Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Nico placed my hands behind his neck and skimmed his long fingers down my bare arms to my waist, sending shivers and goose bumps racing over my skin. He pressed my body to his tall, lean form, and we swayed to the music.
I swallowed.
He smiled at me. It was an irresponsible, dreamy, devastating sex-on-a-stick smile.
I swallowed again.
Nico was a good dancer. I never danced with him while we were in school, but I remembered watching him dance with other girls at homecoming or at our high school prom.
He was one of those guys whose rhythm and corresponding movements fused effortlessly with the music, as if the music took its cue from him and not the other way around.
I was at a loss. Part of me—the part that endured a half decade of merciless teasing—wanted to glance around the room and feign boredom.
Another part of me—the part that was held every night for four months—wanted him to hold me close, stroke my back, and tell me I was forgiven for treating him so shamefully.
Both parts were trapped in the quicksand of his gaze and the web of his body. He seemed content simply to look at me. We traded stares for several long moments. I felt hot.
One of us needed to say something, and I realized it wasn’t going to be him. I tried to think of something to talk about, but felt every topic was a minefield of either innuendo or historical baggage. I finally settled on something most people would want to know.
I cleared my throat before I said, “So, your show.”
He blinked at me, almost as though my voice startled him, then his lips twitched. “My show.”
I cleared my throat again. “Well…how is your show?”
“I thought you didn’t watch it.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why do you want to talk about it?” His twitching lips turned into a small, challenging smile.
“I don’t watch it, but I know of it.” I cleared my throat for a third time. “It’s hard not to know of it, what with all the stripping of celebrities and objectifying of women.”
His grin grew rueful. “So, you haven’t watched, but you’re ready to judge it?” He nodded with exaggeration. “That makes sense.”
“Aren’t you even a little ashamed?”
“There is nothing wrong with the show.” His hand slid from my side to the center of my back as though to hold me in place.
“You don’t think there is anything wrong with objectifying women?”
“I don’t objectify women.”
“Your show does.”
“I disagree.” He said.
“So—bikini models wrestling each other in tubs of Jell-O…?” I lifted my eyebrows and waited for him to concede. “What is the definition of female objectification then?”
“There is nothing wrong with men looking at or appreciating beautiful women.” His eyes swept over me. I ignored the implication and successfully suppressed the rising heat that accompanied it.
“There is. There is when being looked at is a woman’s sole purpose.”
“You mean like art?”
I scoff-snorted. “You’re comparing your show to art?”
“Yes…and no. The women on my show are definitely comparable to art. I admit there is a wrong way and a right way to do things. I feel like my show does things the right way.”
“It must be hard for you to work in an industry where there is so much confusion about what is porn and what is art.” I smiled sweetly at him.
“Yes, well—” an edge was discernible in his voice, which told me he was not pleased with my comparison, “—it must be hard for you to work in an industry where the fundamentals are based on Nazi research, leeches, and bleeding people.”
I stiffened and stumbled, but he countered my misstep flawlessly and held me tighter. His eyes glowed.
It felt just like old times. We were teenagers again engaging in a game of spitefulness. I hated it.
“You’re right.” I deadpanned. “It really is a worthless, ignoble profession.”
“No.” His hand resettled on my back and he lifted his chin; his soulful eyes focused on me, intent and earnest. “It’s a very noble profession. It suits you well.”
My blush of embarrassment was annoying and immediate. I couldn’t respond to his compliment with a cutting remark, so I just stared at him. We traded stares again for several long moments. I felt hot—once again—and an irrepressible urge to say something. It needed to be nice, damn it.
I didn’t like that he’d had the last word, and it was a nice last word, and he was—therefore—kinder, more forgiving, and more mature than I was. I wrinkled my nose at the ridiculous thought, but was powerless against it.
I wanted to be the nice one.
I wanted to show him that I was just as ambivalent to him, and our past together, as he seemed to be. I was a grown up. I was mature. I had on my big girl fancy panties. I could be the better person, even if it killed me.
I bit my tongue to stall my words because I wasn’t sure what they would be. I only knew they would be honest and nice and, honestly, that combination scared me. I also knew whatever came out would be an attempt at nice-one-upmanship, which meant I would likely compliment—
“You are very funny,” I finally said.
