“Why? You didn’t do anything when Giordano assaulted him. Why would you do anything now that his family has clearly picked up where he left off?” Manning’s gaze slid away. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You gonna just stand there and pretend we don’t know that the senior Giordano is an even bigger sack of shit than his rapist son? Drugs. Trafficking. Money Laundering. If I got all that from a Google search, I imagine you were able to learn a lot more.”
“We can’t help your boyfriend if he won’t talk to us,” she said.
Javier shook his head. “You can’t help, anyway.” He looked back at Bowie. “You can contact his attorney if you want to set up an interview.”
“Mr. Baker has an attorney?”
“Yeah, mine. Feel free to call anytime.”
Manning huffed out a breath through her nose. “We’re not the enemy here.”
“Well, you’re certainly not our friends.”
She shook her head. Bowie watched her retreat, part of him grateful for the reprieve.
Javier was crouching in front of him again. “Come on, angel. Let’s get you two checked out so we can get you home.”
* * *
“I think we should get out of here.”
Bowie nestled deeper into Javier’s arms, pulling the comforter up to his neck. “I just want to stay in bed.”
“I mean out of the country.”
Bowie’s heartbeat skipped as he tilted his head up to look at Javier. They’d been under Javier’s covers for hours, sleeping off and on since they’d arrived home and Javier had carefully washed Bowie in the shower. Despite the pounds of glass that had littered the floor of the studio, Bowie had sustained surprisingly little injury, minor cuts on his hands, knees, and face, like he’d gotten into a fight with a bag of razor blades.
No matter how much time passed, he still couldn’t make sense of it. The sheer…audacity of somebody shooting up a dance studio in broad daylight. It was like something out of a movie. A bad movie. It just didn’t happen. Not in real life. Except, it had. It wasn’t as far-fetched when Bowie remembered those same people had also sent him a box full of skin and the threat that he was next.
“And go where?” Bowie asked, not averse to the idea, exactly, but nervous. He’d traveled outside the country for dance. In some of those places, the only thing that had kept him safe was traveling with the company. The world was a different place for out, femme ballet dancers.
“Mexico.”
Bowie propped himself up on his elbow. “You’re serious?”
Javier’s hazel eyes pierced through all of Bowie’s false bravado. “As a heart attack. Giordano’s thugs aren’t playing. If your choreographer hadn’t decided to throw a fit, you could be dead right now.”
“But I’m not,” Bowie said, flopping back down, too tired to put up much of a fight.
Javier sighed. “Yeah, because of dumb luck. You have a passport, right?” Bowie nodded. “Then what’s the harm?”
“Um, I have a job?”
This time, it was Javier who lifted Bowie’s chin to meet his gaze. “Do you really think you still have a job when they realize why those guys shot up the place? If they haven’t already figured that out?”
Bowie closed his eyes. “No. Probably not.”
But Bowie wasn’t ready to think about that. It wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t have to give up his career because of one decision, because one time he didn’t listen to his instincts. Hadn’t his life already blown up enough? Why should he have to sacrifice the one thing he loved more than anything else?
But he didn’t say any of that. Because it didn’t matter. Dance was brutal. It waited for nobody. Bowie wasn’t special. He wasn’t a prima ballerina. Hell, he wasn’t even a soloist anymore. Just another dancer in the corps. There were thousands like him, just waiting for somebody to trip up.
“Then what’s the problem?” Javier asked gently.
Tears pricked at the back of Bowie’s eyes, throat tightening. “The problem is where does it end? Do we just live in Mexico forever?”
“That’s the thing, angel. Here, I have a handful of men willing to watch our backs. In Mexico? I have a whole goddamn army. If Giordano is really coming for you, I’d much rather meet him on my territory.”
Bowie liked the sound of his own personal army. He’d give anything to go back to a time when he felt safe. But going to Mexico brought its own set of problems for somebody like Bowie. “Won’t your uncle be pissed you brought a guy with a target on his back into his house? With his children?” Bowie asked with a sniffle.
