“Classes don’t start for everybody else until seven-thirty. Diego—my choreographer—said I’m falling behind and need to practice. That means getting here early and staying late until I’m back to where I started. In the middle,” Bowie said with a sigh.
Javier didn’t understand the middle comment, but he admired Bowie’s commitment. Javier didn’t think he liked anything enough to put in that much effort, especially not to impress some fool named Diego. “Sounds grueling. You must really love to dance.”
Once more, Bowie shrugged. “I’m not sure I really love anything anymore.”
Javier’s chest tightened. “It’s only been a few weeks, angel. Give yourself a break.”
Bowie pushed his hood back off his face, glancing over his shoulder. “I should probably get in there.”
“You’ll be done at five-thirty, right?” Javier asked.
“Why? Are you just going to stand outside the school all day?” Bowie asked, sounding genuinely concerned.
Javier chuckled. “No. I do have some responsibilities. I got a thing I gotta go do for a few hours. I just want to know where you’ll be.”
“A thing to do? That sounds shady. What kind of thing?”
“I’m gonna go rob a bank. You wanna blow off dance class and come along?”At Bowie’s flat expression, Javier rolled his eyes and smirked. “I gotta go rescue a bunch of cats from a crazy old hoarder. Sure you don’t wanna come?”
Bowie wrinkled his nose. “No thanks. I’ll pass.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“But you’re coming back?” Bowie asked, voice hopeful.
Javier tilted his head, gaze softening. “Do you want me to come back, angel?”
Bowie didn’t answer, just nodded, that lock of shock white hair falling across his brow. Bowie stiffened as Javier raised his hand, then stopped.
“May I?”
Once more, Bowie nodded, his chest heaving as he seemed to force himself to breathe. Javier used only his pinky, gently pushing the hair from his face. Bowie’s tongue darted out, his eyelids fluttering like some part of him wanted more. Javier wanted more, too. If his pinky grazing Bowie’s forehead got him hard, what the hell would a kiss do?
Bowie’s gaze shifted, his whole body stiffening, nostrils flaring, eyes widening as his gaze landed on something over Javier’s shoulder. He turned to glance over his shoulder, his jaw clenching as he watched that same black town car from yesterday crawling to a halt at the curb, window lowering so the man could smile at Bowie. Just like yesterday, Javier couldn’t make out many details from behind the man’s mirrored sunglasses. This motherfucker was not going to keep tormenting Bowie like this. He just wasn’t.
“Get inside, angel. I got this.”
“Javier, you—”
Javier turned and pointed to the front doors. “I said get inside. Don’t leave this building without me, and if you get out before five-thirty, you text me. I’ll come get you.”
He left Bowie gaping at him, heading directly for the car, earning a few honks and shouts as he waded into morning traffic on a main street. The man rolled up his window as Javier approached, the car starting to pull away. But not before Javier managed to pound on the window. “Where you going?” he shouted, raising his hands in a bring it gesture.
Javier memorized the plate as the car pulled away, noting the decal in the back window. Diplomatic immunity. That was what Bowie had said. Javier had heard the term but didn’t truly understand what it meant. He was determined to find out.
When he turned back, Bowie had gone inside like he asked but watched him from behind the glass doors. Javier gave a single nod and Bowie curled his fingers into a wave before turning and moving deeper into the building until he disappeared from sight. Javier stood, rooted in place, for far too long. He didn’t like leaving Bowie, especially when he was alone.
He stood, watching the building’s entrance until other dancers started pouring in at around seven. He left when he started to draw attention, the dancers nudging each other and gesturing towards Javier like he was about to steal their lunch money. He stopped at the bodega and grabbed an energy drink and a breakfast burrito, eating it as he walked back to his car outside the laundromat.
Bowie would most likely have let Javier drive him the short distance to the company, but he wouldn’t have gotten to spend nearly as much time with him. And Javier couldn’t seem to get enough of Bowie Baker.
Bowie gazed out the window of the lounge, forcing himself to chew and swallow each bite of his salad even as his body fought him. Barre had been grueling, every movement taking maximum effort, stripping his energy and his confidence. It was more than a little depressing how quickly he’d forgotten things that were muscle memory just a few weeks ago. And the embarrassment wasn’t over. He still had a three and a half hour rehearsal to get through and a couple of hours in front of the mirror all by himself.
Dance used to be all he cared about, but now, the thought of five more hours caused a sense of dread he’d never experienced before. How had his life changed so much in just a few weeks? Would it ever go back to normal? Would he ever love dance again? Could he love dance and still hate what happened to him because of dance? It was like the two things had fused together in his brain and he didn’t know how to untangle them. Thinking of dance, of ballet, made him think of how stupid he’d been to believe somebody had actually wanted to sponsor him. It made him feel stupid and small and gullible.
Bowie jumped as the chair across from him scraped the linoleum floor, snatching his attention from his racing thoughts. Odette plopped down beside him, folding herself into the chair until her knee was up under her chin as she took a bite of her yogurt and granola.
“Was that him?” she asked.
