Seth (Damage Control #3) (11 page)

This is unfair. This is unjust. I worked hard to be here, and now… I thought I’d accepted the fact I’ll change directions, but deep inside I’m still fighting it. Hoping there was a mistake. That there is a loophole. That I can convince them to take me back.

I want to talk to someone, tell them about my hopes, my doubts, my fear, my anger. Seth… I didn’t get a chance to talk to him, not when he was so sick and so tired. Not when he thought his mom was dead, and she’s now back, when in his nightmare he was calling for her like a child.

That had struck me straight through the heart, even more so knowing he’d thought her dead. Maybe in his dreams she still is.

But I didn’t talk to him, and I won’t be doing so, either. We’ve established that, and why are my thoughts circling back to him again? This is ridiculous.

Fred is the one I’ll talk to. He’s the one I want, the one I desire and the one in whose arms I want to hide. The one who’s practically my boyfriend, apart from the fact we haven’t kissed yet, or done anything more than hold hands from time to time.

He really is.

And I
will
call him. Just watch.

***

“Physical therapy?” Fred, who’s driving us to the party in my car, sounds affronted by the words. Looks affronted, too. His glasses are steaming up, I swear. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” I fidget with the hem of my sweater. It’s warm in his car. Or maybe it’s the argument we’re having. Me and Fred, we never fight. This is terrifying. “I thought it might be a good idea.”

“Why on Earth would you think that?” He thumps his hand on the wheel, and I jump a little. He’s never been even remotely violent, so this show of it shocks me. “It has nothing to do with dancing.”

“I know, all right?” Why is he acting like this? “That’s the point. I don’t want to do something that will remind me every day of what I can’t do.”

“This is…” He huffs and puts his foot to the gas, accelerating. “When you told me about it, I didn’t think you’d already given up the fight.”

Now I’m getting angry. “What do you want me to do? I told you, I am out.”

“What about other schools? In other towns? Hell, other states?”

“They’ll see my rejection report, Fred. They’ll see I am a liability to them. I talked to my advisor about it.” Briefly, but it was enough. “He also said it’d be dangerous to me.”

“So you’ve accepted it? That’s it? No more dancing?”

I flinch at those words, and all my defenses are up, like the spines of a porcupine. “Didn’t you hear me the first time? Yes, Fred, dancing is over for me. I failed before I even started.”

“Don’t be like that, Madeline.”

“Like what?” God, why did I think I could tell him about this? And why did I agree to going to this party and concert with him? “I was just telling you about my decision. About my future.”

“But this physical therapy crap, it doesn’t even have anything to do with the arts! You’re betraying your nature, Madeline. You’re an artist. You can’t throw that away.”

“I’m not throwing anything away. I like taking care of people. Helping them. I think I could be happy.”

“You’re just saying that now. Dance is your life. You told me so yourself, many times.”

I sit there, stewing, as he parks in a side street, because what can I say? He’s right, I did say so, and I did feel it. I still do. But what if I’m right, too? What if I could be happy doing something else?

His gaze is focused on the rearview mirror as he parallel parks. It takes him a few tries, and I’m so pissed at him I want to laugh and mock him, but I don’t.

I won’t. This is the guy I have a crush on, for Christ’s sake. Maybe he’s having a bad day, too. And yet I can’t help wondering whether Seth would have parked better, or listened to me more patiently. If he’d made me feel so bad about my choices.

Which is a dangerous path to go down on. I haven’t seen or talked to Seth since I left his place three days ago, and it’s about time I stopped thinking about him.

“Look,” I say after Fred’s done parking and twists around to grab his jacket from the back seat. “I can’t change how things are. Can’t change the fact my body won’t allow me to be a professional dancer. Changing directions before you hit a solid wall isn’t giving up. It isn’t being a coward. It’s knowing when to change path. Honestly, it’s my path, and I don’t see why you’re angry with me for doing what I must.”

He sighs. “Sorry. You’re right. Damn.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Look, I had a fight with Brandon today. I think we’re just both so nervous about our upcoming concert we keep picking on each other.”

And me
, I want to say, but stop myself just in time. I’ll take the apology, indirect as it is. I mean, I sort of knew he wasn’t himself today.

