Collision Course: A Romantic Thriller Page 7

  She nodded and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s getting kind of cold,” she said.

  They went to the Safeway and stocked up on groceries. In the produce isle, Zia held up a Jicama and frowned. “What the heck is this?”

  Ruben tossed the oblong white vegetable in their cart. “It’s kind of like a sweet celery. We’ll put in the salad.”

  She made a face and crinkled up her nose. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  They saw a kid stealing caramels out of the wholesale bin. “Front page story,” Ruben whispered to Zia. He scowled at the boy, whose little fist relaxed enough that the caramels fell back into the clear plastic box before he raced off.

  Zia laughed at Ruben. “Keeping Corrales safe for democracy,” I see.

  “That’s me.”

  They made dinner together in his little kitchen. They bumped into each other and accidentally brushed against each other maneuvering around the table and the stove and the sink. They listened music and Ruben watched and listened as she sang along to the lyrics to a rap song, and then an alternative rock hit.

  “What’s your name?” He whispered into her ear.

  She turned to him. “It didn’t work.”

  “It was worth a shot.”

  After dinner, Ruben noticed his cellphone listed eleven messages. He’d already turned off the volume. Now he powered the thing off and shoved it in the drawer.

  He made a fire in the little kiva in the corner of the living room. They sat on the floor, Ruben leaning his back against the couch and stretching out his legs in front of him. Zia was on her side, propped on her good elbow, watching the fire. She asked him why he wanted to be a reporter.

  “I get a kick out of knowing things nobody else knows,” he said, smiling. “I love the idea figuring out what’s really going on and then telling people so they’re armed with knowledge. It’s like being an explorer in a way.”

  “Ruben Jaramillo, seeker of truth!”

  He laughed. “Truth is tricky. It’s subjective. What’s truth to one person isn’t truth to the next guy. I’m interested in accuracy—the facts and data presented in a fair and balanced way that allows people to make up their own minds.”

  Zia nodded quietly. “Doesn’t your job get to you, though, make you think the worst about everybody?”

  Ruben smiled at her, lost in his own thoughts. “Some days, absolutely. But I’m a realist. I’ve seen people at their best and at their worst, and I know that most of us live somewhere in between.”

  Zia frowned and took a sip of wine. “What are some of the worst things you’ve seen people do?”

  “How many days you got?” he asked with a laugh.

  “Right now, it appears I’ve got all the time in the world.” She looked into the fire and sighed.

  “Okay, then. There was the high school kid who set himself and his best friend on fire because they didn’t make the soccer team. That was rough.”

  Zia’s eyes went huge.

  “There was the case of the woman who attacked a pregnant lady, cut the baby out with a car key and tried to claim it as her own.”

  Zia blinked. “What?”

  “She’d trapped a man into marrying her by telling him she was pregnant. After a few months, she needed to come up with a baby and that was her bright idea.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “Yeah. Then there are the bizarre cults and the family get-togethers where Uncle Joe gets a knife in the chest because he got the bigger turkey leg. Stuff like that.” He stopped and shot her a crooked smile.

  “Then there was this jerk who ran over a gorgeous woman on a motorcycle and she went home with him. Figure that one out.”

  She sniffed. “There were extenuating circumstances.”

  “Very extenuating.”

  “Very.” Zia hopped up from the floor in one smooth movement and stood over Ruben. “I think I better get some sleep.”

  Ruben stood up too. “Sure.”

  “What’s our itinerary tomorrow?” She smiled warmly. “I feel lucky to have my own personal tour guide.”

  Ruben chuckled. “Let’s go to Santa Fe. How does that sound?”

  “Wonderful. Thank you.” Zia brought her good arm around Ruben’s shoulder and hugged him lightly. “I had a great day, Ruby.”

  “Me too.”

  And he was exhausted. He fell onto the couch, into the arms of sleep, and dreamed only of her.

