members present to absorb the sound. They finally agree to record the music separately during a live show. It saves them having to add in applause. Apparently the old footage and new sound will be matched up in “post.”

  New York is probably the most fun segment of the tour. I feel like a part of the process, an important piece, rather than just the worst-trained member of the troupe who got a part based on fame.

  Blitz decides to travel back to LA for a few days with the production team, skipping Miami. We will meet back up again in Houston. I have no way of knowing what happened to the tickets I sent Mom and Dad. After they were mailed, I panicked that Mom would talk to Mindy’s mother and the jig would be up on the ballet prize for the other family, keeping my friend from coming.

  But Mindy keeps in touch via text on the phone we slipped her before the tour. Her parents don’t have any idea yet that I am in the show, only that they have ballet tickets and a hotel room. The two families still aren’t on solid speaking terms, even though they do greet each other at church every Sunday.

  Mindy reports that my parents seem sadder lately, less involved than before. She hopes they will come to the ballet. The relationship really needs to be repaired for anyone to be happy.

  I thought for a while to try sending Gwen tickets as well, but never told Blitz my idea. Probably once she realized I was in the cast, she would either not come or be resentful of my continued interference. I don’t know if I can do anything to see my daughter again. Fourteen years is so long.

  On the flight from Miami to Texas, Carla ends up on my row. We haven’t specifically avoided each other since that moment in Baltimore when I ran from her and her daughter and injured my foot in the alley. But we haven’t said more than simple greetings or compliments on a performance since then.

  But it’s hard for me to stay silent. I hurt so much for my loss. I have to know what keeps her away, why she would choose that, or if she is forced to, like I am. If so, it’s something we have in common.

  We sit in coach with three seats to a side, and one of the fairies is between us. But the other girl quickly puts on headphones and zones out, leaving me and Carla to flip through magazines and avoid eye contact.

  After takeoff, and once the beverage cart has passed, I finally work up enough courage to say, “Your little girl is lovely.”

  Carla stiffens, staring down at the pages in her hands.

  I think she isn’t going to respond, and that will be it, when she finally says, “Her father is better for her than I am.”

  This makes my belly tighten. “Did he take her from you?”

  She can’t meet my gaze and looks out the window instead. “I was a dancer. It’s all I ever wanted to do. When she arrived, I got so out of shape. I had to work hard to get back in it.”

  “You were young, though.”

  With this, she turns back. “I’m not as young as you think. I was twenty-three when she was born.”

  “So you left her with her dad?”

  Her chin drops and she stares at the magazine again. “He is really good with her. I was gone, chasing any dance audition I could get. I wasn’t home.”

  “So you two split up?”

  “We were never married. There’s no custody agreement. No legal tangle. I just chose dance. It’s what I wanted.”

  I have to look away. I can’t believe it’s so simple. She had a daughter and she left her.

  We don’t speak again. We might never speak again. I know she made choices the best she knew how. Maybe she would judge me for the adoption. But I have a hard time thinking about the little girl she can have back at any moment, if she would just put her first.

  The plane touches down at the airport and the pilot announces that it is 102 degrees. Everyone groans. That’s Texas for you. Even though summer is officially over, the weather often doesn’t break until October.

  I realize that while I was away, Gabriella started kindergarten. It hits me what I’m missing, what I’ve already missed. At least before all this happened, Blitz and dancing and fame, I could see pictures on Facebook. Then for nine miraculous months, I taught her dance class.

  Now, I have nothing.

  I want to lash out at Carla. Tell her how selfish she is. How stupid.

  But who am I to judge anyone?

  The aisle fills with dancers tugging down their carry-ons. The girl between me and Carla takes off her headphones and looks around.

  When I get out, I load up on the bus to the hotel and sit in the front with Betty from wardrobe and other members of the crew. I’m not up for speaking to anyone.

  The heat and the smells all make me think of home. I grew up here, before I got pregnant. This is where I knew Denham. Where I had a normal life. If I could go back, I would change things.

  But not getting pregnant. Not Gabriella. I could never change the circumstances that brought her here.

  I wouldn’t give her up.

  Although, then I wouldn’t meet Blitz.

  It’s so hard to know what path was the right one. And it’s pointless. I can’t actually change anything. And I can’t willingly give up the parts of my life I love now.

  When we get to the hotel, I call a ride share so I can head out into the city alone. Blitz will arrive in the morning, but tonight is all mine to revisit the places I once knew.

  I give the young woman driving a yellow Beetle with daisies on the hood the address to my old house.

  “You sure?” she asks as she puts it in her phone and tilts her head at the location that pops up. “That’s a really bad part of town.”

  “I grew up in that house,” I tell her. “I moved six years ago.”

  She shrugs. “It probably hasn’t changed that much, then.”

  I think about this as we navigate rush-hour traffic. Was it bad then? I was old enough to know when we left, a freshman in high school. Sure, there were car break-ins and burglaries, and the known drug dealers on a couple corners. This all seemed normal and manageable at the time.

  But as we exit the highway and approach the seedy neighborhood, I see it all with completely different eyes. Everything is the same, from the pawn shop with its iron-barred windows to the weedy empty corner lot where I would fly kites. The convenience store has a new name but is otherwise exactly as I remember it.

  But I’ve changed. I see the poverty here. The brokenness. The people who work too many hours, have too many problems. They can’t worry about keeping up lawns or getting rid of junked-out cars. Their dogs bark behind chain-link fences, and their kids roam the cracked sidewalks.

/>   Everyone here is barely surviving.

  I feel like an outsider.

  I am one.

  I’m glad this car is low-key, the sort of thing some dad would buy cheap and paint himself for his daughter. It fits in. We don’t evoke any stares, well, at least nothing more than amusement at the daisies, as we head down my old street.

  My heart is actually pounding as we approach the old house. It looks terrible to me now. Small and falling apart, one of the porch columns so rotted through, it’s splintered at the base.

  Whoever lives there now has a bunch of kids, or one terribly messy one, as the scraggly dead grass is littered with balls and cracked plastic toys, faded from the sun.

  But I can see myself on the porch. I picture friends walking up, the path to school, light in the windows.

  The girl has stopped in front of it. “You just want to look?” she asks.

  “For a minute,” I say.

  The fence is in worse shape than in my day, the metal poles listing to one side. It makes me sad, seeing it, and I get this wild idea of buying it and fixing it up again.

  Then the feeling passes. Terrible things happened there. I’m glad I can’t see the backyard, where I came in that awful night when I thought Denham was my brother.

  I shake my head. This is enough. “We can go,” I say.

  The car eases down the narrow street, half blocked with cars parked along the curbs. I realize we’re going to pass the house that had the travel trailer in back. Gabriella was probably conceived there. And my stomach falls again.

  I decide not to look, not to think anymore. I rest my head on the back of the seat and remember New York, Times Square, the ballet, Lincoln Theater.

  “You want to go back to your hotel now?” the girl asks.

  “Yes,” I say.

  There’s nothing for me here anymore. If there ever was. Just dusty memories and decaying history.

  Moving forward is the only way to go. The only question is, will my family come and be a part of my future?