Dance For Me (Fenbrook Academy #1)(20)
Author: Helena Newbury

“One of our four choices just pulled out thanks to an injury. You were our first choice backup—I would have told you on Wednesday, but you ran out of there before I could—”

“Oh!” I’d frozen, standing in the middle of the dining room with my handbag resting on my bare toes.

“I’ll level with you, Natasha. I loved your dancing, but there was just a little too much anger coming through. We need exactly what you gave us, but with a little more lightness and fun. Do you think you could do that?”

A week ago I’d have said no. But now I thought of the man—my man—upstairs, the man who loved me despite what he knew, and my heart swelled in my chest. “Yes! Yes, definitely.”

I could almost hear her relieved nod. “Okay. Let’s do a second audition in a couple of days. Same routine as before but it’ll be just you and me. I’ll call you with a time—okay?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Totally okay. Thank you!”

I hung up and stared at the phone’s screen, wondering if I’d just dreamed the whole thing. The day was getting better and better.

Back in the lobby, I stood at the foot of the staircase and listened. Nothing. I’d managed not to wake him—more good luck.

I cleaned up the spilled coffee. There was just enough left in the packet to brew two mugs, and I carried them upstairs. On the landing, golden sunlight formed what felt like a solid block as it streamed through the window and I stood there in its warmth for a moment, basking. I wasn’t sure how to wake him. Subtly—let him smell the coffee? Sexily—kneel over him and let my hair fall in his face? Romantically, with a kiss? Eventually, I decided there was only one way, given the news I’d just had. I’d put the coffee down and jump on the bed, and when he woke up, startled, I’d tell him about the audition.

I opened the door, and everything went wrong.

Chapter Twenty

Darrell

Four Years Ago

In some tiny, powerless corner of my brain, I know that it’s a nightmare. That should make it easier, but it doesn’t. A nightmare means I can relive it again and again, forever.

We’re on week three of my four-week trip to the Middle East. After not seeing my folks since Christmas, being able to spend a full month together feels great, although mom is already driving me crazy with questions on my diet, my love life…even how often I’m doing my laundry. I think partially she’s just glad to have me to talk to. We don’t see a lot of Dad—he’s at the airbase most of the day, watching his new engine go through its paces on the F-35, then doing yet another round of tweaks and fixes. We’ve managed a handful of family days out, though, exploring the high-end shopping malls and resorts. The area has me a little freaked out, with its complete clash of ancient culture and modern riches. On one level, we’re honored guests but on another, we’re total outsiders.

We’ve just picked up Dad in the SUV. It’s only four and I figure we can hit the pool in that magic time when the sun’s low enough not to frazzle our family’s trademark pale skin, but still high enough for us to stretch out and relax. Also, there’s a cute blonde staying at the resort who might just be by the poolside….

The SUV pulls up outside the hotel and because it’s a nightmare I know what’s going to happen. Time seems to slow down. Dad turns around in his seat and finishes up the lame joke he was telling us, and I roll my eyes. Mom pokes him in the ribs and he pokes her back.

I will my muscles to respond, to stay in the car, but I can’t change the past. My hand yanks the door lever and the oven-hot desert air rushes in. One leg slides out into the sunshine. I’m in a hurry, wanting to grab my towel and trunks and get down to the pool before Mom and Dad, so I can bag a place close to (but not too close to) the blonde, if she’s there.

As I climb out, I see that Dad’s hand is on the key. The part of me that’s back in the present is screaming don’t turn it, don’t turn it, but however hard I scream, nothing comes out of my mouth. I can’t warn him about what’ll happen when he switches off the ignition.

Part of me wants him to turn the key right now, before I’m out of the car, but I know he won’t. I know he’ll listen to the end of this song—another ten seconds.

I slam my door and start to run, but a taxi beeps and I have to stand and wait while it crawls past in front of me. My back is maybe a foot from the SUV. In my mind, I’m counting off the seconds. Four, five, six. Why couldn’t it happen now, when we’re all still together?

But the taxi moves and I run across the street. Ten steps that save my life.

I hear a door open behind me and half turn. Mom’s just climbing out, smiling about something. That image of her face is burned into my memory forever.

There’s a flash of light that makes me scrunch up my face and an instant later an invisible hand picks me up and hurls me into a parked car, the window crunching against my back. White-hot pain erupts in my side, and it doesn’t ebb away—it gets worse and worse. I slump down on my ass, my back against a car.

Roiling black smoke hides the SUV for a moment, but then the wind whips it away and I see the blazing, twisted wreck. My parents are gone. I don’t understand for a second what’s happened, because I can’t see Mom and where Dad was sitting there’s just—

The burning shape inside the car starts to scream and I try to crawl towards him but every time I move, the pain in my side makes me almost black out.

