Dance This Song With Me? (Aunt Macie’s Lonely Hearts Club #2)

Chapter 1

LUCAS

The thumping beat of the bass hit me as the door opened and I stepped into the club.

The room throbbed, vibrating with the beat and the jiggling, grinding mass of dancers pressed intimately against each other on the dance floor.

Strobe lights cycled through their colors, as sequins glinted and psychedelic mesh crop tops shimmered above bare midriffs, cropped shorts and skin tight jeans.

The smell of smoke, alcohol and sex hung heavy in the air.

The place was crowded.

I pushed my way to the bar and waited for the bartender to notice me.

He was bent over scooping up ice from a tub, his straw-colored curls falling across his cheek.

Another type of cheek peeked at me from beneath his super-short denim cutoffs.

Lean legs covered in pale, hairless skin disappeared downwards into elfin boots.

He stood up, dumping a bucket of ice into the icewell, brushing his hair back from his face, with an unconscious gesture.

Grabbing a clean glass from the drainer, he scooped some of the fresh ice into it, deftly free-poured something from a couple of different bottles, decorated the drink with a piece of pineapple and a paper umbrella and slid it across the bar to the guy he was serving, delivering it with a smile.

Cute enough, but not my type. I didn't mind looking though.

Someone slipped onto the barstool beside me, blocking off my view of the cute bartender.

"What will you have?"

I blinked, sizing up the newcomer. He was much larger than I, and clearly spent a lot of time at the gym, judging by the massive biceps bursting from his shirt sleeves and the broad chest barely contained by the white button-up.

The straining shirt was open half-way down his chest revealing a thick gold link chain lying in a snarl of dark chest hair.

I didn't like his cologne, and I wasn't a fan of the over-confident smirk that twisted his large red lips.

Suffice to say, he was not my type in any way.

I was beginning to regret coming to the club tonight.

What was I going to find here anyway? A hookup wasn't really my speed, after all.

I'd done my experimentation during my university days, now I was looking for something more substantial, something that fell somewhere on the relationship scale.

All that would happen here was I'd get hit on by guys that wanted a quick fuck or bj and then sayonara...

"I'm good, thanks," I replied, smiling to soften the rejection.

"Just one," the guy insisted. "Hey!" he called out to the bartender. "Over here!"

The sandy-haired bartender looked across from where he was talking to a customer, raised his hand in acknowledgement and continued his conversation.

"Jesus!" the guy beside me growled. "Fucking bartenders, right? They're all the same." He moved closer and a large hand appeared on my thigh. That was enough for me.

"He's a friend of mine," I said, sliding off my stool and getting to my feet. I didn't know the bartender at all, but this guy was a fucking creep.

I made my way to the end of the bar where the bartender was finishing up with his customer. He glanced up, bright blue eyes peeking out mischievously from beneath his curls, a heavy line of dark eyeliner accentuating their almond shape.

"Hey," he said, cheerfully, "that guy bothering you?"

I shrugged, "He's a dick."

"Haha! Plenty of those in here. Take your pick," the bartender grinned cheekily, looking around at the busy venue, the people laughing and talking around the tables, the tightly packed dance floor. He licked his lips appreciatively.

"Are you the regular bartender?" I asked. His attire, whilst entirely suitable for the venue itself, seemed unusual for behind the bar.

"Nah!" he replied, his eyes giving up their wistful study of the dance floor. "Just filling in for Brian. He's my boyfriend. He's the regular bartender. He had to go out for a minute."

"You look like you know what you're doing."

He laughed. "It's not my first time." His eyes twinkled mischievously. "Can I fix you something?"

I looked around. The guy who'd been hitting on me had moved off and was now bothering someone else. There was no-one who caught my eye, and besides, I'd already decided I wasn't interested in a hookup tonight. I decided I couldn't be bothered staying for a drink after all.

"Nah. Changed my mind. I'm just leaving," I told him. "Can't say I'm really in the mood tonight."

