My heart tripped again when I realized that I wasn’t alone in the bed, but then I saw honey-blonde hair on the pillow and her—the pretty girl—the girl in the wheelchair.
I was clutching her denim jacket tightly, still draped over my shoulders. It smelled like her—coconut and something flowery. It was delicate, like her.
The perfect stillness curled through me until the ball of tension in the center of my chest began to loosen.
The nightmare faded slowly and the clarity of daylight highlighted better memories instead. I looked at the girl, woman, really looked at her.
I studied the freckles across her nose and cheeks that she’d hidden with makeup yesterday. Faint lines fanned out from her eyes and bracketed her mouth. Her wrists were narrow, and bony shoulders poked through the material of her t-shirt. But her arms looked strong—probably from pushing the wheelchair.
What had happened to her? An accident, maybe? But she could walk a little, I’d seen her, just very slowly and painfully.
Guilt made my headache worsen. I should have asked her. I’d been so absorbed with my own problems, I’d never tried to find out.
Something else to feel guilty about. Marta, the girl, maybe even Yveta and Gary. Anything could have happened to them by now.
I rubbed my temples, trying to push the throbbing headache away. I was dehydrated: too much coffee, not enough water.
I glanced again at the woman sleeping peacefully next to me.
Laney.
She was pretty. My memory hadn’t been wrong about that. She wasn’t beautiful, not the kind who stood out in a crowd, but now I’d seen her, I couldn’t forget her. I’d known many beautiful women: dancers, friends, girlfriends. Ballroom is a glamorous world—beauty is something you work at. Beautiful lines, great frame, soft hands, flowing movement, whatever the effort. All the glamor is on the outside—inside is hard, hard work.
Most of my girlfriends had been dancers. I’d tried regular girls, but they always got jealous of the amount of time I spent training with my partner; resented the physical closeness and hated watching the sensual dances, especially the rumba.
But dating dancers is hard, too. If the relationship doesn’t work out, the dance partnership usually breaks up, with months or even years of training wasted. That had happened with Jana, my last partner—she was pushing to take it further. From casual dating, she’d jumped to the conclusion that living together was the next step—things I didn’t want. So she dumped me for a guy who was a former world champion twice her age.
It was one of the reasons I’d applied for the Vegas job.
But with Laney, it was her warmth that attracted me, her softness and her strength.
She’d seen me, too. Really seen me—at my worst, at my weakest—and she’d helped me. Saved me.
She was still helping me now.
So brave. So fucking brave.
I sat up cautiously. The skin on my back and ass was blazing with pain—like knives slashing me over and over. I really wanted to shower, but the other woman, the nurse, she’d put bandages on the worst lacerations and I couldn’t reach them.
I grit my teeth, remembering the lashes of the belt, the buckle biting into my flesh, Sergei’s grunts as he jerked off at the same time.
I swallowed back the nausea and the shame. I never wanted to think about it again. Ever. I’d leave it to my nightmares.
Laney had been so brave when it all happened. Jesus, was that only two nights ago? She hadn’t fainted or screamed; she’d planned, made decisions—she’d helped me to escape.
I felt a warm rush of gratitude.
Moving stiffly, I made it to the bathroom for a satisfying piss.
I stared longingly at Laney’s toothbrush but that felt wrong. Instead, I used my finger to clean my teeth, using some of her toothpaste.
God, I really needed to shower, but it would be humiliating having to ask Laney to take off the bandages. I didn’t want to remind her how she’d found me—helpless, destroyed.
But when I walked back into the bedroom, she was sitting up and wiping sleep from her eyes.
“Hi,” I said.
Her eyes widened and she anxiously pulled the sheet higher, but not before I saw the outline of her breasts and hard nipples pressing through her t-shirt. I felt a flare of heat and I had to look away.
“Hi,” she replied quietly, tugging on the sheet again.
I tried to think of something to break the awkward silence, but nothing seemed right. What was I supposed to say to the woman who’d saved my life, a woman I barely knew but had shared my bed?
“I . . .” Nothing came out. I shrugged. “Thank you,” I said at last.
Laney frowned slightly. “What for?”
For saving my life. For saving me from everything that fucked up sadist wanted to do to me. Thank you for trusting me.
But I didn’t say any of that. Instead I nodded at her denim jacket, folded on the corner of the bed where I’d left it.
“Thank you for your jacket.”
She smiled softly. “You’re welcome.”
We continued to stare at each other until I gestured toward Laney’s wheelchair.