“You’ll do fine.” I give him a reassuring smile. “You rock and you know it.”

His answering smile is bright, and it makes me feel better about the mess that has been tonight so far. It’ll be fine.
We
’ll be fine. Just a bump on the road. Every couple has arguments from time to time, right? Misunderstandings.

He apologized. Should be enough.

Then why is there something bothering me about this discussion—this situation? I turn this thought over and over in my mind as we leave the car and walk the short distance to the party. I can’t decide what it is.

Every couple has arguments…

Maybe I’m just still annoyed by Fred’s words, and that’s all. Annoyed at myself for feeling so defensive, for feeling insecure and unsure about my decision so that his words sting and make me waver and question myself all over again.

I’m so absorbed by the debate going on inside my head, I don’t see it until we’re entering through the wide-open door:

The party is at Damage Control, the tattoo shop where Seth is doing his apprenticeship.

Crap.

***

The place is packed, and loud rock music plays over the speakers. Lots of tattoos peek under rolled-up sleeves and over open collars, curling on forearms and shoulders. Huge black and white photos of men and women with punk hairdos, piercings and tattoos line the walls. I linger in front of one of a guy’s profile. You can barely see his face, which is cast in shadow—just a hint of full lips and long lashes. Something familiar about it I can’t put my finger on… and the tattoo of a snake curls on his shoulder, whorls and diamond shapes, and a fanged mouth that seems to be going after his heart.

I shiver and step back.

“They’ve expanded the place,” Fred is saying, checking something on his phone, then glancing around. “Doubled it, really.”

“You’ve been here before?” The thought of Fred having tattoos is strangely exciting. Not something I’d ever considered before.

“Yeah, with a friend who wanted to get some ink.”

“Do you have any tats?”

“Me? Good God, no.”

And how strangely disappointing it is that he doesn’t. He looks positively appalled at the thought.

As I should be. A ballet dancer would never dream of inking her skin, or of her fellow dancers doing anything crazy like getting piercings and shaving off their hair. Would never care for such acts of body modification, of statements about one’s identity. The body of a ballet dancer is a malleable thing to be dressed, made up and made into any character that is needed for the show.

But I’m not a ballet dancer anymore. That dream-like world of
tutus
and
pointes
is a thing of the past. I’m about to land in the real world, work behind the scenes instead of on the stage.

I clamp a hand over my mouth because I’m getting an uncontrollable urge to laugh. It will probably turn to tears if I let it happen.

“Come on, the concert is about to start,” Fred says, and despite my misgivings and my anger at him, I follow him where the crowd is at its thickest. There’s a microphone and a set of drums, and I recognize Rafe, Zane’s blond and big-shouldered friend, when he takes a seat and grabs his sticks.

He’s wearing a black tank top with what has to be the group logo stamped in silver on the front, same as the T-shirts worn by the other people joining him with guitars: a kind of weird moth with the motif of a skull.

‘Deathmoth—Punk Rock Group,’ a banner behind them proclaims.

Right. Of course.
A deathmoth.

Then the singer walks up to the front, and I recognize Zane’s girlfriend, Dakota.

What about Seth? I haven’t seen him in the crowd. Chances are he didn’t make it. Despite my resolve not to see him again, I did ask Asher if he was better yesterday, and apparently he is, but still tired, and a little unsteady.

I almost dropped everything and went back to check on him when I heard that. Stopped myself right before I did. Reminded myself it’s not a good idea. That I may want to be his friend, but maybe he doesn’t.

The music starts, and God, that girl sure can sing. Her powerful voice fills the shop like thunder and swallows the whispers and the noise of cars from outside the open door. The drums and the guitars join in and I’m transfixed, lost in a violent world, filled with anger and sorrow—but also power and magic and a struggle to overcome the pain.

It’s beautiful. Powerful. Like an ancient ritual, it takes me out of my body. Makes everything and anything seem possible. Makes me want to try.

At some point, Fred taps my arm and gestures that he has to go. I watch his pretty mouth form words, and all I can think of is that anything is possible. That it’s up to me to make it so.

So I follow him as he turns to leave, pushing between people, out onto the street. His blond hair catches the light of the streetlamp, the halo of an angel, and the beat of the song still vibrates through me, setting the rhythm of my heart like a war drum.