"Fair enough. Catch you next time then," he winked at me.

Just then someone came up to the bar wanting to order.

I took that as my cue to leave, pushing my way through the crowd, keeping an eye out in case the annoying guy decided to follow me, but he was busy trying his luck with someone else.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I made it out into the fresh night air.

It was peaceful out here by comparison. Sure, it was a Saturday night and there were plenty of people in the street, but my head was no longer pounding from the assault of the bass, and the ringing in my ears was already beginning to fade.

It was still early, and I felt too restless to sit at home alone, so I wandered the streets enjoying the cool air and the city lights - the red and white lights of the traffic, the warm glow of the restaurants, the occasional neon sign offering Thai massage or cheap accommodation.

The vibrancy of the city on a weekend was completely different to its sober busy-ness during the working week.

Light and music washed over me as I passed open doors, bars filled with rowdy drinkers, restaurants where the loud buzz of conversation spilled out into the street along with the lighting, theatre foyers filled with milling patrons.

Car horns honked and the occasional emergency vehicle siren whined in the distance.

I wandered aimlessly, soaking up the sounds and the energy of the night, alone but not lonely, when my attention was caught by a style of music I hadn't heard before.

My body was overcome by an almost irresistible urge to move, but at the same time was totally unsure how.

It was ridiculous but the only dancing I'd done in my life was the kind you did in an over-crowded gay bar, and this definitely wasn't that.

Like a siren-song, the music wound its way down from the upper level of a venue, and spilled out into the street from a narrow doorway sandwiched between a tobbaconist and an icecream shop.

A continuous trickle of people entered via the door, their attire giving no clue as to what sort of place it was.

Some were dressed in tight fitting mini-dresses, others in jeans, some in shorts.

There were high heels and glittery sandals, and sports shoes.

I realized I was staring and hurriedly looked away, but no-one paid me any mind, too intent on getting to whatever event was taking place upstairs. There was no bouncer at the door...

Well, why not? I thought, joining the stream of people walking in.

Despite the absence of a bouncer downstairs, once I reached the upper level it was immediately clear there was controlled entry after all.

People queued in front of a desk where a middle-aged, amiable-looking man was taking cash, checking phones or occasionally receiving what was presumably a printed ticket.

Beyond the corridor, the corner of the room was visible through a propped-open door.

Seats appeared to be setup around the circumference, and a few were occupied.

Every now and then, a different couple came into view as they danced, but I couldn't get more than a glimpse of what they were doing.

God, but the music made me want to move, and this more than anything fueled my curiosity.

I stepped out of the line and waited until the people behind me had gone through before approaching the desk.

"Uh, hey," I said. "What's going on in there?"

"It's our regular social dance," the guy told me. "Do you dance?"

"Uh, not really. Just club dancing. What... what kind of dancing is this?"

"Bachata. It's a style of latin dance. Sometimes we have salsa, but not tonight. Tonight only bachata."

"I've... I've never heard of it."

"Would you like to go in and watch for a while?" he asked. "You can just go in. No-one will mind."

"Can I?"

"Sure. No problem," he winked at me. "You never know, you might want to take some lessons."

How hard could it be? I wondered. Surely lessons wouldn't be necessary.

Gah! I had my answer as soon as I stepped into the hall, where couples were spinning and gyrating and performing all sorts of fancy moves to the current song.

The music was cool and all, but the dance was complicated.

Not the sort of thing where you could just step onto the floor and do it.

It was intimidating as fuck, but it looked like hella fun.

My lips curved, responding to the happy smiles on the faces of the dancers.

Yeah, this was something I'd love to try.

Two dancers caught my eye. They were amazing together. They danced close, barely a breath of air between them, bodies rippling in a series of smooth body rolls and synchronised body waves. It was sensual and sexy and hot as all get out. Well, fuck me.

