Knockin' Boots
Chapter 4
"Bella? Are you still awake?" Alice peeks her head in through the door of her spare bedroom.
She shuts her laptop, "Yeah, come in. I just got out of the shower. How was the bar tonight?"
Alice comes in and sits down beside her on the bed. "Busy as usual. The girls have been spreading the word about the new dancer that starts tomorrow night so expect a crowd for your first night. Are you nervous?"
"Oh, really? My, uh, yes. No, um… maybe?" She giggles and falls back on the bed. "I'm ready and excited and anxious. I can't wait, actually." She props herself up on her elbows.
"You're going to do great, Bella. I think you already have a fair share of fans." Alice wiggles her eyebrows.
She rolls her eyes, thinking of Jake, one of the fellow dancers. He's a nice looking guy, dark skin, nice hair, hot body, but he follows her around like a lost puppy. She tries not to be too nice and lead him on but he's always there at practice, right on her heels,volunteering to help Bella with whatever—dance steps, opening doors, fetching water bottles... anything.
"Ugh! You're talking about Jake, right? I swear, Alice, he's a nice guy but there's nothing there. No spark between us…or not for me anyway." She laughs.
"Jake's only eighteen, but he's an awesome dancer. If he gets too fresh with you let me know, I'll tell him to back off. I think he's harmless though." Alice shrugs.
She sighs, "I will Alice, the last thing I need right now is any more guy troubles."
Alice doesn't press for more, not yet, but she doesn't dismiss the 'more' in Bella's partial, accidental confession.
The next morning, she stretches and groans in her bed. Her muscles ache. Her tendons protesting her movements. She hasn't worked her body this hard in a long time, in years actually.
She looks down at her legs, her left knee is swollen. Tears immediately sting her eyes as she fingers over the long, silver scar on the inside of her knee.
She's avoided it as long as she can. Today, she'll have to wear her knee brace to reduce the swelling and maybe by tonight she'll be able to dance without it.
She tries not to think about the repercussions of not telling her new employers about her preexisting condition. She knew she'd have to tell them sooner or later. She just hoped the pain and swelling would hold off until the later.
Then again, she doesn't have such luck.
As soon as she tops the steps to the upstairs practice loft she notices his office door is cracked open. This morning, he's at the club, and like a switch, her ill mood lifts. She's ecstatic he's here. Maybe something good will come out of today.
He watches her come in—walking slow and easy—looking her over head to toe. He hasn't seen her in three days and is aware that his memories didn't do her justice. She glows brightly and lights up the room. Her hair is pulled up loose and she doesn't mask her face behind any makeup. He's reminded why an all-natural look is his favorite look.
He remains sitting behind his desk, not making an appearance yet and enjoying the perfect view of her. He questions whether or not he could have had this every morning? He silently curses himself for doing without.
Alice begins making announcements about what dances they will be practicing today and that they will be learning a new dance in the coming days. A few of the dancers groan with frustration while others whoop and cheer.
He just watches her as she tediously bunches up her shirt in her hands and haphazardly tugs it gently over her head, revealing her racer back, blue bra. Her bare skin reveals itself like a sunrise over an ocean—painstakingly slowly, but breathtaking and stunning. She leans to one side and then the other to push off her shoes. She points her toes and stretches her foot and then her calf. She tucks her thumbs into her waistband, wiggling her hips, and slides her stretch pants down her curves. It's the most innocent strip he's ever witnessed and he already yearns to see it again.
His eyes are glued to her booty shorts that might as well be underwear. She bends down to pick up the rest of her clothes and her plump ass cheeks invite him to bite.
His eyes dart to the figure right behind her and, primitively, his skin crawls with anger. Jake's there, watching her, eyes drinking her in, much like Edward had just been doing. A small bulge becoming evident in Jake's shorts.
He's fixed in his office chair as he watches Jake approach her. Jake's fingers coming out to graze and linger on her arm. Edward watches as she coils away from him. It's slight but conspicuous enough, and all the confirmation Edward needs. Jake bends down, his face getting too close to her privates, his hand reaching out again. She's takes a small step backward and instantly. He's out of his chair—stalking with intent.
