6. THE ONE WHERE THEY DANCE
CHAPTER SIX
THE ONE WHERE THEY DANCE
Comment: C’mon internet sleuths, do your thing!
Comment: Someone turn him saying he’d crawl into a sound, PLEASE!!!!
Comment reply: Oh I’M ON IT
At least he doesn’t have the hat on anymore.
But when he smiles, it sucks the life out of mine. He’s so fucking hot it makes me mad.
“Fifty bucks he finds the clit tonight.” Frankie interrupts my rambling thoughts by sticking her hand in front of me like she’s making the business deal of a lifetime.
He’s coming my way, despite the new frown pulling at my lips.
When was the last time I let a hot stranger make me come?
The answer? Over a year… Which is pathetic.
Ugh, fuck Frankie for making me question my mundane existence!
Before I can shake her hand and give into the peer pressure, my eyes catch on the taller man stalking out of the shadows behind West like a scary guard dog.
Frankie’s hand drops and so does her jaw. It snaps me out of my daze.
My best friend might as well be panting with her tongue hanging out.
“Ho. Ly. Shit,” she says on a breath. “Jo.” Frankie grabs me by the arm, looking up at me without turning completely. “If you love me at all, you’ll be nice.” She enunciates the last two words harder than the others.
I blink and West is in front of me… I wonder if the alcohol is hitting me quicker than usual because wasn’t he just across the room?
“No, Joey baby. Don’t be nice. I wanna see how mean you can be.” West bites his lip, hiding the dimpled smile I swear doesn’t affect me—not one bit!
But if it didn’t, I wouldn’t be aware he’s suppressing it right now.
Get yourself together.
“You couldn’t handle that,” I say as a warning.
These boots give me an extra inch of height, making me about 5’9, and West’s presence is still as looming as it was when he was crowding my seat earlier tonight.
“We should find out,” he delivers with a wink.
I scoff, letting him get a small smile out of that one.
His eyes go wide, jaw dropping to reveal a perfect set of teeth.
“That was a scoff. Not a laugh. It doesn’t count,” I say, the music of the club making it hard to have any sort of conversation. I turn my head to see Frankie talking to the tattooed giant of a man, but West’s finger finds my chin and pushes my ear against his lips.
“I told you I’d buy you a drink.” His voice is low, a shiver threatening to rack my spine.
“Maybe if you’re a good boy, I’ll stay for another.” This time when I pull back, his finger falls from my chin and he straightens. A stray piece of his hair falls out of place, sweeping down his brow. He looks like a dog thirsting after a juicy steak.
It’s then I realize he really would crawl to me if I asked him to… and that maybe Frankie is right. Maybe I do need to learn to cut loose again.
Men don’t usually take kindly to being called a “good boy,” but West’s stare on me is heavy and full of a visceral burning heat I think I’ve only read about in books.
I force myself to look away, introducing myself to West’s friend.
I catch Frankie’s googly heart eyes milliseconds before he speaks.
“Hey. Enzo. Nice to meet you.” It’s hard to hear over the music, but his accent hints that he’s from somewhere in Great Britain.
“Would you two like to go to the booth where it’s quieter? ” he asks.
I glance at Frankie, who wouldn’t pass up the chance to be fawned over by a hot man for many things… But if there’s one thing about my best friend? She’s going to choose shaking her ass on a dance floor over anything else almost always.
“You invite us to a dance club, and you don't want to dance?” I raise my brow at Frankie, calling loud enough for everyone to hear. “Remember what happened last time we went to a club?” I tap my plastic shot cup against Frankie’s and down it, knowing she’s going to follow my lead.
Frankie throws her head back laughing, a glorious Frankie-grin lighting up her already beautiful face. “I promise not to lose my keys this time.” And then down her shot goes too.
No, this time she won’t because I made her leave them behind at my place.
I slip my hand into Frankie’s and pull her towards the main dance floor, looking over my shoulder to catch West watching me walk away. His bottom lip is trapped between his teeth, and when he realizes I’m looking at him, he slams the rest of his drink and tosses the cup in a nearby trash can.
The DJ rolls from a song I vaguely know, to a song I think Frankie and I played about a million times one summer. I can still feel the wind through my hair with her convertible top down, the smell of Florida’s salty air fresh in my mind.
It’s as if fate truly wants us to revisit the nights we partied in college with a Kesha song welcoming us to the dance floor like we aren't in our thirties and going to feel this in the morning!