  Chapter 6

  Saturday, March 18

  He took a long and mostly hot shower the next morning. When he stepped down onto the bathroom rug he heard Zia in the kitchen, humming along to classical music. He smelled coffee and pancakes.

  Ruben toweled off and looked at himself from the waist up in the bathroom mirror. He ran his fingers back through his thick hair and lathered up his beard at the sink. He pointed to his reflection and smiled.

  “You the man, Ruby.”

  Zia was definitely still in the kitchen, so he knew he could grab his clothes without having to see her naked again. It had been just a flash, but, man, it was enough, and the memory of it made him momentarily forget in which drawer he kept his underwear.

  As he slipped on his jeans he thought about the situation rationally. There had been beautiful women in his life before, lots of them. And there had been cute women, athletic women, funny women, intellectual women, artistic women, hard-assed women.

  He pulled on his boots. So where did Zia fit in? What kind of woman was she?

  Right now she was the kind of woman who was making pancakes in his kitchen and he couldn’t wait to see her face again.

  He stopped dead at the kitchen doorway. It was the oddest sight. She stood at the stove with her back to him, a spatula in her hand, her hair twisted into a rubber band, little blond tufts sticking out at angles from the top of her head. And what was she doing? He stared. How did she do that?

  Her legs were parted, knees locked, calf muscles knotted, and her toes were curled under her, supporting her weight, pulling her high and erect. She hummed. Then she went down on the flat of her feet. Then up on tippy toe. Then somehow taller, somehow curling her toes beneath her. Up and down. Up and down to the music, whatever kind it was—a waltz? He had no clue.

  He stared at her. She was a machine. She was a firing piston. She was a jackhammer. She was a dancer.

  Of course.

  “Hey Ruby! Pancakes are done!”

  “Zia.”

  She flew around. “God! Don’t scare me like that! How long have you been there?”

  “Long enough,” he said, realizing she had no idea what had just happened. “What are you doing?”

  She frowned. “Making pancakes?”

  “And what else?”

  She stared at him for a moment before the flash of understanding went through her. She looked down at her legs and feet, planted squarely on the floor beneath her. She dropped the spatula.

  “Oh my God, Ruby.” Her shoulders began to shake.

  “How much farther is it?” Her legs continued to fidget. “It says it opens at nine so we should get there just in time, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Pointe shoes are expensive, though, at least one-fifty. I don’t feel comfortable with you buying everything for me. We need to get my money from the police today, okay? I need to pay you back. Right away.”

  “Sounds good.”

  He was as calm as she was excited. He was as still as she was squirmy. Ruben knew it wouldn’t be much longer now and she’d remember everything else—her name, where she lived, who she loved, and she’d be gone.

  Once inside The Southwest Studio for Dance, Ruby placed his Visa card on the glass countertop and looked up at the sales girl. “Please give her whatever she needs,” he said.

  The girl nodded.

  Ruben turned to check on Zia—she was quickly thumbing through a clothes rack against the far wall, looking for a leotard. She gripped a little cellophane package of tights under her cast.
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br />   Ruben looked back at the salesgirl. “Do you have classes here today?”

  “Yes. Our first classes start at ten-thirty.”

  He leaned an elbow on the countertop. “I’ve got a little problem,” he said, producing his most adorable smile. “She’s a friend from out of town. She hasn’t danced in a few days and she’s going a little stir crazy, you know?”

  The girl narrowed her eyes at him and nodded.

  “Would it be possible for her to use the studio before classes start? She just wants to dance and she said something about how the floor has to be sprung or bouncy or something. Is your studio floor like that?”

  The girl smiled. “Yes. Of course it is. But she’s not a student here, and our policy is…”

  “Please. You’ve got to help me. I’ll rent it. Whatever it costs. Please. It’s ten after nine. She won’t have much time.”

  “We don’t rent out our studio space. This is a professional school of dance and we’re affiliated with the New Mexico Ballet.”

