Seth (Damage Control #3) (4 page)

I swallow two with the water she brings me and lift myself up on the sofa. “Thank you. I think I’ll be fine now.”

She nods and takes a step back. “Goodnight, then.”

“Night.” Something in her expression doesn’t let me rest, though. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. No.” Her voice has a break to it. A crack.

Damn.

“Sit down.” I pat the spot next to me. “Tell me.”

“I hardly know you,” she says quietly, but she comes anyway.

“Is it a secret? I won’t tell. I swear.”

“No, it’s not a secret,” she mumbles. “Just a disaster.”

“Why? What is it?” She doesn’t protest when I put an arm around her shoulders and squeeze. “Your parents? Did something happen?”

“No, nothing like that.” She’s a bit stiff against me, but doesn’t move away. “God, no. Thanks for putting this into perspective.”

Don’t know what to reply to that. I guess my definition of a disaster is different than hers. Wouldn’t be the first time I assume murder when it’s just someone asleep on the carpet.

“I’ve been studying dance most of my life,” she says, and I grin. “What’s the grin for?”

“I knew it. Knew you were a dancer. It’s the way you move.”

She looks away, smiling, cheeks darkening. “Thanks.”

“Anytime. So what’s the problem?”

“The problem is…” She draws a deep breath I can feel in the lifting of her slim shoulders. “I’m out.”

“Out?”

“Of the dance school. I’m not good enough. Didn’t make the cut.”

“That’s it? They can just throw you out?”

“You don’t understand.” Now she pushes away from me, prepares to stand up, get away. “Not everyone makes it. Not everyone is made for it. My Achilles tendons are too tight, and my pelvis too stiff, and I broke my right ankle two years ago. It just never recovered completely, and I…”

There’s that crack in her voice again, and no way am I letting her go like this. I reach over, aching leg and all, and pull her back to me until her head is resting on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Yeah, me too. Worked for this since I was nine. All my life I’ve wanted to be a professional dancer, and I can’t…” She clutches at the front of my borrowed T-shit with one slim hand. “Can’t believe it’s over. They said if I continue training, I might damage my ankle so badly I’ll have trouble walking.”

Jesus.
“How about doing something else dance-related? Like teaching ballet?”

“Maybe if I want to teach kids. But I don’t.”

“Okay. Hey, everything will be okay, you know that, right?”

She says nothing.

Again I want to remind her this ain’t the end of the world. The world is full of opportunities when you have a roof over your head and dough to spend. When your past isn’t haunting your every step, and your body and mind aren’t fucked-up to hell.

But I don’t. Because that’s not what she needs right now. She needs someone to hold her in silence and accept her pain and sadness.

So that’s what I’ll do, and bad idea or not, you couldn’t rip me from her side for all the money in the world.

***

When I wake up next, I’m again not sure where I am, but it’s warm, and comfortable, and somehow feels good.

Okay. Don’t panic yet.

Drawing a breath of a sweet scent—
vanilla?
—I take stock of my situation. Sofa. A slim body tangled up with mine. No pain.

This doesn’t seem so bad. Not bad at all. Actually, this is interesting, could be interesting—only we’re both dressed.

And this is Manon in my arms.

Who’s pretty and sweet and is dating another man.

Dammit.

Even worse, someone’s knocking on the door.
Fuck.

I sit up, the blanket slipping off both of us. She’s wrapped up in a black, silky robe. It has fallen open in the front, and underneath she’s wearing a white nightie with black lace.

My mouth is dry, and my dick is growing hard. Not a good thing, all things considered.

Not when the doorbell starts ringing, too.

“Oh God.” She rolls over on her back, blinking those dark green eyes, and jerks. “Shit. Is that…?”

“The doorbell? Yep.” I throw my legs off the sofa and swallow a groan as I bend my knee. The compress fell to the floor sometime last night. I gather it up as I look around for my boots and socks. “Any idea who it might be?”

“No. Wasn’t expecting anyone today.” She’s tying up her robe tightly, covering up her nightie. “Stay here.”

“Don’t want me to hide in your closet?”

“You wouldn’t fit.” She sighs and goes to get the door, but she throws me a tiny smile over her shoulder before she does, and it burns through me like a wisp of fire.