I listen to him scream for another three minutes before he dies.

Chapter Twenty One

Natasha

He was asleep, but he was talking. Muttering words I couldn’t understand, asking—no, begging someone. I’d seen people sleep-talk before—Clarissa had been known to do it, when she’d had one too many drinks and crashed out on the couch. But that had been funny, hearing her mumble about some guy she liked and how cute he was. This wasn’t funny at all, because I could hear how utterly terrified he was.

As I stepped closer, I could see he was sweating, his chest glistening with it. His limbs were twitching, his eyes darting about under their lids. When I left him, he’d been sleeping peacefully. Whatever this was, it had descended on him fast.

He was shaking his head now, his breath coming in quick, panicked gasps. I put the coffee down and went over to the bed, gingerly reaching out to touch him. “Darrell?”

He didn’t hear me. And whatever he was living—or reliving—in his mind, it was reaching some awful peak. His breathing was labored, his face frozen in fear. “Darrell?” I shook him. “Darrell?” Nothing. “Darrell! You’re dreaming! Wake up!” I was panicking myself now, my heart racing.

He drew in a long, agonized gasp and then his face contorted into a mask of rage. I took a staggering step back, thinking for a second that he’d woken and was angry with me. But he was still asleep, his head locked in position now, eyes staring behind closed lids at one point in space. I touched his arm and his muscles were steel hard, every tendon straining. It was truly chilling. Whoever was on the receiving end of his wrath, in the dream, would fear for their life. And seeing it happen, seeing the quiet, peaceful man I knew change like this, was almost as frightening for me. Had this been inside him, the whole time?

And then, suddenly, he opened his eyes and stared up at me, panting for air.

“Darrell!” I could tell he wasn’t quite seeing me, wasn’t sure where he was. I started making shushing noises, trying to calm him, at the same time trying to calm my own fear.

“Darrell, it’s Natasha,” I told him. He seemed to focus on me, then, and I felt him slide slowly back to reality. The rage left his face and I slumped in relief, collapsing on the bed next to him as I watched him get his breath back.

“Sorry,” he told me at last. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“It’s okay.” I handed him a cup of coffee, but he just sat staring at it without drinking.

“What did I say?” he asked tightly.

“Nothing that made sense.” I slowly put one hand on his shoulder, and he didn’t move it away. “What was it?”

He stared at me for a second, and I thought he was going to tell me. And then he was turning away. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I just—I get bad dreams sometimes, you know?”

I did know. I’d had one only that week, while he’d been in Virginia. But my dreams left me shaking with fear. His terrified him at first—and then drove him to an anger so powerful it was frightening. I hugged him close. What had done this to him, burned something so deeply into his mind that it affected him like this even today?

When we moved apart, he finally drank some coffee. “Look. Last night….”

I nodded, glad to get onto something safer.

He looked me right in the eye. “I know I said it before, but I want you to know that I know…and it’s okay. I mean, of course it’s okay. It doesn’t change the way I feel about you. I love you.”

Something melted inside me, something that had been trapped in ice for a long, long time. I’d been right. He really did understand. “Thank you,” I whispered, feeling hot tears slide down my cheeks. Hope. Hope was back. I’d finally found someone who wouldn’t judge me, who wouldn’t yell at me, I was in love, I had another shot at my audition…everything was going to work out.

He pulled me into a hug and I felt my tears wet against his shoulder.

“I’m here now, and you’re safe,” he told me. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

I froze. What?

I pushed slowly back from the hug, looking at him. The moment stretched out in sickly slow motion. “Who?”

“Your foster dad,” he said solemnly.

And all my hopes turned to ash.

“You think—” I couldn’t get the words out.

He nodded slowly, thinking I was just denying it. “I know, Natasha. What someone did to you with candles…the scars on your leg. I will never let anyone hurt you. Not ever again.”

He thought I’d been abused.

I shook my head. “No.” And I said it so suddenly and firmly he shut up. But in the silence that followed, I didn’t know what to say. I’d got it completely wrong. He didn’t understand at all. He thought he’d discovered some poor, abused girl with an evil father he could get angry at.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “If I’ve got it wrong I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter who it was. You’re safe now.” He kept repeating that: You’re safe now. As if it was something external I could be saved from. He had no idea.

I shook my head again. “Why are you…why are you trying to figure this out?” Suddenly I was blazingly angry. “This is my private business—why are you….” I flailed for words but couldn’t find them.

He took my face gently between his hands. “Because I love you. I just—I can’t bear to think of anyone hurting you.”

Any remaining hope died. How angry would he be, when he found out? When he discovered what I did, and why I did it? I stood up and walked to the door. Behind me, I heard him get up.