  “I just want to make her happy,” he said, and he gazed into the young woman’s eyes. “I’m just trying to make her happy.”

  She raised an eyebrow and picked up his Visa. “All right, but she’s got to be out in an hour. I’ll open studio number three, down the hall to the left.” The girl smiled at him. “I won’t charge you.”

  Ruben placed his hand over hers. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

  She blushed.

  Fifteen minutes later, Ruben watched Zia struggle with her cast as she sewed pink satin ribbons on to the pointe shoes. He reached down to help her and she pushed his hand away.

  “I could do this in my sleep,” she said, finishing up the last few strokes with the needle and breaking the thread with her teeth. She looked up at Ruben, contrite.

  “I’m sorry. I like the ties in a certain place, okay? And don’t worry about my wrist – it doesn’t hurt. Either does my knee. I know my body. I won’t let myself get hurt.”

  She tied the satin ribbons around her ankles and stood up, breathing fast. She was ready to go. “Please keep this in your pocket for me.” She held out the key on the piece of string.

  “Sure.”

  Then she turned from him and walked in the studio.

  Ruben took off his cowboy boots and left them in the hallway. He tucked himself down in the corner of the studio by the door so he wouldn’t distract her. He just wanted to watch. He wanted to see what she was.

  Who she was.

  The room was enclosed in four white walls marred with an occasional footprint or scuffmark. The light oak floors were clean but not highly polished. The opposite wall was nothing but mirror from ceiling to floor, and he could see his own irrelevant figure in the glass. His legs stuck out in front of him and his white sweat socks poked out from the bottom of his jeans. He leaned his head against the wall.

  The first thing Zia did was go to the opposite corner of the room, pick up a pair of scissors and rake them across the bottom of the shoes. Then she stomped around in what looked like a box of white chalk. She saw him staring at her.

  “It’s called scoring. It provides traction. This is rosin.”

  She went to the barre and began to move. She was one small figure in this big space, but Ruben saw immediately that she owned the room.

  She’d chosen a simple black leotard with a low and square neckline and the thinnest little straps. The garment molded to her torso and left the peach of her arms, shoulders and chest exposed. Ruben was fascinated by defined muscles of her shoulders and arms, slender but strong.

  The tights were the barest shade of pink, and Ruben thought of Sunday mornings at church and the little girls’ legs in their patent leather shoes. But these were not little girl legs, clearly. These legs were made of solid, carved muscle, and they meant business.

  She rested her cast on the barre and held her chin level, shoulders back. She brought her left arm to her side slightly bent, creating a single elegant line from her head and neck to the tips of her fingers.

  Her feet moved out, in, up, down. Her legs raised and lowered, bent, pushed up, pulled down. Her back waved forward and arched back. Her arm moved out, down, forward, up, around. She placed each leg on the bar and pulled over effortlessly.

  Her body was not a collection of parts and places, it seemed, but one smooth flow of muscle and bone, one pliant limb, the young tree in the wind.

  Ruben felt a sadness well up in him. His jaw began to ache, and he realized he’d been clenching his teeth. This was her world and he had no place in it.

  Zia eventually stepped into the center of the room, and he watched her face transform into a mask of joyful concentration. He wondered what it would feel like to move through space the way she was moving now. He imagined it would feel like pure freedom.

  She flowed. She sailed. Her feet fluttered together in the air, and after a brief defiance of the natural laws, she landed with a soft pat. Ruben heard her take in breath and blow it out. He heard the whisper of the shoes against the wood, the launch and tap down of each jump or spin. She held her broken wrist gingerly, with respect, aware of its location with every change in position.

  Ruben gasped the first time he saw her do it – she was flying, one leg stretched out into space, the other trailing behind like the tail of a comet, so much air beneath her. It was then he noticed she was weeping, that the tears streamed silently down her face and fell onto the tops of her breasts.

  He didn’t dare move. For many moments he simply watched her, amazed, and grateful. What a surprise she’d been. He wished her the best.

