3. Vivian #3
A couple dressed head to toe in sinfully sophisticated black is demonstrating simple footwork, and even I can detect the base rhythm under the complex beats. Women line up on one side and men face opposite them. I sidle up to the tail end of the women’s line and focus on the pair teaching.
The man and woman demonstrate how to hold your dance partner, then step forward and back, alternating in English and Spanish.
“And one and two!” It takes a minute to realize that the forward step is on the two-count, and I hear someone murmur something about New York style.
Don’t know what that means, but they’re probably not talking about pizza.
Straining my ears as if that will help me understand the lilting syllables better, I try to catch the parts I can and copy the way they place their feet. Should’ve gone with five years of Spanish instead of French.
“What was that?” the guy directly across from me inclines his head toward mine, eyes twinkling.
“Didn’t realize I’d said that out loud.” I smile back, because he does have a nice smile. Ugh, my kryptonite: blond haired and blue-eyed. Really, universe? Yet a quick once-over tells me everything I need to know. His polo shirt and khakis are a little too clean-pressed for my taste.
But he’s easy on the eyes, and from the way we’re lined up I’m guessing he’s going to be my dance partner. Given my anxiety that I’ve all of a sudden developed two left feet, I’ll tolerate him for the time being. It’s just dancing, not a date , I remind myself.
If —and that’s the biggest if of the year—I decide to jump back into the dating pool, I’m going to be very particular this time. Almost aggressively so.
I deserve it.
If I tell myself that enough times, maybe I’ll start to believe it.
His eyes peruse my body, and when they land back on my face, his gaze turns warm and flirtatious. It’s unfortunate that pretty boy’s not doing anything for me though. And that’s okay, you’re here to dance, not to hookup. Never mind Claire giving her blessing, the last thing I need is complications.
Now we’re told to practice the steps with the partner across from us. The lady emphasizes how women should rest their fingers on the men’s shoulders “just so,” and the guy shows proper placement of hands on her waist in order to lead the dance.
Blondie steps forward and hesitantly takes my hands in his. His palms are warm and smooth, almost too soft, and I smirk. What can I say? Old habits die hard, and I’ve been sizing guys up forever. Pretty sure I could bench press his weight.
“First time here?” he asks as we awkwardly try to imitate what the couple next to us are doing.
“Yup,” I respond, trying to make sure I don’t step on his toes. Or let him crush mine. I don’t want to ruin my new purple pedicure.
“Mine too.“ He grins.
“You don’t say,” I murmur as I take in his jerky movements. Okay, that was a bit unkind and the guy is only trying to be nice. His lack of rhythm is probably not his fault. Maybe he’s never really danced before.
“Yeah,” he laughs, “there’s this other club I usually go to with my boys”— Boys?
Is he serious? —“called 112 down in Buckhead. You heard of it?” Um, yeah , but he is definitely not the type I’d expect to see there.
They have a dress code that does not include khakis, I know that for a fact.
But I keep that to myself in light of his obvious name-drop attempt to impress.
“Yeah, I’ve been there a few times.”
“That’s more my scene,” he says, and I bite back a grimace because I’m doubting he has the moves to make it anywhere past the bouncers at that place.
“I get that. I like hip hop too.”
“Yeah?” he grins. “I’m Matt,” he says as he lifts my arm so we can attempt a twirl.
“Oof!” The twirl doesn’t go as planned, and I trip, falling against his chest. But I’m saved from having to give my code name Amanda, reserved for those I don’t want to get to know better.
His cologne is a little strong and doesn’t blend well with the body odor seeping through.
Didn’t feel like he was deliberately using the pull to grope me, so I won’t be an ass by jerking away.
But the way his eyes light up at our body contact tells me that it wouldn’t take much to encourage him, and I’m not invested yet.
I pull my hand away from where it had landed on his shirt, and take his hands lightly in mine, putting some space between us. “Wanna try that forward and back step again?” His smile signals relief and I sigh inwardly.
I don’t even know this guy’s name and I’m already taking the lead here. What else is new?
One of the things I’d decided during my self-imposed, man-ban was that I wouldn’t compromise anymore on the things that mattered.
