Chapter 19 #2
I thought of Drake and shuddered. He was a horrible, dangerous, violent man. Luckily, he was in jail during most of Logan’s junior and senior year, then Logan left for college that summer and rarely lived at home again, so he didn’t have to endure his father’s insufferable nature.
It was my goal to never be in Drake’s presence. I felt this unbridled fury rise in my body even thinking of him and what he’d done.
And Logan didn’t even know.
“I’m almost done designing your T and A Christmas Burlesque Show dress,” Stacy told me.
“Your mom is paying me.” Stacy is one of my favorite waitresses.
She has a college degree from an East Coast fashion institute, and when she isn’t at the bar, she’s designing and sewing stylish, youthful, edgy clothes and selling them online.
She works at the bar twenty-five hours a week so she will always have a stable budget and for the health and dental insurance.
“I’m sorry. What did you say, Stacy?” I was standing in my mom’s office, reading a payroll report. Camellia had put a small pink Christmas tree on a table with red lights. There was a definite bordello feel to it. The “star” on the top of the tree was a Vegas showgirl in high heels.
“I showed my ideas for your dress to Whiskey, and she chose the one she wants,” Stacy said.
“What?” I whirled toward her. “Oh, no. There’s a mistake. I’m not performing. I’m only organizing the Christmas show. I’m not in it.”
“Yes, you are,” she insisted, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “You and Logan. You’re dancing together in an act, so you need a dancing dress. Burlesque-style.”
“No. I don’t have any act with Logan.” I shook my head a little too vigorously. “Ouch.” I rubbed the back of my head. “I’m not dancing with him.”
“Oh, hell’s bells, Bellini.” She sighed and threw her hands in the air in frustration. She’s not known for her patience. She is an artist. “Yes, you are. Your mom said so.”
“My mom said so? What are you talking about? This is the first I’m hearing of it.” What in the world?
“It doesn’t matter!” Stacy literally stomped her foot.
I stared at her foot for a second. Did she actually do that? My jaw dropped. “It doesn’t matter that I didn’t agree to do an act with Logan in the T and A Christmas Burlesque show?”
“No.” She seemed cross. Quite irritated. “Your mom said you and Logan have an act, you’re dancing together, and that’s that.”
“My mom did not tell me.”
“You’re not making any sense.” She looked genuinely perplexed.
“I mean, just because my mom said I’m in the burlesque show doesn’t mean that I am.”
Her eyes widened. “Yes, it does. Didn’t we go over this already?
I feel like we’re not communicating, Bellini.
” She sighed yet again. I must be absolutely exhausting.
“You’ll like what I designed for you. It’ll emphasize that busty bust you try to hide and those long legs.
Logan will like it for sure.” She winked at me. “For sure.”
“I don’t care if—”
“He’s hot,” she said, not listening to me at all. She had chosen an outfit for me with my mother, and that conversation was over. “I don’t think Logan dates, though.”
“I’m not dancing with Logan.”
“Yes, you are. Call your mother.” She rolled her eyes at me. “She’ll tell you and get things straightened out.” She sighed and shut the door, muttering something about how I was being “argumentative” and “difficult” and she hoped I was more “appreciative” of her efforts, and I was left sputtering.
I was dancing in an act with Logan for Lady Whiskey’s T and A Christmas Burlesque Show?
Please. No.
No.
My breath caught in my throat when Logan dropped by the bar later that night wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a blue jacket. He was so handsome. So…manly. So strong and tall and white hot sexy. Every inch: Sexy.
I remembered to speak, in English, as he stood in front of me. “Hi, Logan.” I tried to sound casual, as if we talked all the time. I even tried to sound cheerful, not overwhelmed by all that manhood.
“Hi, Bellini.” He smiled his sexy smile at me. “Do you have a second to chat?”
“Yes, I was going to take a break.” No, I wasn’t. I was swamped. It was nine p.m., and though the town was quiet, the bar was hopping.
“Want to walk?”
“Yes, I do.” Oh boy! Yes, indeedy, I do.
“Let me get my coat.” I grabbed my red coat, hat, gloves, and my scarf with Mrs. Clauses on it and met Logan outside.
Walking downtown was a holiday gift. Kalulell had outdone itself again.
The streetlights had huge red bows, strings of red and green lights crossed the streets, and storefronts were filled with Christmas displays.
Even the gazebo in the middle of the town square had a Christmas tree wrapped in white lights.
“I didn’t know we were in an act together in the Christmas burlesque show,” he said, his tone amused.
“We’re not.”
“Your mom called me. She said we’re doing a dance routine and said Stacy was making you an outfit and getting me something… I forget what it’s called. Something with a feather in it. Plus, she said something about a boa constrictor, I think, although a boa constrictor is a snake…”
“A feather boa?”
“Yes!” he said, snapping his fingers. “That’s it. I’m also to wear a black hat with a red feather, and I’m supposed to wear a black suit.”
My stomach flipped. “My mom told you that we’re dancing in the T and A show.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Logan. You know my mother. I can’t control her.
She does what she wants. Don’t worry about it.
We’re not in an act, so you won’t need a boa constrictor.
I mean, a feather boa. No snakes. I’m only organizing the show.
In fact, we’re having a meeting on Thursday night. It’ll be in the back room of the bar.”
“I’ll be there.”
“What?”
“I’ll be there. If we’re going to have our own act, then I’ll need to know the details of the show.”
