Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Derek
There’s something about seeing Xander create that has me transfixed. He sees things in a way most people don’t, and watching him turn nothing into something breathtaking only reminds me of how much deeper Xander goes. That’s not supposed to be something I know about him; I promised myself I’d keep my distance, but every week is a new nail in my coffin. I get there earlier and earlier until one week, I arrive before he does.
In an effort not to feel completely pathetic, I collect the supplies he has stacked in a cupboard and set up the room the way he normally has it. The look on his face when he walks in makes it all worth it.
It’s only been a few weeks, but I’m scarily starting to live for these moments.
I reason with myself that it’s healthier than living for the moments when I have to see him professionally, so … improvement? Maybe?
I’m doing my best to separate those two sides of him. The one I treat and the one I see running these classes. And that second man is something else. Getting to see him like that only deepens the hurt that he won’t see a professional and try to get better.
This creative, snarky, passionate man deserves so much more than he lets himself have. It’s hard not to get pissy about that.
Every week, I watch him interact with people. Every week, he gives me hell about how terrible I am at painting, and every week, I learn a new thing about him. A dangerous, wonderful new thing. Like how fall is his favorite time of year.
How he hates nail polish because he can never get it exactly right.
When he gets excited about something, his gaze sort of lifts, and his whole face lights up.
Insults are definitely his love language.
And whatever issues Xander needs to work through have left him with chronic emotional regulation problems.
“You painted a beetle,” he says, amusement lacing his words as he looks at the paper I’m working on.
“You figured it out this time.”
“Lucky guess.” He grins at me, and it’s rare I get that smile without something darker behind it. It hits right in my gut.
I poke his hand with my paintbrush and smear the grayish color over his pale skin. “Or maybe I’m getting better.”
“If anything, I think you’re getting worse.”
He plucks the paintbrush from my grip and moves closer to the paper. Unfortunately, that also puts him closer to me. His hip is an inch from my thigh, and I’m transfixed by the way his hand moves as he adds more details to the legs.
“Why a beetle?” he asks .
I’m not embarrassed by how cool I think bugs are, but I do know that they give some people an ick. Personally, I don’t get it, but I’m also the type of guy who gets excited learning about pollination, so I’m probably not the best judge of what’s cool.
Telling Xander about my little passion is harder than I thought it would be. He’s let me in a lot recently, and I want to do the same, but I’m suddenly wishing I was into car racing or competitive chess.
Even that has to be better than bugs.
“I think they’re interesting,” I say carefully.
He nods. “Is it a specific type of beetle or a general one?”
“It’s a citrus long-horned beetle.”
“Nice. Tell me … are long-horned beetles supposed to have a sheep face?”
It’s so completely not what I’m expecting him to say that a laugh bursts out of me. “Now that you mention it, no.”
He glances over his shoulder at me, a teasing expression all over his features. Then, with a quick flourish, he scrawls “Baa!” across the top.
I’m not thinking when I grab his wrist and steal my paintbrush back, but damn, his skin is soft. The warmth from his wrist wraps deliciously around my palm, and when I glance up, I’ve somehow tugged him closer. That stunning face holds nothing but surprise, and the thud of my heart gets more insistent.
I’m stuck in his gravity, and it takes me way too long to let go.
Xander’s throat clears with a sharp snap before he walks off.
Usually once class wraps up, I’m the first one out the door, but today, I stall. It’s always hard to leave when I crave more time with him, but it’s doubly hard today, and once the residents start talking amongst themselves and getting ready to leave, I jump up and help Xander pack everything away .
He glances over at where I’m stacking things in the cupboard. “Don’t you have people waiting for you to sweep them off their feet?”
“Yep.” I stuff my paint-covered hands into my pockets. “I thought …”
He flicks on the tap in the corner and holds out some soap to me. “Yeah?”
I have to move closer to take the soap, and he doesn’t step away from the sink as I wash up. Instead, a moment later, he moves closer, shoulder to mine as he washes the paint from his hands as well. “I’ve been taking your class … you want to take mine?”
I feel his eyes flick toward me. “You’re trying to share the booty grabs around, aren’t you?”
“So what if I am?”
He turns off the flowing water and dries his hands before passing the towel to me. “Sure. I’ll do it.”
“Okay.”
“And so you know …” He steps in so my towel-covered hands are pressed between us. “I won’t say no to a thank-you booty tap. In case you get the urge.”
Motherfucker. I’ve got the urge. I’ve got the urge good.
I should not have the urge because having the urge is very bad, but fuck me, tell that to my dick. I hurry to step back and get some distance before the stupid thing gets ideas.
“Right. Well. I’ll see you over there.”
I scramble from the room like Xander might bite me. Honestly, I’m not so sure I’d put it past him. I’m also definitely sure I wouldn’t hate it.
There are ten residents I dance with each week, and it’s less of me teaching them how and more of them teaching me. Dancing socially used to be a big thing before it became all fist pumps and twerking and—well, fuck. There I go, sounding like an old man again. I might as well book my room here now .
Since I’m late, Carla has taken it upon herself to get the music started, and I watch as they bop along to the beat. There are eight women and two men, and watching them laugh and get into it without any hint of self-consciousness makes me smile. Maybe getting old isn’t so bad.
