Slave to the Rhythm (19 page)

“Your
friend
,” Collin sneered. “He isn’t right in the head.”

My laugh died stone cold dead. “You’re a fucking prick!”

“Boys!” Laney yelled, raising her arms between us. “Stop this! I’m tired and really, really past this juvenile macho posturing nonsense.” She pointed a finger at Collin. “One more word, and you’ll be out that door so fast you’ll have rug burns on your ass. And you,” she scowled at me, “just . . . stop.”

She threw a pillow which I caught one-handed.

“The bathroom is through my bedroom, so if you want to wash up, go do it now or you can pee out the window for all I care!”

I tossed the pillow onto the couch and walked into Laney’s bedroom. I frowned at the sight of her bed. I didn’t like the idea of the prick sleeping with her. Especially not while I was on the couch next door.

I grabbed my toothbrush from our Vegas bag and washed up quickly. I peeled off my shirt and almost dropped it in the clothes hamper before I remembered that this was just a temporary stop. I wondered where I’d be sleeping tomorrow night. In a cell, if Laney’s father had his way.

Then I ran a hand over the thick stubble covering my cheeks and chin that was starting to itch. I decided to go buy a razor in the morning . . .

Fuck!
I’d have to ask Laney for the money to buy a fucking disposable razor until I could access my bank account and transfer some money. And I had no idea how that was going to work without ID, but I was too tired to worry about it now.

I walked out of the bathroom, glaring at Laney’s bed again, then headed for the couch. I saw Collin’s eyes widen and his cheeks flush as he took in the black, yellow and purple bruises covering my chest, stomach and arms.

I glanced at Laney and saw her watching me with concerned eyes.

“How’s your back?”

I shrugged. “Okay, I think.”

“Let me look. Sit on the couch—I’ve got some antiseptic cream to put on.”

“I’m fine.”

“Shut up. Sit down. And stop pissing me off!”

I sat, ignoring the shocked gasp as Collin saw my back for the first time. I figured it must look pretty bad. I just knew that it hurt like a bitch.

Collin left the room, and I didn’t know if it was because he was a pussy, or pissed to see his (maybe) girlfriend rubbing ointment onto another man’s back.

Both, I hoped. But her kindness was fresh and unexpected. Touching. She was genuine, real.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” said Laney.

“What?”

“You’re enjoying annoying Collin.”

I didn’t even bother trying to deny it. “He’s a prick.”

“He’s not all bad . . .”

“You said you broke up with him.”

“Technically, yes.”

“Then tell him to leave.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not? It’s your apartment.”

Laney sighed. “Well, for one thing, he’d call my dad . . .”

“Prick.”

“And for another, we really should talk.”

“He’s still a prick.”

“Ash! Stop it!”

I was silent. I could hear the tiredness and distress in her voice. After everything she’d done for me, I didn’t want to hurt her. And I didn’t know anything about their relationship except what she’d said and what I’d seen for myself.

But her hands were soft and soothing as she rubbed in the cream, and it took away some of the pain. I couldn’t help leaning into her touch. She still smelled like coconut, although more faintly now. Her fingers drifted down my back, just above the waistband of my jeans, stroking, healing.

And then her hands were gone.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said. “Sleep well.”

I nodded, and even though tiredness pulled at my body, I knew that the second I closed my eyes, I’d see the horror.

Laney hesitated, then leaned down and kissed me on the cheek.

“It’s going to be okay.”

I didn’t believe her.

I sat on the couch with my head in my hands for a long time.

Ash

IF THE NIGHT
before had been awkward, the morning was worse.

The prick walked around the apartment like he owned it, completely ignoring my existence. I was half expecting him to piss on the walls to mark his territory.

He was built like a wrestler, but the muscles had turned soft and a gut hung over his pajama pants. Thick hair spread up from his chest to his shoulders and down to his stomach. The guy wasn’t a friend of hot wax. Not that I cared one way or another: waxing was just part of the job because it showed off the pecs and abs. A lot of us did armpits, as well, because Paso outfits with armpit hair is kind of off-putting for an audience.

When Laney walked out of her bedroom, I had a hard time not smiling. She looked so cute in her Minions pajamas, mussed hair and sleepy face.

But she looked tired, too, and I wondered if she hadn’t slept well. She gave short answers to all Collin’s questions, and as he directed every remark to her alone, it was a stilted conversation. No one talked to me, except for Laney’s mumbled ‘Morning’. I sat in silence, mentally compiling a list of words to describe Collin. The list was alphabetical: I’d started with ‘asshole’, but was stuck on ‘q’. There was no letter ‘q’ in my language.

Eventually, Collin left for work. That surprised me. If Laney had been my girlfriend, I’d have gone to the police station with her, just so I could hold her hand while she made a statement. The prick really was clueless. Now what the hell came after ‘prick’?

As soon as the front door slammed shut, Laney glared at me.

“Stop it!”

“I didn’t say anything!” I protested.

“I can hear you thinking!”

I held back the smile that was threatening to turn into a full laugh, leaned forward on the couch and raised my eyebrows.

“What am I thinking?”

Laney frowned and tugged her robe tighter.

“Collin cares about me,” she stated firmly. “He’s just trying to give me space.”

I didn’t reply. Getting into an argument with Laney was not on my list of priorities.

I closed my eyes, wondering what sort of fucked-up today would be. I ran a hand over my beard, scratching at my chin.

“Did you want to shave that off?” Laney asked. “I have disposable razors if you do.”

Some good news. And I loved how intuitive she was.

“Thank you. It’s starting to drive me crazy.”

“Okay, well why don’t you go do that now, because then I’m planning to spend at least an hour soaking in the tub.”