Nico frowned and flinched slightly. His hand loosened on my back. “I wasn’t being funny; I was being serious.”
I nodded. “Oh, I know. I believe you—what you said. It was very nice. Thank you.” I cleared my throat for the eight thousandth time. I really was going to have to get something to drink, like maybe vodka. “And I meant what I said. You are very funny. You’re a funny…person.”
His eyes narrowed, and he studied me through dark lashes. “Ok.”
“I mean it.”
“Ok.”
“No, really. I may not watch your show, but—” I took a deep breath.
I was going to admit to something I had no intention of admitting to anyone, ever.
“—but I may have seen or caught part of—well, it was on while I was walking by—your standup special…thing….” Finally, I huffed and just owned it.
“I saw your New York to LA standup special on HBO last year. It was funny. I laughed.”
The truth was I ordered HBO for the month when I learned he was going to have a standup special. I couldn’t wait for it to come out on DVD or Blu-ray; but I would never tell him that. I was officially ridiculous.
His stare and expression betrayed befuddled amusement as I struggled to speak; then, finally, comprehension and something like smug satisfaction. It was in his smile, the way he stood a little taller, the twinkle in his eye.
“What was your favorite bit?”
“The one about universally funny concepts.”
He waited, then prompted, “Specifically…?”
My jaw flexed. “Specifically about interpretive dance and synchronized swimming, about how synchronized swimming is funny if attempted by anyone but a professional, and then you paired it with interpretive dance. I like how you…you’re just a very physical comedian, and it was funny.
” I rolled my eyes again. “Don’t get a big head about it. ”
“Too late. Dr. Finney thinks I’m funny.”
I warred bravely against my own grin. “I saw it in the middle of the night after a long shift.”
I used to watch it in the middle of the night after my long shifts.
“But when I remember this conversation later, I’ll tell myself that you watch it every night before you go to bed.” His voice was both teasing and intimate.
“Whatever.” I shook my head and turned my face away. I saw nothing because he was everywhere I looked. “Believe what you want.”
Leisurely, Nico brushed his soft beard against my cheek, then dipped his mouth to my ear and nuzzled the space beneath it, his breath hot on my neck as he whispered, “There’s nothing wrong with having fun.”
His movements and words caused an electrical shock of awareness to course from the tip of my head to the center of my belly.
I jerked away, glared at him. “I know that.”
“Do you?” He smirked, his fingers flexing on my back as he held me tighter. “When is the last time you had fun?”
“Last Tuesday.”
“Oh, yeah? What did you do?”
“I went to my…knitting…group.” I realized, just as the words left my mouth, how lame and sedate that sounded. He probably pictured me sitting in a reindeer sweater, drinking tepid peach and mango tea while exchanging cocktail recipes…doh.
Non-knitters just didn’t understand the dynamics of a knitting group. It wasn’t just a good time or a fun time; it was the best time.
“O-o-o-oh, ok. I didn’t realize that you are part of a knitting circle. I stand corrected.” His smirk intensified; it was an intensa-smirk, and his eyes glowed with plain enjoyment at my expense. “You have fun scheduled for every Tuesday night.”
I glowered at him. “It’s not like that.”
“Then tell me about it.”
We engaged in a staring contest for several stanzas of the song—a whisper of a smile on his features, a frustrated glower on mine.
I felt the need to escape his eyes and run from the room.
My hands moved from his neck to his chest and pushed against him. Before I could move even an inch, he covered one of my hands and pressed it to his heart. His other hand pressed into my back and held me in place.
“The song is almost over.” His expression turned serious, his eyes beseeching, his body tense. “Stay with me.”
Stay with me.
Nico’s words set off a gathering thickness in my throat. I could only press my mouth into a line and nod.
Stay with me—it was what I said to him the first night, the first time he climbed into my window, the first time he held me while I slept—and then every night thereafter.
I wondered if he remembered. I wondered if that was why he said it. It didn’t matter, not really. The song would be over and he would walk away; Sandra and I would go back to the farmhouse; and I would try to forget this dance ever happened.
He pulled me closer and held me tighter, his chin against my temple as his hand held mine over his heart in a firm grip, his other hand and arm completely wrapped around my middle. He was holding me as we danced.