Chapter 10 Dave
CHAPTER TEN
DAVE
Hmm. Wonder what that was about? If I hadn’t witnessed first-hand how close Char and Ellie were, I’d question whether there was some sort of rift between them.
There must be something else afoot if Char is that adamant moving here is a no-go.
Hell, for all I know, she has a thriving career back home.
Or a boyfriend.
One thing is clear. She seems to have one foot already out the door. And out of Sycamore Mountain. So, I plan to make the most of every second she’s here. The opening chords of “Hot in Herre” by Nelly begin to play. Spinning in my chair toward her, I extend my hand. “Care to dance?”
Her face brightens, that twinkle returning to her captivating jewel-colored eyes. “Why yes, I’d love to.”
We make our way onto the dancefloor, moving and shaking to the catchy beat of the song like we’ve been dance partners cutting a rug for years.
Okay, if the dancers were Jerry and Elaine from Seinfeld.
She’s literally dancing to the beat of her own drum.
She’s off step by about half a note throughout the number, dancing more like the characters from Charlie Brown’s Christmas than the other girls here, swaying provocatively in front of their partners.
There’s no clever seduction with this enchantress.
Yet the smile that takes over her face as she lifts her arms overhead and spins before me is downright infectious.
There’s a carefree nature to this beauty that’s so alluring. She’s confident and poised, but not afraid to let her hair down. And hearing Ellie describe how she likes to transform her appearance made me ponder what she’d look like as a blonde or a brunette, with short hair or long.
Currently, her hair is decoratively swept up with several braids wrapped around the base of her bun.
Much like her makeup, you could tell she’d spent time on her appearance, but it looks effortlessly elegant.
Her dress is a riot of color that seems to bring out the deep green hue of her eyes.
The bodice is a more muted crisscross of latticework that stops at her waist before flaring out into a soft, flowy silk skirt of flowers covered in a sheer overlay.
I yearn for a slower song, wishing I could pull her beautiful body into mine.
Bury my nose in her soft locks and hypnotizing scent.
But as Nelly ends, Flo Rida begins. As Sia croons about liking the wild ones, Char seems to embrace the lyrics as if they’re her anthem.
She jumps to the beat, pointing at me, and singing that she wants to shut down the club with me.
My chest fills with irrational pride. She mimics the lyrics, singing about being hungover from too much vodka to the point I have to throw my head back in laughter.
That is until she spins, her delectable ass twerking for me like a private lap dance.
Fuck. Now my dick wants in on this party.
Char and I continue to swirl around each other, taking turns throwing in ridiculous dance moves from years ago, like the Sprinkler, the Hand Jive, and the Charleston.
Whether they match the beat of the music is irrelevant.
She tosses a pretend fishing line and reels me in like a fisherman winding in his catch.
Unwilling to miss the opportunity, I shimmy close enough to wrap my arms around her momentarily, both of us laughing so hard we have to separate to get ourselves together.
Hell, I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun with anyone. Much less a woman. The thought has barely registered when she leans forward, busting out the Robot. I double over, wheezing out a chuckle.
Not to be outdone, I give my best Running Man.
Dancing like I’m jogging in place, I attempt to keep a serious expression intact but fail miserably when I see Char wiggling the left side of her body and lose it.
Haha. Is that the Stanky Leg? Hell, any minute this phenomenal creature could start to Moonwalk.
With any other girl, I’d probably be looking to excuse myself to the men’s room.
But, she’s so vivacious and free. Not the least bit self-conscious.
As that song comes to a close, “Girls Like You” by Maroon 5 starts to play.
Unable to stand it any longer, I reach for her hand and spin her around. Any excuse to touch her.
It’s honestly been a while since I’ve spent any real time on the dancefloor with a woman. The only one I ever danced with on a regular basis was Addison. She only thought of me as a friend, so it was safe. Other women, not so much.