Not taking his eyes off the two, he notices Jake reaches out and touches the large, black brace on her left knee and his stomach plummets. His steps slow. Where did that come from? What happened to her?
She's shaking her head at Jake, tucking her hair behind her ear, her eyes lift and she sees Edward coming toward her. She's scared and thrilled at the same time but her eyes, her face, and her posture all flash relief.
Jake sees him too and quickly stands up. Jake doesn't move away from her—immaturely, wrongfully, staking his claim. Edward scoffs at him, paying him as much attention as one would to a gnat. With a wave of Edward's hand, Jake sorely retreats and backs away, the sting of defeat present and heavy.
She watches in reverence and stupor as Edward approaches her and Jake. She's still and wary. Jake seems to want to paste his feet to the floor beside her, but with a flick of Edward's wrist, he keenly moves away.
She wonders if she should thank Edward now or later.
Edward's hand comes out to touch her arm, but instead of the spark she expects to feel, she gets nothing. She looks down as his hand retracts in mid-air and disappears into his jean pockets.
"Can I see you in my office please?" He asks confidentially. A couple of dancers standing nearby make catcalls and whistles. His nose flares and he gives Alice a disapproving look. He wishes Alice could read his mind right now. Alice should know why Bella is wearing a knee brace and she should tell Jake to back the fuck off and stop making passes at her. What has Alice been doing anyway?
"Okay," she answers him, reaching out to gently curl her fingers around his arm. She knows she's taking a risk, he looks pissed, and who knows if he even wants her to touch him but she can't help it. She needs to touch him.
He leads her in to his office, abruptly stops, and shuts the door. This isn't something he would normally do with any of the other dancers but, then again, she isn't just any other dancer.
Her breathing begins to stutter, his scent enshrouds her as they walk side by side. The warmth of the skin of his arm against her hand radiates out, heating her body all the way to her toes. When he shuts his office door, she feels like she's going to melt into a puddle on the floor. This passion, this intensity she feels near him, every single time, is addictive. She'll never get her fill.
She walks around him after he shuts his door and, carelessly, her toe catches on the leg of a table. She stumbles and curses catching herself on the back of the chair but not before a sharp pain shoots through her knee as it twists, making her wince and her eyes tear.
She slouches down in the seat, her hands reaching out to hold her knee. She closes her eyes and her head falls back on the seat. She's embarrassed and disgusted with herself. Why can't anything be simple?
Then she feels warm hands, familiar hands, atop hers on her knee. Her head shoots up and there he is, squatted down at her feet. He's looking up at her, his eyes darting from her knee to her face and then back again.
She tilts her head to the side, ready to apologize and beg not to get fired.
But he doesn't give her the chance. His fingers are reaching around to loosen the Velcro and free her knee from its elastic confines. His eyes examine her leg, searching for answers, for clues. He doesn't hesitate to push and feel and touch the skin, the muscle, the flesh of her knee, and her leg, with caution and care. He traces her scar with his fingertip, up and down. His heart is racing, his blood is dashing through his body, he doesn't ignore the silk of her skin under his fingers, and the way her body reacts to his touch. But she's hurt, wounded, maybe broken a little, and it causes shock waves of anguish to pulse through him.
He wants to make it better.
Goosebumps break out and cover her flesh. He looks up to her face again and watches as a tear slides down her cheek, and falls to disappear in her lap.
He swallows hard, fighting the urge to kiss her injury, her skin, her lips. Instead, he continues to outline the wrinkle of skin on the inside of her knee with the pad of his thumb.
"What happened?" His voice, low and smooth, eases her little but not enough.
She doesn't want it sound worse that it is, but she wants him to know. "It was a car accident, a couple years ago. Totally wrecked my knee. I'm alright now though. It's just that I haven't pushed myself this hard in while. It was a little swollen this morning." She rambles and grips the edge of her seat tight until her knuckles stretch white while she watches his thumb swipe over and over the ugly reminder of that night.
"And you've been cleared by your doctor to dance?" His business mind momentarily taking over and figuring.
She nods, "Yeah, a year ago."