I grab my cell phone from the coffee table and pretend to be busy with it as the door opens. I take out the battery, put it back in. Turn it on.

And it works. It’s working again. Fuck, yeah.

I’m so happy about this little victory that I miss the entrance of Manon’s visitor until she’s standing right in front of me.

“Hey, Seth. Whatcha doing here?”

The. Fuck.

Cassie, smiling at me like the Cheshire Cat from hell. Why is she here?

Oh, right.
She’s Manon’s friend. Forgot about that for a moment—what with waking up with Manon in my arms and all.
Go figure.

“I was just leaving,” I mutter and try to figure out how to grab my still wet clothes and boots and get the hell out of Dodge.

“What do you want, Cassie?” Manon snaps, and uh-oh, sounds like there’s trouble in paradise.

“To see you?” Cassie’s smile falls, and she turns to face Manon. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Been busy.” Manon’s face is closed off.

“With Sethy here?”

“Oh, get out.” Manon folds her arms over her chest and glares. “I mean it, Cassie.”

“You can’t… Manon, I really need to talk to you.” Now Cassie seems close to tears. Her blond hair is hanging limp on her shoulders, and her eyes are bloodshot.

Oh shit. I shouldn’t be here. I may hate the bitch’s guts for what she tried to do to Jesse and Amber, may want to plant my fist in her face, but I won’t. Wouldn’t do it then, won’t do it now.

Besides, this is between two friends. I have no place being here.

“I really should be going,” I mutter and reach for my knee brace. “I’ll just take a piss, put my brace back on and leave you gals alone to talk.”

Cassie nods, and Manon rolls her eyes, but leads the way to the dining table and they both sit there.

Okay.

Getting up is a bitch. Limping to gather my stuff has me clenching my jaw so hard it aches. But I finally have everything, including my walking stick, and take my sweet time in the bathroom changing clothes and putting on my brace.

I splash my face with water when I’m done, wiping off sweat, and stare at my reflection.

What are you doing, Seffers?
Man, Cassie’s arrival sure was a wake-up call. Cuddling on the sofa with Manon. Holding her while she tells you her woes. Eating dinner together.

As if you belong together. As if you
could
.

Scrubbing a hand through my hair, I grab the borrowed clothes and turn to go. What I should have done last night.

Should never have come here. Touched her skin, smelled her scent, felt her body against mine. It was easier when she was uncharted territory, a distant dream.

Not sure how to put her out of my mind now. Not sure it’s possible.

I cross the living room as quickly as I can, my stick thumping on the carpet. Before I reach the table where they’re sitting in silence, I realize I should’ve folded the clothes, probably. Too late.

She takes them without a comment, gives me a strained smile.

“Thanks for helping me out last night, saving me from the downpour,” I tell her, completely ignoring Cassie the Bitch. “I won’t forget it.”

Won’t forget you. Wish I could.

“Don’t mention it.” She bunches up the clothes, presses them to her chest. “I should drive you back to your place.”

“Nah, I’ve got this. Seriously.” I grin, although I’m not feeling it. Don’t want to leave her. Christ. “I’m much better today.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m solid. Let you girls catch up.”

She gets up to let me out, and I linger for a second too long at the door. It’s as if there’s a threat wrapped around me, trying to keep me where she is.

Then I turn around and go, because that’s what I do when I want something. Because when I want something real bad, that’s when I know I can never have it.

Manon

Closing the door behind Seth, I turn back to Cassie. My steps are slow. It’s as if I’m reluctant to let him go.

Which makes sense. He’s hurt, and I’m partly to blame for it, and I’m letting him return home on his own. I hope he’s smart enough to get a cab and not walk.

He’s been taking care of himself all this time, I tell myself, taking my seat at the dining table. All his life. He wasn’t waiting for me to babysit him. He has his friends, his family.

Stop worrying.

Talk to Cassie.

Last thing I want to be doing right now. She’s right. I’ve been avoiding her since the fiasco at Asher’s wedding, when she threw herself at Jesse Lee and pissed off everyone.

Including myself.

“What’s up, Cass?” God, I need a cup of coffee. “You’re here early.”