Looking over her shoulder, my cheeks aching from the strain of my smile, it quickly falls as I find all of my firefighter brothers gawking at us, mouths wide.
Ellie wears the grin of a Cheshire cat. Hmmm.
Did she have something to do with the seating arrangement?
Hell, I need to send her a fruit basket or a bottle of wine or something.
One song turns into four. As The Weeknd’s “I Can’t Feel My Face” begins to play, it feels as if it was written about this very moment. Try as I might, I cannot recall the last time I grinned this much. My cheeks are actually numb.
Until…
“Any chance I can cut in?”
I try to school my features at Brecken’s unwanted intrusion and accept my disappointment like a man. I mean, I’ve had her all to myself for probably an hour. Taking a step back, I allow him to move into my spot. But not before adding, “Just save the last dance for me.” I wink.
Char beams up at me. “It’s all yours.”
Over the course of the next hour, I watch as men, young and old, twirl Char around the dancefloor.
From Harrison, Ellie’s married brother-in-law, to an older guy someone introduced earlier as Salty Jo, and even my old curmudgeon of a friend, Shotgun Sam.
I need to keep my eye on that one. Make sure he doesn’t try walking her to his truck.
I spend a few moments with my four newly married firefighter brothers, slapping them on the back, congratulating them on their big day.
They collectively rib me on being the last single man standing of our tight-knit group.
Their playful mocking is more unsettling than it should be for a self-proclaimed bachelor.
What the hell could’ve changed in twenty-four hours?
Is it merely the reality that my best friends are all hitched?
Ellie must’ve put something in that sweet tea for me to be feeling this off-kilter. Because this isn’t like me.
My eyes land on the stunner swaying to and fro on the dancefloor. Her magnanimous smile can probably be seen from outer space, I muse.
You’re lonely, Dave. That’s all this is. Get a grip.
“Hey, Dave.” I glance over my shoulder to find Brooke staring back at me. I’d briefly dated the pretty blonde about six months ago. “Want to dance?”
Yes, I think to myself. Just not with you. But I don’t have it in me to be rude. “Sure.” Of course, this is when a slow song finally starts to play. Grrr.
“How’ve you been?” she asks, her hands resting on my chest as we dance. Her familiarity is making my skin bristle.
“Good. You?” Yeah. This isn’t at all awkward. I’d enjoyed Brooke’s company when we dated. Enough, I actually let my guard down and brought her back to my place.
Big mistake.
It didn’t take long after this for our once every few weeks casual date nights to suddenly get the hard press for more. Instead of dinner and drinks, it was conversations about where things were going. I didn’t want to be rude, but that map was very clear.
All roads lead to nowhere for me.
I’d lived with the reality of what happened when a marriage fell apart.
When it was clear two people wanted different things in life.
I have no interest in watching my future implode as my parents’ marriage had.
And I refuse to put an innocent child through that.
Not to mention, there was a healthy degree of fear that I was more like my father than I wanted to admit.
Sure, I had integrity where it was clear his was lacking.
Yet, I hadn’t ruled out his behavior may be related to a bigger issue.
An addictive personality disorder of some type.
The ever-present need to feed either his sexual appetite or his ego.
My father had been focused on prestige and power.
Along with it, growing his portfolio. My paternal grandfather had been an extremely successful businessman but still managed to devote time to his family.
Where my father, on the other hand, was like one of those Rolex watches you buy off a guy in the street at Times Square, an inferior copycat.
I have fond memories of spending time with my grandparents.
Participating in little league baseball.
But not once did dear old Dad make it to a game.
Even when we made it to the playoffs, it wasn’t worthy of his time.
My mother tried her best to attend as many practices and games as possible.
Yet, my father held certain expectations of her.
And looking back, I believe she was afraid to push back.
To fight for what she felt was most important.