“I could scrub your back,” I said, only half-joking. “To thank you for taking care of mine.”

“Hmm, very noble of you,” Laney smiled, but I think I can manage. “Go. Shower!”

I smirked at her and sauntered into the bathroom. Teasing Laney was my new favorite hobby.

I showered, enjoying the hot water, despite the sharp stings all over my back and ass. Then I shaved off the stubble before dressing in another of the long-sleeve shirts that Laney had bought me. I wished like hell I could fast-forward 24 hours. Anxiety was beginning to wind cold spirals of fear through me, twisting my gut. What would happen this afternoon? What if the police didn’t believe me? It would be hard enough going through everything that had happened, but if they didn’t believe me after . . .

I scrunched my eyes shut, forcing myself to slow my breathing, then opened them and stared at my reflection, examining the smooth face that stared back blankly. The face other people said was handsome. I despised it.

I spat at the mirror, watching the gob of spittle slide down.

Laney tapped on the door.

“Ash! You’ve been forever and I’m bursting to pee! Hurry up!”

I took a deep breath, wiped the mirror clean and pushed the door open.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

Laney’s smile dropped when she saw me, so I guessed that I looked as bad as I felt.

“Are you okay?” Then she sighed. “Dumb question. I, um, I heard you in the middle of the night. Shouting. I was going to come, but by the time I’d got to the door, you were quiet again . . .”

“Sorry,” I repeated, pushing past her.

I hated being so fucking weak. I’d hoped that no one had heard me last night.

“Ash,” she said gently. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

“Haven’t I?”

My voice was bitter and I folded my arms across my chest, unable to look at her.

“No, you really don’t.”

I didn’t answer.

Laney stood there, anxiously twisting the edge of her robe in her hands.

“There’s something else I wanted to . . . you know you’re not being accused of anything, right? You’re not going to be arrested . . .”

I still didn’t reply. What could I say? Admit I was freaking out?

“But I thought you should have a lawyer with you.”

I stopped breathing.

“Her name is Angela, and she’s a friend of mine from college. I called her first thing and she’s going to meet us at the police station, okay? She’s really nice.”

I nodded but didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

With a sigh, Laney let me go.

In the living room, I paced up and down, feeling caged, but not sure where to go. Paranoia was making me tense, my skin itching and feeling like I’d explode. I loathed that I was too afraid to walk outside Laney’s front door, seeing Bratva everywhere. My heart was racing, pulse jack-rabbiting.

One thing always calmed me. I needed to dance.

I found Laney’s phone and scrolled through her play lists.

I didn’t care that the space was small. I didn’t care that audiences were a lifetime away. I danced because I had to, because right now, I’d lost everything but this.

It was jazz, it was ballroom, it was salsa and hip hop—it was everything and nothing and pure. I danced with no one watching. I danced because my body needed motion, like I needed it more than air to breathe.

Faster, spinning, bending, lunging for a future just out of reach.

Quiet applause broke the spell and I whipped around to see Laney watching me, admiration shining in her eyes.

“That was . . . I don’t even know what that was,” she said. “But it was amazing. Just . . . beautiful.”

I dipped my head, resting my hands on my hips, breathing hard.

She wasn’t supposed to see me, so I didn’t answer and didn’t look at her.

I think that made Laney feel awkward, like she’d spied on something private, because she changed the topic immediately.

“Are you nervous about this afternoon?”

I frowned and nodded slowly, still avoiding meeting her eyes.

“That’s understandable,” Laney said softly, patting my arm. “But remember—you’re a survivor. You’ve been through worse than a police interview, okay?”

I grimaced and wanted to argue, but when I turned around, I realized that she was wearing just a thin robe. I saw her skin flush as my eyes trailed over her body. Even that faint contact of her hand on my arm sent a shiver through my body that wanted to settle in my cock, a low tug of arousal, heated by her closeness.

I stopped immediately, shrugging off her hand and cursing myself, turned to walk away and stare out the window.

“So,” Laney said, her voice sounding tight. “Let’s go out for brunch: breakfast pizza! That’s a great Chicago tradition.”

I forced a smile. “Sure, that sounds . . .”
Horrible.

My stomach kept trying to climb into my throat, and the image of Sergei pointing a gun at me, those crazed eyes promising sudden death—it played like a horror movie in my head.

God, it made me want to claw my eyes out.

“Can I use your phone?” I asked abruptly. “I need to call . . . home.”

“Oh, of course! I’m so sorry! I should have thought of that before. Of course you can.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll go get dressed,” Laney murmured, hurrying out of the room while I made my call.

It was mid-afternoon in Europe and the chances were that Luka would be busy, but he answered on the second ring.

“Damn, Ash! I’ve been getting ulcers wondering where the fuck you are! You didn’t reply to my emails. How are you? Where are you?”

He was shocked when I filled him in, but relieved I’d got out of Las Vegas. It was a relief just to speak my own language, but after a few minutes I started to worry about how much the call was costing—and he asked too many questions about Laney. I ended the call, promising to keep in touch from now on.

When Laney walked back into the living room, she was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and not wearing any makeup. It was strange to see her walking around. It made me feel even less of a man. At least when she was in her wheelchair, I could help her with getting around.

The thought made me feel like a jerk.

“Everything okay?” she asked, a worried look on her face.

I gave her a tight smile.

“I guess. It’s going to be hard not having ID. Your dad said he’d call my Embassy, but . . .”

“Of course he will,” she said sharply.

“Because he cares?” I asked bitterly. “Just more cheap Eastern European labor. I haven’t met an American yet who’d even heard of Slovenia.”

She looked away guiltily, and I sighed. I was insulting her father, her country, annoying Laney—and she was trying to help me.

I changed the subject.

“You’re walking really well today.”