“Logan, we don’t have our own act. Do you know what this is?
It’s a burlesque show. It’s dancing and outrageous skits, and it’s raunchy, but not too raunchy because families will be coming.
It’s sequins, twirly skirts, feathered headdresses, black fishnets, high heels, and outrageous costumes all done while adding Christmas songs and Santa hats and snowwomen and all that. ”
“Sounds fun.”
“How can it be fun?”
“Because we always have fun.”
A hundred memories ran through my mind. Fun in kindergarten painting side by side at the easels.
Fun in first grade playing knights and pirates with our friends.
Fun making clay butterflies and clay lions in art class in third grade.
Fun going to his games after school, as he came to mine, and I went to his science fair competitions, and he cheered me on at debates.
Fun in high school in his truck, or mine, fun hiking and skiing and hanging out at my house.
Fun in school laughing at lunch with our friends/my cousins.
We had fun until we broke up. That dark, sad thought momentarily threw me.
“Do you remember all the fun we had in dance class?” he asked.
“That was one of the most hilarious times of my life.” We both laughed, thinking back.
Our high school PE teacher, Mrs. Kerns, a former Broadway performer, had a dance unit every year, and we learned salsa, waltz, tap, ballet, and hip-hop.
Logan was terrible at ballet, not so great at tap, but he could waltz.
Mrs. Kerns showed us routines. She was in her fifties at the time, strict, regimented, not afraid to discipline children, and she made all of us take formal dancing seriously—or else.
For decades, kids from Kalulell High School graduated knowing how to dance because of Mrs. Kerns.
Logan and I had laughed our way through dance class.
He would say something funny under his breath to distract me into giggles, or he would throw me over his shoulder when he was supposed to slide me through his legs, or he would salsa while waltzing, or he would try to tap-dance, and he’d sound like an elephant—deliberately—so I’d crack up and get in trouble.
I could hardly hold my bladder together some days because he made me laugh so hard.
“You want us to dance, Logan?” Disbelief rang through my voice. “Together. You and me. For the burlesque show?”
“Yes. Why not?”
I studied him. I knew him so well, but he had clearly become practiced over the years at not showing how he was feeling.
Yet, I thought I saw…insecurity. And hope.
Was he hopeful I would say yes? Could I dance with him?
I would have to be with him to practice.
I would have to touch him. I would have to let him throw me over his shoulder and through his legs, and we would have to move in rhythm with each other.
I would have to go back in time to the healthiest, happiest relationship I’ve ever had.
Such a risk, though. I could feel my face clouding up, like a stormy Montana winter night.
Would he end up getting hurt if we spent more time together?
Would we both end up getting hurt again?
Would something much worse happen to Logan, something he would not be expecting at all, something I knew, and he didn’t?
Would dancing with him trigger a disaster that would be my fault, and Logan would have to suffer for it?
I shivered as all the worst-case scenarios, as the crushing guilt that would follow came down on my head.
However.
I wouldn’t be getting together with Logan. I would be performing a Christmassy dance routine. That would be it. We would not become red-hot boyfriend-girlfriend again.
I wanted to do it. I wanted to dance with Logan. I wanted to see him, hold him, and be close to him. I wanted to be with him. I had been so lonely for so very long.
“I know you’re busy, Bellini. You’ve got so much going on. Planning the show is a full-time job, plus the bar, writing your Roxy Belle books—”
“Yes.”
“Yes?” He looked…surprised. As if he were waiting to hear me say no, but then I’d said yes. His handsome, hard-jawed face lit up.
“Yes. I’ll do it. I’ll dance with you.” I smiled. Couldn’t help it. My whole soul felt like it was taking off. It would probably fly up to Santa’s North Pole and greet the elves. “It’ll be fun. You’re right.”
“I think it will be, too.” His smile softened that toughened face, and we didn’t move.
I couldn’t move. I stared at him, feeling delight spreading through my whole body.
“Okay, then,” he said. His voice was quiet, calm.
“When do you want to practice?” I asked.
“When do you have time? I’ll call Mrs. Kerns and see if we can hire her for private lessons. She’ll know what to do.”
Wow. He had this figured out already. Not surprising.
When we were dating, he was always a step ahead of me.
I’d be daydreaming a lot, thinking about art or writing stories or debate club or kissing him, and then we would talk about going on a date or to prom or weekend plans—and he would have everything figured out.
“That would be perfect. I love Mrs. Kerns.” I paused. “But I am scared of her, too.”
“Everyone’s scared of her. I’ll call you with practice dates, and we’ll be ready for the burlesque show, although I’m still a little confused about what ‘burlesque’ means.”
“No one knows what it means. I get questions every day.” I thought I heard Santa’s bells as my heart hammered away.
We were near the gazebo, the town quiet, a snowman standing guard.
Logan took a step closer, put one arm around my waist, grasped my hand in his other hand, and spun me around, the snow fluttering down on us.
I gazed up at him. He did have the aura of a motorcycle gang leader, but I knew how kind he truly was.
“I’ll lead,” I told him, then put our clasped hands up and made him twirl like a ballerina.
Soon, we were waltzing, then showing off our salsa steps and a bit of jazz, and we found our groove, our beat, our rhythm, and it was as if we’d never stopped dancing together.
I smiled up at him, and he smiled down at me, and we knew what next step the other would take without words. We danced like we were one dancer.
And therein lay the problem.