Do it. Do it. Do it.

“Fred!” I run after him, the coolness of the night air cutting through my thin cardigan, my heels clacking on the sidewalk. “Wait.”

“Hey.” He turns around, eyes going round. “I was just going to make a phone call. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay, but I…” I reach him and stop to catch my breath. I smile at him. “I really like you, Fred.”

“I like you, too.” He seems puzzled, but it doesn’t matter. He likes me. I like him.

“Then kiss me.” The words are out of my mouth before I know it, and my heart is booming in my chest.

“Madeline…” he mutters. “You’re a beautiful girl.”

I bite my lip, grin. “Thank you.” I place my hands on his chest. He’s thin and willowy, like the artist he is. I know that, but somehow it feels weird to be touching him. I pull my hands away. “Will you kiss me?”

“You’re so sweet. I can’t do that. We need to take our time. I’d feel awful if I rushed you.”

Rushed me?

Bewilderment turns into anger, and then into confusion, because as I look at his lips, at his clear eyes, I see another face—dark stubble, broad cheekbones, dark eyes that crinkle at the corners with a smile.

I jerk back, my heels scraping on concrete. “You weren’t rushing me. I’m the one who asked you for a kiss.”

“We’re not ready, sweet.” He shoves a hand through his short hair, licks his lips. “Neither of us.”

“Why not?” I swallow hard. “Is there someone else?”

“What? No!” He’s the very picture of bewilderment. “Of course not. Look, I’m sorry. It’s been a stressful couple of weeks. Let’s take it slow.”

“Slow, huh?” I’m disappointed, so disappointed my eyes burn. “I know how to kiss, you know. I’m not a child. I’ve kissed and been kissed before. And it’s not as if I’m asking you for sex. I mean…” What the heck. “I’m not a virgin, Fred.”

And blurting that out should feel liberating, should feel right, but it only makes me feel like a slut. For wanting a kiss. For telling him he’s not my first, even if my first isn’t worth remembering. I might as well be a virgin, for all the experience I have, and that stings so badly.

Maybe he realizes that, because he sighs and takes a step forward. “I really like you, Madeline.” He takes my hand. “It’s nothing you’ve done, okay? What’s the rush?”

He sounds so perfectly logical that in spite of my earlier anger at him, in the car, and my still burning cheeks, I back down.

“Okay. We’ll wait.” Like lovers in an old movie. Jesus. “I’ll go back inside. Leave you to your call.”

He nods and then unexpectedly he leans in and gives me a quick, chaste kiss—a light peck I barely feel. His lips are dry, cool.

I stare as he turns away, pulling out his phone. “See you back inside.”

Right. This kiss, this peck, is somehow even worse than his refusal to kiss me. I don’t know why, can’t pinpoint the problem. What do I feel? Is it anger?

I turn and head back to the party.

Fred thinks I’m a virgin, totally ignorant of sexual matters. And what’s worse is that he’s not far from the truth.

But he won’t do it, won’t kiss me, or have sex with me. Isn’t that what a girl does with her boyfriend, apart from having coffee in arty coffee houses and discussing music and dance? Maybe we don’t go out to dance or to the movies—because Fred doesn’t care about such things, and frankly I never even had the time—but I’m pretty sure kissing and sex are on the table. I’m nineteen, not nine. Holding hands and giving each other pecks is definitely what I did when I was nine.

Jesus.

Nearly blinded by frustrated tears, I stumble back inside. I must be doing something wrong. I obviously don’t know the right moves, the right things to say. If I was experienced, would he have said no? Would he have worried about hurting me and rushing me?

Suddenly I wish against all hope Seth were here.

Which makes no sense at all. No sense why I would be thinking of him even as I’m stomping in anger and confusion away from my very sweet boyfriend.

And it doesn’t matter, because as I push my way between people, and as the music rises around me like a storm, I see him.

Seth.

***

He’s seated in an ugly orange armchair, the walking stick propped by the side. He’s staring at the crowd, his gaze distant, his cheeks lightly flushed. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with the logo of Damage Control, a coiling snake on the front. The soft material stretches over an impressive chest and broad shoulders, the short sleeves snug around thick biceps.