He forced himself to push the thought away. Instead, he’d focus on the man on the card. The advocate who looked more likely to make somebody a victim than to protect them. He was older than Bowie, but he couldn’t say by how much. He carried himself with confidence and had strode towards Bowie like somebody who had never met an obstacle.
He hadn’t been conventionally handsome. Bowie tended to date—well, fuck—other dancers, men with bulging muscles and tree trunk thighs who liked to fuck in front of mirrors so they could watch themselves, critiquing their own form. Sex was just another athletic endeavor to master. Nobody in dance had time for a relationship. The ones who did tended to marry other dancers and then move on from the dancing part of their careers.
But Javier wasn’t built like a dancer. Despite his broad shoulders, he didn’t look like he was hiding a gym body beneath his baggy clothes, more like somebody who was just naturally lean. He had short dark hair, close cropped, nothing fancy. Like he didn’t have time to care about fussing with something as trivial as being trendy. But he had amazing bone structure, the slightest bit of stubble, sinfully full lips, and brown eyes so intense they’d stopped him in his tracks at the police station.
He hadn’t looked at Bowie like a victim. Not even then. He’d examined Bowie like a somewhat amusing quirk.
Odette breezed in, still in her tights and a zip front hoodie, not a single blonde hair out of place. She dropped her gym bag just inside the bedroom door and flopped onto her bed. “Ugh, Diego was a real asshole today.”
“He’s an asshole every day,” Bowie said absently.
“Well, yeah, but it’s usually not aimed at me,” she said, tone pouty.
Bowie rolled his eyes. “You love it.”
She made a face that told him he was right. “Are you ready to go back tomorrow? Everybody has been asking about you.”
He didn’t doubt the gossip mill was churning. The news of his sexual assault had swept through the company like wildfire and, to her credit, Gillian had immediately denounced his attacker, making the other dancers aware of his actions. But Bowie wasn’t popular. He had his friends, his clique, but in a company of fifty dancers, he could count on maybe a handful. Odette was one of them.
She rolled onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. “Are you still staring at that card? It’s been hours. Why not just call him?”
“For what?” Bowie asked. “So he can hold my hand in court?”
She frowned. “If that’s what you need.”
“I’m not going to court. I don’t have time for that. I have to get back into the studio. I’m already so behind my feet don’t have a single blister.”
She looked suitably horrified. “So, why are you still holding onto his card?”
“‘Cause he was cute?” It wasn’t a lie, exactly.
She frowned. “You said he looked like those guys who stand outside the bodega selling dime bags.”
He had said that. “He did. That didn’t mean he wasn’t sexy.”
Odette stared at him with wide eyes. “Maybe you should go see somebody. Like a professional headshrinker. It seems like you’re not really yourself lately.” He cut his eyes to her, raising his brows. “Not that anybody would blame you. At all. You’ve been through something really bad. But I’m not sure the way to get over it is to fall in love with a criminal.”
“He’s a criminal because he has tattoos?”
“You’re the one who said he looked like a criminal!” she said, exasperated. “Why are you being so defensive over a total stranger?”
That was a really good point. He had no idea.
Fuck. He was really coming apart at the seams.
* * *
Bowie pulled on his pink UGG boots, tossing his dance shoes into his bag. He didn’t bother to change out of his tights, just pulled on his track pants and an oversized black hoodie. Dancing six to ten hours a day had been his normal just two weeks ago; today, it felt like his first day. Diego had been on him from the second he’d taken his place at the barre.
“Turnout, Mr. Baker.”
“Extension, Mr. Baker.”
“From the hips, Mr. Baker.”
It wasn’t that Bowie was the only one he’d called out, but he’d certainly had Diego’s attention the entire class. He was used to the occasional reminder to correct his form, posture, placement, but today, he’d felt like his feet were cement blocks. In the past, Diego’s barking reminders usually made Bowie more focused, more determined and centered. But today, it had just made him fumble even more, flubbing the simplest of moves until his classmates were wincing.
As the others passed to leave for the day, they patted his back or shoulder in a gesture that said they’d all been on the other side of Diego’s attention and they felt for him. Yet, each time their hand brushed his back, he flinched, his heart rate accelerating until he had to remind himself how to breathe. His jaw clenched, frustration twisting his guts into knots.
