Lead and Follow(73)

She seemed to regard him as some sort of planning god. Like if he had a goal, it automatically came true. That wasn’t true. He’d failed plenty of times. Keeping that from her was to protect her from cruelty. It was better that he be the only one disappointed.

Her head tilted to the side, and she pursed her lips. “Was there something else you needed?”

If that wasn’t a loaded question, he’d never heard one. The answer, however, was surprising clear in his thoughts.

He needed the assurance that if not even a single one of his plans worked out, he’d still be loved. Not for being the son trained to carry on aborted dreams, forced into dance lessons once his parents’ career had hit its zenith. Not for being one half of the dance world’s most successful pair. Just for being him.

He flinched. Shook his head. “Get some rest, lit—” He cut himself off, though the effort sliced blades under his tongue. “Lizzie.”

He turned to go. She didn’t make a sound. Neither did he as the door shut behind him.

Was this really happening? He couldn’t believe it—that he was moving on to other destinations without Lizzie at his side.

Rather than walk, he took the subway to the club. The headphones in his ears weren’t playing anything he’d consider his music. It was all Lizzie’s. The independent musicians she loved supporting, the world-vibe stuff he could barely make sense of. At least it wasn’t the empty noise of his own head.

When the plans were all gone, he didn’t know what was left of him.

He slipped in the back door of the club, hopeful he’d avoid people until he absolutely needed to interact. By no stretch of possibilities was he prepared to flirt or schmooze or whatever the fuck Declan expected. He needed more quiet, to keep getting his head together. Hopefully there’d be plenty of that in his dressing room.

His room wasn’t empty. A tiny sliver of light pushed into the hallway from the crack under the door. For half a second, he thought maybe Lizzie had come after all. If she’d taken a cab, she could have beaten him there.

Pushing open the door disabused him of that notion but provided a lovely distraction. “Paul.” He dropped his bag on the counter. “God, you look good.”

The blond man wore a black suit over a black shirt that was open to his neck. The white cowboy hat was the topper. Beat up and worn, it was the same damn one he wore every day. “That’s good, because you look like shit.”

Dima laughed, but he didn’t have the energy to put much into it. “Spasibo. Thank you so much. Such a kind and polite man you are.”

Paul shrugged. He’d planted his ass against the counter, but now he pushed off and held his arms open.

At first, Dima tried to give him a one-armed hug, since he thought he might split apart under the weight of his own worry if shown too much kindness. Paul wasn’t having any of that. He grabbed Dima, arms wrapping around ribs and sinew, and squeezed tight.

Dima let his eyes roll shut. He let a long, shuddering breath work out of his chest. His head bent to Paul’s shoulder for just a moment. He was exhausted.

But he didn’t have all the time in the world. The show must go on. Plus, if he tried to bail, Declan would lead him on stage by the balls.

After pushing out of Paul’s arms, he turned to the wardrobe in the corner. “It’s good to see you tonight.”

“I begged off work. Said my sister was sick.” Paul plopped into the chair—the same one he’d been in when all this had started. He hitched the knee of his trousers between pinched fingers and crossed his feet. Cowboy boots, of course. “No way was I missing tonight. Where’s Liz?”

Dima’s shoulders snapped taut. He pulled on tight black pants and grabbed his shirt. “She couldn’t make it.”

“Damn.” Paul’s voice was laden with his usual concern. “I really thought you two would work it out.”

Dima caught Paul’s gaze in the mirror. Something hard and spiny jammed in his throat. His eyes burned. “I…I thought the same thing.”

“It’s over? For sure?”

He shrugged the shirt on. Started on a few warm-up stretches. “Maybe? I don’t know.”

To fully explain, he’d need to put everything out there all at once. He’d need to admit how much he loved her—all without a guarantee she’d return it. If there was ever a moment for fear of failure to rear its ugly head, it was now.

“You cannot possibly be serious.” Paul’s handsome features twisted into genuine surprise.

“What?”

“It’s just… If I had any hope of a woman like Lizzie, there’d be no maybes involved. I wouldn’t give up chasing her until I knew I’d won, or until I knew I didn’t have a frog’s chance in a snowstorm.”