Not that it would’ve mattered. My father eventually tired of my mother and traded her in for a younger model. He had belittled her for years, so Mom blamed herself for the destruction of her marriage. If she’d only looked or behaved a certain way, perhaps he would’ve stayed.
But my dad’s as shallow as they come. His only interactions with me over the years have been to remind me there’s no financial future in a career in the fire service.
He’s held my trust fund over my head in an attempt to lure me into the family business, calling every few months to drive the point home.
No, thank you.
While I’m quite fortunate to have a sizeable nest egg, I have no plans to live that type of ostentatious lifestyle.
I’m more interested in a quiet existence with good friends.
One where I can give back to the community I live.
And when the time is right, I’ll find a way to use my inheritance to benefit those who need it most. For now, the only real portion of it I access is to help my mother.
Mom fell into a deep hopelessness after the fall out with my father.
Despite multiple attempts at inpatient and outpatient therapy, she’s never recovered.
Looking back, I tend to think she may have struggled with sadness and anxiety before my dad walked away so dismissively.
But nothing to the point she is now. She’s a shell of the vivacious woman I remember.
Don’t get me wrong. I know relationships aren’t easy.
The best of marriages can fail for any number of reasons.
However, this was insidious. My father had been laying the groundwork to leave her with as little as possible for years before he dropped the gauntlet.
And once he delivered the blow, it was in the most humiliating way possible.
From what I gather, he made it clear he was moving on because a man of his standing deserved a more voluptuous, charming woman on his arm.
Someone who went above and beyond to share her gratitude for all he provided.
No wonder she was clinically depressed. One day karma is going to come calling for that asshole, and I plan to have buttered popcorn and a cold one ready.
I haven’t given up on Mom. Hopefully, someday soon, there’ll be some sort of breakthrough for her.
I’ve tried to convince my mother to move to Sycamore Mountain with me.
Yet, she’s most comfortable back in New Jersey.
For now, I use a portion of my savings to pay for her to reside in an assisted living facility.
Her apartment is clean and safe and has nurses and therapists on staff.
They attempt to engage her in activities.
Or if nothing else, ensure she leaves her apartment for a short while each day.
My gaze flicks longingly over to Char. She’s dancing with an older gentleman, engaging him in conversation as they stiffly sway back and forth. He looks like more of a Frank Sinatra dude than a Jonas brother. Her gorgeous eyes are shining with mirth at something he’s saying.
“Are you seeing anyone?” Jesus. Brooke’s question catches me off guard. Not at the direction the conversation is headed, but more so the fact I’d completely forgotten we were still dancing. My attention has been so focused on this newcomer, who has me under her spell.
“No.” I exhale uncomfortably. “You know me, Brooke. I’m only focused on my job.” We’ve been over this too many times to count. Whether she has dollar signs in her eyes or merely marching to the beat of her biological clock, we aren’t ever going to be more than casual.
“That’s too bad. I thought we had a really good time together.”
Part of me wants to reassure her. I don’t want any woman to feel as dejected as my mother had when my father walked away. The realization that his blood runs through my veins isn’t lost on me. But I’ve never promised Brooke, or any woman, anything.
The song comes to an end, and I immediately step back, allowing her hands to fall from my chest as I put distance between us. Spending any more time with her is only going to send her mixed signals. “It was nice to see you, Brooke.” I give her a forced smile before heading toward the bar.
Yet as I make it halfway there, Michael Bublé begins to sing “Save the Last Dance For Me.” It’s as if the universe is aware of this woman’s unyielding pull and gave me the in I’ve been waiting for.
Striding to her side, feeling like a puppy who’s been waiting all day for his owner to return home, I pause until Char makes eye contact with me. “It appears they’re playing our song.”
She rotates to face me. The delight dancing in her green depths is almost too much to absorb all at once. Has she been looking forward to this moment too? Or is this wishful thinking?
“Why, yes. It appears they are.” She leans in to thank her older dance partner with a peck on the cheek before sending him off.
“Took you long enough.”