My dating history taught me that you got either great conversations or great sex, but never both.
I craved someone who could turn on my mind as well as my body.
Who could match my energy. Who exuded power, ambition.
Assertiveness. Someone who didn’t mind wearing pants in the relationship once in a while instead of leaving it all up to me.
Maybe it was my confidence they were attracted to, or maybe it was my ass, but either way, every guy I’d dated turned to me to call the shots.
If I had to hear, “I don’t care what we do as long as I’m with you,” one more time, I’d gag.
Somehow I ended up in charge of what we did, where we ate, even positions in bed.
And that shit gets old after a while, you know?
If they didn't have enough backbone to say they hated seafood when I said I wanted to get sushi, what were they going to do when push came to shove for the real issues in life?
I’d had to be strong on my own for years, and it was exhausting, trying to juggle all the balls in my life. Terrified of what would happen if I dropped even one. My carefree smile is just a mask. I’m not the only party girl who hides her cracks with makeup.
What would happen if I couldn’t be the strong one anymore? When I needed someone to lean on?
Just about the time I think I’m getting the hang of a couple of the turns, our instructors tell us that the lessons have concluded, and complimentary shots of tequila are waiting at the bar. Who am I to say no to free tequila?
This one’s for you, Claire , I think to myself as I slip out of Matt’s grasp and head over to select a glass. Tipping the shot back, I grimace. It’s 1800, but I’ll take that over Jose Cuervo any day; no matter what the magazines advertise.
I also need to start getting my drink on if I’m gonna have my quota of shots since I’m solo.
Get in, get lit, then sober up with water the rest of the night.
I’ve done this enough times to know exactly what my limits are and never break that rule.
Like Julia Roberts said, “I’m a safety girl. ” In more than one way.
The smell of body odor and faded cologne assaults my nose and I turn to find Matt standing just a little too close just as I clink my glass down. “I was going to…” He keeps talking but his voice fades into the background as the hairs on my neck stand up.
That feeling you get when someone’s watching you? The one that says, “pay attention”? Yeah, it’s gone up to a ten on the Richter scale.
A low hum pulses through my body and my skin tingles with warmth.
Where is it coming from?
A quick glance at Matt—whose mouth is still moving, but I can’t discern the words—confirms that he is definitely not the source of this electrifying feeling. I try to subtly glance past his shoulder but don’t see anyone looking my way.
Huh. My senses are usually spot on, but maybe there’s a glitch in the Matrix.
That movie was just messed up enough to make anyone rethink reality; we had to pause it and wait til Raelynn had gone to bed because it was scaring her too much. Shaking my head at the memory, I steer myself back toward Matt and try to catch up.
“I’m sorry. I just blanked for a minute,” I tell him. “You were saying?” He hesitates a moment, and I almost feel bad for blowing him off. Unintentional, maybe, but still rude.
“I was just going to ask if you wanted to do another shot with me.” His puppy dog eyes are fixed on me.
He’s a cutie, sure, but since there’s zero attraction, I’m not worried about hanging out with him.
As long as he keeps his hands where they belong.
Might be a bit of a challenge since pretty much everything they taught had us touching in one way or another.
I can handle that though. At least he won’t be bending me over and grinding on me; pretty sure it’s not that kind of club.
“Sure.” I brighten and fix a smile on my face.
His smile grows wider, and he flags down the bartender. “Two Jose Cuervos, my man.”
I barely keep the eye roll in check as I rethink my answer. Not only did he not ask me what I would like, but also clearly the dude does not know tequila. Negative two points for Matt.
The bartender sets down the shots in front of us, this time with a healthy salt rim.
Going out on my own, I’m careful to always watch the pour and never let go of my drink after.
I’ve heard of girls getting their drinks drugged and the horrors that follow.
To think, you used to only have to worry about driving sober.
Being a woman ain’t easy.
As Matt pays and I thank him, I get that prickle on the back of my neck again.
Someone or something is definitely causing my spidey senses to go haywire.
But it doesn’t feel dangerous, like when you know you need to watch your back.
This feels more like anticipation… excitement.
That dip in your stomach that you get right before the roller coaster drops.