He listens and his heart aches. How can a person be so sad and dark inside when they move like she does? Like wind and angels and life and sunshine.
"But you haven't danced much in the past year?" He can't stop touching her. He just…can't. Everything feels too right when he does.
She shakes her head, unsure of how much to spill, to reveal, and let go.
"Tell me," he speaks two words, soft and sweet.
She bends and sways, not wanting to keep anything from him—including her past. She doesn't move an inch, too entranced, too spellbound by his caring touch and his tender eyes. "There was this guy, on my twenty-first birthday, we were at this party. I didn't know he had that much to drink. We left and he hit a tree head on."
Her voice is barely louder than a whisper. She hasn't told this story in a long time. She'd rather just forget about it.
"Was he your boyfriend?" He asks, battling with jealousy and sympathy and not knowing which to feel more.
"I wanted him to be, but we weren't serious yet." She doesn't look at him. She doesn't want to see the pity in his eyes. She hates pity. She chooses to focus on the feel of his fingers on her skin instead.
"How is he now?"
"He died instantly." Her voice shakes and she fights the flood of emotions. Even after the nightmares, the therapy, and the medications she still takes, the memories still never fail to jar and upset her. "So, I very well can't complain about a damaged knee, when he lost his life, now, can I?"
He swallows hard. He knows we all have skeletons and demons from our past, some more volatile than others.
"I don't hear you complaining." He's never fought the urge to console someone as he does at this very moment.
"I had to have surgery, twice. I lost my scholarship after I had to quit the dance team. I fell behind on my studies and ended up quitting college. I was depressed. After I got the go ahead to start dancing again, I tried to fill the void in different ways. I tried teaching dance, doing a few local musicals, and I wasted a lot of nights at a clubs and bars but... nothing worked."
His shoulders slump. Her confession weighs heavy on his heart.
"My mother suggested I move here. She heard about Breaking Dawns auditions and," she laughs through her tears, "Even though I didn't have much experience with line dancing, I love it. Please don't make me quit. I have prescription medicine I can take for the pain and I promise not to overdo it. Please, Edward." Her hands cover his as they still circle her knee and she squeezes, "I'm finally starting to feel like me again. Don't take that away. I don't have anything else."
He wants to fall down on his knees and make her promises he can't make. That he'll never make her stop dancing, or make her cry every again, but, he just can't promise that.
"You can't push yourself too hard, Bella. I'd never forgive myself—or Alice—if you did more damage to yourself. Did you bring a copy of your medical records with you to Tennessee?"
He's trying to stay professional and do what his mind says to do, not what his heart screams.
"Yeah, I have them at my mother's house in Pleasant View." She lets go of his hands and wipes the tear tracks from her face.
"Can we go there and get them? Then, I'm going to take you to go and see our resident physician, he's an old family friend, and let him take a look. Okay?"
She wants to argue that she's fine and he really doesn't need to go through such trouble but she'll do anything he says at this point.
"Of course. What about practice?" She points her thumb to the door and the place beyond where she feels like she belongs.
He stands and gathers his personal items from his desk. "You're not practicing today. We will see about tonight later on. Go ahead and change and then we'll go. I'll tell Alice what's going on."
She does what he says. He watches her exit his office and grab her things from the far wall. He can't shake the dread, the hurt, the anxiety that he feels or why he feels that way.
She smiles at the dancers as they watch her cross the floor and pack her bag. Rosalie asks if she's still going to dance tonight.
Edward can see the fear in Bella's eyes as she answers, "Of course I am."
He calls for Alice to come into his office and gives her a basic rundown of events. Alice warns him to take it easy on Bella.
"You have no idea what you're talking about, Alice. Just stop." He huffs, walking away to gather Bella and leave.
Alice knows she's angered him but he has a tendency to be broody and discouraging, and that, mixed with the attachment he already feels toward Bella, will only magnify his flaws.
Alice can only hope that Bella can eventually look past all that and like him for the wonderful guy he is.
"You see, when weaving a blanket, an Indian woman leaves a flaw in the weaving of that blanket to let the soul out."
- Martha Graham