“I know. Thought to catch you before you left to classes. Didn’t think I’d catch you with Mr. Dark and Sexy, though.”

“Oh shut up.”

Silence spreads between us. Not the friendly, comfortable kind.

“Okay. I guess I know now how you feel about me.” She scrubs a hand over her face. “Guess I deserve it, too.”

Jesus.
“It’s been a crappy couple of days. Not everything is about you, Cass.”

“Ouch.” She puts her hand on the table. Her eyes are a bit too bright. “Say it. Go on.”

“What, that you’ve been a bitch to Jesse and Amber? Like you don’t know?”

“Oh I know.” She clasps her hands together and gnaws on her lower lip. “I know.”

“Why did you do it, Cass?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Maybe because it makes no real sense. Except you wanted Jesse and couldn’t think past yourself.”

She shakes her head. “Thought you’d let me explain, but I guess that’s asking too much, right?” She pushes her chair back and stands up. Her pink blouse is askew, and she’s wearing no make-up. “That’s just great.”

Never seen her like this. So distraught.

But before I can say anything else, before I can think of anything I could say, she turns on her heel and leaves.

***

Seth’s words buzz in my mind as I sit down to have breakfast. That it’s not the end of the world. That I could find something else. Become a dance teacher.

Do I want that? All my life I dreamed of swirling on a stage on my
pointes
, dancing my favorite classical pieces.
Swan Lake. Cinderella. Nutcracker. La Bayadere.

And the modern ones.
Bacchanale. The Rite of Spring. Phaedra’s Dream.

These pieces are more than dance. They are my escape into another world. Others get there by dreaming, reading, taking drugs.

I dance. Can’t imagine myself doing anything else. Never had to imagine anything else.
Pliés, jetés, arabesques.
Movement, music, joy.

God, I feel like such a failure. It’s not the first time I was told that my body wouldn’t allow me to be a professional dancer, but I thought with hard work I could get over my ‘handicaps.’ Training seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Dedication should count, right? Driving yourself to the brink of collapse. Getting better, more flexible, increasing endurance, improving rhythm.

But I can’t change my tendons, or my screwed-up ankle.

If only I hadn’t broken it two years ago. If I’d started training when I was five instead of nine. If I had a different body.

I put down my bowl of organic cereal and zero fat yoghurt. What am I doing? Who cares now if I gain weight? If I don’t do my stretches every day?

It’s over, Manon. Accept it. Get over it.

But just the thought of emptying my locker at the dance school and walking through its halls for a last time makes my heart ache.

Not sure I can do it.

I push away my untouched breakfast and go shower and get dressed. The girls from the dance school are nice, but we aren’t that close. I wish I had a bestie to talk about this, or just to do girly things—go shopping, eat ice cream, have a marathon of
Sons of Anarchy
and stuff our faces with chocolate until we get a bellyache.

Cassie.

But she’s not my bestie anymore. I’m so upset with her. I don’t think I can trust her. And yet she’s the closest I have to a bestie. I spent my last year of high school in France, with my mom, and the friends I made back in Detroit before that not only aren’t here in Madison—I’ve also mostly lost touch with them.

I mean, sure, we chat sometimes on Facebook, I see their pics on Instagram, and they keep asking me when I’ll go visit. With all the training, I never had the time to even think about traveling.

Now… Now maybe I should. Maybe they have ideas as to what a failed ballet dancer can do with her life.

I stand under the spray in the shower, and the water rolling down my cheeks feels like tears.

***

The problem with being friends with a traitor by the name of Cassie is that people who were friendly before are now avoiding you like the plague.

Like now.

I’m walking down the street, staring at storefronts, trying to take my mind off the present, when I run into some of the guys from the tattoo shop where Jesse works.

The one with the Mohawk is Zane. I remember him because that hairdo sure is impressive, but it takes me a moment to remember who the others are.

Micah is the tall, blond one, friend of Jesse’s and Seth’s, and he’s currently scowling at me like I’ve kicked his puppies. The tall dark-haired guy next to him isn’t looking happy to see me, either.

I stop to watch them pass, not sure what to do with myself. Not talking to them feels weird, but from their expressions I really don’t think they’d appreciate me chatting them up.