  He heard the group before he saw them. Seven dancers crowded around the studio door to whisper and gasp as an older woman stood in front of the pack, her arms folded over her chest. The woman followed Zia’s every move, her head bobbing as if she counted out a beat. Her eyes grew wider with each passing moment.

  Zia didn’t see the group, or if she did, she ignored them, trying to stretch out her allotted time to the last second.

  Ruben got up and walked to the door, and the older woman stared up at him.

  “Who the hell is that?” she demanded in a whisper. Some of the girls began to giggle.

  “A friend from out of town. She wanted to dance. We’ll leave now if her time’s up. Thanks.”

  She put a hand on Ruben’s arm. “I’m sorry. What I meant was, could you please tell me with what company she dances? Is she a guest artist no one bothered to tell me was coming?”

  Ruben could see the pulse beat in the woman’s frail-looking neck.

  “She’s from someplace far away. Look, we just need two minutes. Then we’ll go. Okay?”

  He gently pushed the door shut and turned around. Zia had stopped. She stood in the center of the room with her chest heaving, the sweat beading on her forehead. A triumphant smile spread across her face.

  “Time’s up,” Ruben said.

  Wasn’t that the truth, he thought. God, how he wanted to touch her. He wanted to touch her so badly that he burned with the need.

  Zia just stared at him, breathing hard.

  Then she began to walk toward him, in a gait altered by the turn of her feet in the toe shoes and a newfound confidence that lifted her head, pulled back her shoulders and changed the way she looked at him.

  Without a word, she came to him, slipped her left hand behind his neck and pushed her fingers into his hair. She suddenly sprung up upon her toes, pulled his face to hers and kissed him solidly. Now his exact height, she pushed against him, opened her mouth to him, and walked forward on her toes, coaxing him backward until he thudded against the door.

  Ruben moaned in confusion and hunger and his eyes shot wide in surprise. Operating on nothing but pure instinct, he pulled her close. She radiated heat. She tasted rich and smooth. He felt her tremble in his arms.

  And as Ruben took what she offered, he felt his legs shake and his heart catch fire.

  Then she pulled away and dropped flat upon her feet.
“Thank you Ruben Jaramillo,” she said.

  Never in his life had he been in this predicament. It was her game. It was her call. She had all the power. He had none.

  That afternoon they’d avoided each other as much as possible. She was furious that Metro Police refused to return her money without verifiable identification. Ruben called in favors that yielded no results. Without an identity that checked out, the money stayed under lock and key as evidence. Ruben knew this was thanks to Salazar and Chisolm, and it pissed him off to no end.

  So they came home. Zia was withdrawn. She napped and read and took a long shower. She went to bed early and told him she needed time by herself to think about things.

  What things, he wondered? Had she remembered anything more? Had she remembered everything?

  Ruben had some thinking of his own to do. In the dark of night, he lay on his back on the couch, under the covers, one leg bent and another stretched out. That kiss had nearly knocked him on his ass. She was so sure of herself, so strong, so sweaty and beautiful and she tasted so good. She tasted like flame, like sex.

  God, there was no point in fighting it. Ruben allowed himself to remember every detail of the way her body pressed him against the door, the sweet and salty taste of her mouth, the surge of energy she passed to him in that brief moment of surrender.

  But exactly who had done the surrendering? That was the hell of it.

  As his right hand moved beneath the blanket, Ruben laughed at himself. In just five days, a woman without a name had reduced him to this—how pathetic. He reached inside his sweatpants for relief, and found it. Completely pathetic. He was asleep in seconds.

  Chapter 7

  Sunday, March 19

  Zia’s inward turn lasted throughout the next morning. She was sweet with Ruben, but quiet and unsure of herself when he was close.

  Ruben gave her space, and he could see how much she appreciated his efforts. God knows it took everything in him.

  They were about to leave to spend the day in Santa Fe, when a pounding at the front door nearly shook the walls of the little adobe house.