Chapter Thirty-Six
Anita politely curtsied to her pro/am partner for the silver Latin competition. Her student was a forty-two-year-old bespectacled man named Dennis who had initially started dance lessons with his fiancée before the latter broke off the engagement. Dennis had decided to keep the lessons as a way to meet other women. So far, though, he had only managed to talk to Anita. She was not particularly concerned—the ballroom community was good for the shy.
“Thanks, Anita,” he said quietly before moving to the table where he had stashed his things. She hoped he hadn’t gone far. He had danced fairly well. There was a high likelihood he would get called back for the finals round. Anita made a mental note to introduce him to one of Rodrigo’s students, Tabitha, a forty-four-year-old single marketing executive who was quite pretty and very accomplished. She had a feeling Dennis and Tabitha would hit it off. They both had similar—and loud—views about suburban Philadelphia real estate.
She grabbed a sip of water, mentally checking off the rest of her students. Distractions. That was what she needed today.
“Calm down.” Rodrigo stretched out in one of the other chairs at their table, arms behind his head, watching the next heat. “Everyone has enough hair spray.”
“Their performances are the best advertisement for the studio. They have to look good.” She completed her mental canvass. All well and good. Everything in order. Not thinking about Patrick. Check. Check. “Don’t you have another heat coming up?”
Rodrigo lazily checked his schedule. “Not for another fifteen minutes. Where’s Patrick?”
Nope. Not thinking about Patrick. Anita’s pulse quickened, but she tried to keep her voice neutral. “Probably sleeping off his idiocy.”
“He’ll need an hour to conceal those bruises.” Rodrigo picked imaginary lint from his long black trousers. “Hope he iced them last night.”
Something deep inside Anita curled and flared at the memory of Patrick’s actions last night. “Hopefully,” she replied coolly. “I have to check on a few things. There’s no reception in here. Can you man the fort for a bit?”
Rodrigo waved a perfectly-manicured hand toward her. Anita grabbed her phone and stepped out of the ballroom.
She nodded at the vendor selling crystal jewelry and hairpieces and paused briefly to peruse the gowns from a local custom dress shop. The dark-green one with royal blue would match her dressing gown. Stalling. Stalling was a perfectly acceptable age-old diversion.
Patrick probably didn’t want to talk to her. Not now, or ever again. He had a right. If he had done the same thing to her, rejected her—
Tears stung. She needed somewhere quiet.
She found an empty practice room and shut the door.
Time to face the music.
She thumbed through the texts, sure one of them would be from him. She just wanted the chance to apologize. That was all. Nothing else.
Unfortunately, most of the texts were from her students, who had already arrived and had their questions answered. At last, though, her thumb paused over the last one from John Flaherty.
—Call me ASAP.—
The sinking, roiling feeling in her stomach blossomed. Her hands shook as she held the phone to her ear.
“Hi, Anita.” He sounded busy.
“Hi, John,” she replied, holding one finger from her other hand in her opposite ear so she could hear better. The partition between the practice and competition rooms was too thin, and the din from the music and crowd was deafening. “I got your message.”
“Great. Is Patrick with you?”
“No.” And he was not answering any of her texts because she was a monster. A heartless, talentless monster. “He’s still asleep, I think.”
“I’ve been trying to reach him.”
“He’s supposed to meet me around lunch time to practice.” Not that she knew for sure he would turn up after the complete ass she had been.
“Maybe you can pass this message along? Let him know we found Mark Templeton’s car.”
Mark Templeton’s car? She had a feeling she was supposed to understand the significance of that. Probably something she and Patrick ought to have discussed the previous night instead of—
She made a noncommittal sound.
“Look, Anita, I don’t want to freak you out. I know you guys are pretty busy today, but just be careful. I have an idea of what’s going on and who’s doing this, and I’m worried she’s going to come after you.”
Anita’s mouth felt uncommonly dry. “Really? What do you think is going on?”
John exhaled, the sound amplified by the speaker on his phone. “I can’t really say anything until I’ve confirmed it. But just lay low, keep an eye on each other. You’re safer together. Can you pass it on to Patrick for me?”
A knot twisted again in Anita’s stomach. “Sure, of course. And you’ll let us know if anything else comes up?”
“Absolutely.” John paused. “How are things going there? Nothing unusual?”
Anita briefly considered the sight of Patrick grappling with Mikhail, those same hands wrapped around her body. The text from this morning. Everything would be fine as long as she stayed away from Patrick. “Nope.” Nothing except the absolute dumpster fire that she had made of her life. “Usual ballroom drama.”
“Great. Take care. I’ll update you guys as soon as I can.”
Anita murmured her thanks and hung up the call. She tried calling Patrick, but it went straight to voicemail. Apologizing would be easier without caller ID.
She sent Patrick a quick text telling him to call John, then leaned against the wall of the ballroom lobby, ujjayi-breathing to ward off the fatigue of lying. Would it have killed John to be a little more specific?
Duty called. She roused herself and headed back into the ballroom, forcing herself to smile, be calm. He was fine. She was fine. Everything was just fine.