Frankie twirls me around, letting go of my hand to pump hers to the beat of the house remix. The musician in her takes over, losing herself to the music.
Frankie could get a whole party dancing with nothing more than her performative charm. I can follow along just fine, but I’ve never been the star of the dance floor like her.
By the time West and Enzo make it to us, Frankie has three other girls dancing around her, pulling me into the middle.
Our bodies roll against each other, and I know my oversized T-shirt is only going to cover so much—I didn’t exactly plan on this outfit making it to a club tonight, but oh well… Too late now!
Enzo stays on the outside, watching. He strikes me as an observer. I expect to see West beside him, but he’s gone. I draw my eyebrows together, until Frankie spins me around and gives my ass a quick slap, leaving a sting as I back into a brick wall.
My hands fly out behind me to brace myself against what I now know is not a wall.
I get a whiff of West's familiar scent from the tiny theater, recognizing the notes of tobacco and vanilla—an early morning at a bakery mixed with the smoky smell of a cold night’s bonfire.
With my ass against him, I can’t see his face, but I glance to my right and catch a glimpse of his forearms and then his hands…
Jesus Christ. His veins protrude, and I immediately picture them wrapped around my throat.
I bet the cool metal of the rings lining his fingers would feel spectacular against my sex-heated skin.
The rumble of his chuckle vibrates against me, but I can’t hear it over the booming music.
I slowly turn around, and the second our eyes meet, my stomach does a somersault. Seriously, Jo? Butterflies?
I don’t have time to think about it. If I do, I’ll let it consume my night.
I’m determined to show Frankie how wrong she is about me being uptight and unfun.
It gives my brain an excuse, a way to trick myself into thinking this is all for the goal of proving Frankie wrong…
and not because I’m curious about what West’s hands would feel like on my body.
Throwing as much caution to the wind as I can, I brush my fingers down the outside of West’s arm before hooking them around his pinkie and ring finger. I pull him against me, giving him permission to touch by placing his hand against the curve of my waist hidden by my oversized T-shirt.
I’m taller than average with long legs and a curvy waist. I’ve got a bigger ass than I do boobs—but that’s nothing a nice bra can’t fix! I keep in shape by running, staying on a lifting schedule, and being forced to do yoga with Frankie at least once a week.
The guide of my hands is all West needs to grab me by the waist and twist me back around.
I throw one arm over his shoulder, my fingers tangling in his soft hair at the back of his head.
It’s not yet damp with sweat, which is what tells me he hasn’t been out here yet tonight…
because I’m already warm and sticky after only one song.
I grind my ass against his lap and don’t shy away like the corporate Jo I’m fighting to rid myself of tonight would.
I remind myself I was once fun. That I used to go home with random strangers and not think twice about it; that I would dance all night and still choose to go home alone if that’s what I wanted.
This doesn’t have to be anything more than that. If I don’t want to see West ever again, I don’t have to. I could have a good night with my best friend, dance with a hot, up and coming comedian—even one I don’t find funny—and have a story to tell to my grandkids when I’m eighty.
I close my eyes and feel the buzz creeping in. I don’t drink often, so this is the perfect level for me to stay on all night—where the touch of a stranger’s hands exploring my body as I dance in a club like I’m not about to be thirty-two sends goosebumps down my legs.
One of West’s hands grips my thigh, a few fingers slipping through the holes in my fishnets as if he’s chasing the bumps his touch creates.
I feel the brush of his lips against my neck a few times, but only enough to leave me wanting more.
His hands explore, slipping up the side of my shirt to meet the skin clear of fishnets.
I don’t worry about anyone seeing my ass when it’s pressed firmly against West. No one will see anything but him, and I'm sure he’s not complaining about the view.
The song changes, and it’s no longer suitable for me to grind against him. I point at Frankie, who somehow, someway, got the Broody-Brit to come dance with her.
And he’s not as stiff as I expected he’d be. Neither is West.
She points back to me, and we scream the next song while meeting back in the middle of the dance circle.
Song after song, we twirl around, dancing with each other, with West and Enzo, with the random girls around us. It feels like we took a step back in time and have nothing to worry about tomorrow morning.
Thoughts of today fall away, and I don't think about being jobless, or that West and Enzo meet mine and Frankie’s energy entirely too seamlessly.
This goes on until my T-shirt sticks to my torso, and I no longer feel much of a buzz. I nod to the upstairs bar, letting Frankie know where I’m headed.