“Here he is,” Carla says, lifting her hands. “We were beginning to think you’d forgotten about us.”
“Never.” I shift the table nearest me out of the way. “Did you scissors paper rock for who gets to dance with me first?”
“I won!” Jessie says.
“Hey, no fair.” Nerves hit me at the familiar voice, and I glance back in time to watch Xander walk into the room. “I wasn’t here for that.”
Conversation breaks out, and I sigh. “Xander’s here to help me.”
His cute nose wrinkles his freckles together. “ Help you?”
“Looks like you need another scissors paper rock to see who dances with him first,” I tell them.
Carla, Mabel, and Josie immediately start a best of three, and I lower my voice so only Xander can hear me.
“Don’t worry, I made sure they all know you’re pro booty tap. You’ll feel very thanked once this class is over.”
The glare he sends me is adorable, and I move away before he can reply.
Throughout the whole hour, I can’t help but track where he is in the room. As much as I want him to be having fun, I also want to make sure he’s being politer than he usually is. Carla isn’t the kind who’d take being insulted as a good thing, and she probably wouldn’t hide her distaste either.
I love these people. We’ve been dancing together for well over a year now, and I’ve gotten to know them and sometimes their families well. I know their stories, and it’s so interesting to hear about how every one of them has lived an amazingly different life .
It hurts sometimes too. Not long after I started, we lost Alana. Then Adam broke his hip. Josie is forgetting more than she’s remembering lately, but dancing is one of those things that’s holding strong.
“Where did you find the little cutie?” Carla asks when it’s my turn with her.
“He … runs the art class.” Not a complete lie.
Her eyes cut to Xander and back to me. “The art class?”
“He’s very talented.”
“He’s a terrible dancer. Didn’t even know what the two-step is.”
“Neither did I until you taught it to me.”
Her lips quirk. “I hope he comes back.”
Me too, Carla. Get in line.
She suddenly lets out a warbly “ Ohhh .”
“Shit, are you okay?”
“Fine, fine, dear. Just quite tired all at once. Quick, Paul, help me to a chair. Xander, dear, take over for me.”
I stiffen slightly as Paul leaves Xander, and Xander smoothly slides in front of me. He holds up his hand, and after a second of debating with myself and failing, I take it.
My free hand settles high on his waist, which I assume will take some of the temptation away, but I’ve underestimated Xander. Touching him like this, where it’s casual, not clinical, is more than I’m prepared for.
Those unnerving purple eyes meet mine as his hand rests on the side of my shoulder. “Hi.”
“What a coincidence that you were closest when Carla suddenly needed to sit down.”
He’s not even trying to hold back his smile. “I hope you’re not accusing my new best friend of anything.”
“Like what?” I play dumb.
“Like helping me orchestrate getting to be your partner for a dance. ”
“I’d never suspect anything like that from you.”
His smile takes on a wicked edge. “You should.”
“You’re too sweet to be sneaky.”
“And you clearly know nothing about me. You should fix that.”
A few weeks ago, I might have agreed. I’ve gotten snapshots into his life, seen him at his most vulnerable, been witness to him accidentally letting things slip in weak moments, but real conversation has been slim.
I didn’t know how badly I was craving it until we started, and somehow, I need to let it go. Everything is friendly enough for right now, but I know how I’m feeling. I know how that little ball of care and concern is slowly changing, and I know that I’m not doing a damn thing to stop it from happening.
This fucked-up ride isn’t going to end well.
But then I look into his face, feel his warmth through his shirt, his slim side under my hand, and my craving for him deepens.
“You’re a much better dancer than painter,” he says.
We’re not doing anything more than rocking side to side because, as Carla pointed out, Xander has no idea what he’s doing. “And you’re a much better painter than dancer.”
His eyes light up, and then he slowly steps forward, one foot resting on top of mine, and then the other does the same. “Teach me.”
He’s flush against me, angles slotted with my grooves, and all my energy goes into controlling my cock rather than telling him to move the hell back. There’s something beautifully at war on his face that’s impossible to look away from. So I go with it.
I bounce my left leg. “This one first.”
“I’m ready.”
He might not be able to dance, but he has no issues staying in time with my steps. My pulse is racing in my ears, and he’s all around me. His scent, the cute freckles, the way he’s gripping me tight. Every step has my groin skimming against him, and I’m dangerously close to getting hard. Just his proximity is doing it. Somehow, he’s even more stunning up close. Up close where I can make out the guardedness in his eyes, the way one side of his face holds tension, like he’s biting the inside of his cheek maybe, how the bow in his top lip is more pronounced on the left, and above it, in the middle of his cheek, an eyelash has fallen out to rest beside his freckles.
I’m drinking in every fucking detail.
Swallowing back the want it’s bringing out in me.
This is a platonic dance.
Because it has to be.
The music playing comes to a gentle end, and Xander steps down off my feet. It takes me a second to release him.
Then the clapping starts, and it’s like all my good sense switches back on at once. I glance around to find everyone has stopped dancing to watch us, and heat rushes to my cheeks.
“Yeah, yeah, back to it,” I say, trying to brush off how I’d forgotten any of them were even here.
Xander cuts me a sly look. “No booty tap?”
I harden my jaw and stalk off without a word.