I watched the girl spin, then sensually roll her head as her partner trailed his hand around her neck, their chemistry obvious. The girl was graceful and objectively beautiful, but that didn't interest me, obviously. On the other hand, her partner...

"Oh my God," I murmured to myself, covering my mouth with my palm, as his face came into view.

My heart skipped a beat, then made up for it by rushing the blood around my body.

Heat prickled my skin. The dancer had a brooding face, intense with focus, heavy-set brows.

His dark blonde hair was thick on top, short on the sides.

Dark stubble adorned his chin and upper lip giving him a devil-may-care appearance.

He oozed masculinity and moved with a confidence and grace that was hot as fuck.

The silky shirt slid across the muscles of his chest, hinting at some serious pecs, and tight denim jeans did nothing to conceal his substantial package, teasing me with occasional glimpses of his bulge as his partner moved around him.

The song ended. I was still staring. As the man stepped back, our eyes met over his partner's shoulder. His brows tightened. For a moment the world stood still. Then he turned and was gone, swallowed up by the swirling crowd.

My heart beat louder than the introductory strains of the next song, my world shrinking to that one head-spinning moment before I came to my senses.

I'd seen enough.

The heavy door swung shut behind me as I left, shutting off all but a whisper of the music.

There were no late arrivals checking in and the greeter's head was down, busy with his phone.

I was reluctant to interrupt him and was going to leave without speaking to him, but he looked up as I passed his desk.

"What did you think of it?" he asked, one thick dark eyebrow raised like he already knew the answer.

"It looks amazing, but, ah, all the dancers seem pretty good."

"Well, it's late. The beginners come early for the class, and the regulars - the better dancers - come later."

My ears pricked up. "So... the same dancers turn up every night?"

"Every week. We have a social every Friday night. And yeah, mostly the same people come each week. You should come along."

"I feel like it would take a while to be good enough..."

"Eh, it's not so difficult. You wanna try it? My friend runs classes for beginners at his studio downtown. Here, take this," he added, picking up a flyer from a pile on the end of the table. "Tell him Carlos sent you. He'll give you a lesson for free. Check it out!"

"Cool, thanks. I might do that. Yeah. Thanks... Carlos."

I glanced at the pamphlet, folded the flimsy paper carefully and shoved it in my back pocket, my thoughts occupied by the hot guy on the dance floor, my mind running over all the possibilities.

But by the time I made it home, dancing and the sexy guy had completely slipped my mind, pushed out by Sasha's dramas.

Sasha, my ex-flatmate, had called while I'd been sitting in the rideshare.

He was complaining about his latest man.

Honestly, the guy went through boyfriends the way he went through underwear, which said a lot given his penchant for changing his junk holders for each different activity he did.

Work? Hip briefs. Coffee shop meetup? Thong.

Club or bar? Jockstrap. And if he went to more than one club, heaven forbid he wear the same at both.

I'd lost count of the different types of underwear he had but the most he'd worn in a day - that I knew of - was 5.

How many pairs of underwear did you have to own to manage that unless you wanted to make doing laundry one of your hobbies?

But he was a cool guy, so I was supportive, listened to the long litany of complaints, made helpful encouraging comments such as 'uh-huh' and 'mm, yeah', and then agreed with him that his boyfriend - who I'd never met, because well, see my point above - was a complete douche, and yes, he should totally give him one more chance, and Sasha had hung up as abruptly as he'd rung, presumably to run off and give his guy that extra chance.

I was still shaking my head when I entered the flat, distracted by Sasha's chaos, and it wasn't until a few days later, when I finally got around to doing laundry, that the crackling sound in my jeans caught my attention.

I pulled the crumpled piece of paper out of the back pocket and stared at it. The flyer wasn't very professionally done - it looked like it'd come off a home printer - and if I'd accidentally run it through the wash, the ink would most certainly have run and it would have become illegible.

But here it was... an accidental save.

What the heck? Maybe the universe was sending me a message.