6. THE ONE WHERE THEY DANCE #2
She holds out a finger, telling me, one more song.
I’ve heard that before. I shake my head and make sure she hears me tell her I’ll meet her up there.
Frankie gives me a thumbs up and goes back to dancing, slipping into the sea of bodies until I can’t see her anymore.
I shouldn’t leave her alone… That’s how the start of nearly every murder-mystery documentary begins.
West must be able to read the way my body tenses, coming up beside me. “She’s safe with Enzo. I promise.”
I’m a good judge of character. My best friend is not… But none of my usual alarms are blaring for me to snatch Frankie up and get out of here.
I pause, glancing back and forth between the floor and West. He raises a brow like he’s asking, Are you coming? without saying a word.
And you know what? I do wanna fucking come.
Really, really bad.
So, I let my pussy lead the way tonight—not my logical brain with every answer under the sun as to why I shouldn’t go home with this handsome, much younger man.
I lay my hand on the side of his hip and give him a light nudge forward, following him up the stairs while trying to focus on anything but his ass. The flashing lights, the thumping bass, the sticky air. Then his ass.
Fuck.
No, I don’t think his comedy style is all that funny, but I get the appeal. I get why the few viral videos I’ve seen of him have thousands of girls thirsting after him in the comments.
West Parker is fucking hot. And if the way his hands roamed my body on the dance floor is anything like what he can do without clothes in the way, then I’m sure his playboy title is well earned. His fingertips shot tendrils of a live electric current through whatever part of my skin they met.
I don’t let myself think about the wetness I feel between my legs at the memory of my ass grinding against what I know is bound to be an impressive dick.
It’s quieter when we get to the upper deck. The music’s not as echoed up here in the lofted seating area.
“What are you drinking?” West asks, still needing to lean in over the loud voices around the bar. He grips my elbow gently, and I scold myself for wishing his hold was harder—rougher.
My thoughts are all jumbled and horny, and I don’t want to overdo it on the drinking if I’m having to fight against the dirty thoughts Frankie put inside my head.
Yes, I’m fully blaming her for this.
“A Mich Ultra’s fine,” I answer back, staring into his wicked blue eyes. They’re swirls of deep navy and the crystal-clear blue of Caribbean waters.
“Find us a seat.” West turns to the bar, and I take this as a chance to collect my thoughts.
I find a remote curved booth in a corner where the music is quiet enough I can hear my own thoughts again.
Okay, Jo. You’re thirty-one years old. You’re not falling for the charms of another athlete fuckboy. Relax.
But it is okay to have a one-night stand…
I run a hand through my thick hair, the roots damp with sweat and notice West walking my way. People turn their heads, admiring him from a distance. A few even slap their friends on the arm to get their attention.
I'm instantly distracted by the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m the only person in the entire club.
He slips into the booth a respectful distance from me, not overcrowding, but close enough to get another hint of his intoxicating scent when he passes my beer over the table.
West takes a sip of his own drink, and I watch his lips until he leans back casually and asks, “I gotta know. Why did you really come to the show tonight if you don’t find me funny?”
I cross my legs, not missing the way West watches the movement.
I’m happy for the cooling sensation the cold beer bottle gives when I rest it against a piece of my exposed thigh.
“Frankie’s going through a breakup.” Amongst other things, but that’s none of his business.
“I guess they were supposed to come see you, and since I got laid off today and she promised to buy the drinks… Here I am.” I motion towards the room around me.
“Wait, you can’t just breeze past that.” He points, sitting forward. “The getting laid off thing.”
I hadn’t expected him to pick up on that part. I wave my hand. “Oh, yeah, it’s no big. I’ll figure it out.”
His brows furrow. “So, the whole social media thing isn’t a full-time gig?”
I shake my head. “Nope, it’s not really a gig either. Just something I do for fun because I enjoy it.” Statistics has always been my thing. I broke the code to my algorithm and grew by leaning into it based on the stats of like accounts—which isn’t many… I’ve got a niche crossover.
“A five million follower hobby?” West asks, baffled.
“I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s fun to do. I like numbers and statistics. Straight to the point. No lies, no other way around it.” I shrug and take a sip of my beer.
“You’re hot and a nerd? Fuck. What’s next? You gonna tell me you worked for…” West pauses and throws his hands up. “I don’t know. NASA? A hot astronaut? A dude’s wet dream.”
The delivery is what makes the laugh slip from my lips. It’s not a big one, but it’s a laugh nonetheless.
West smiles, and it’s intoxicating. “Ah, so she does laugh at sex jokes.” It’s cocky and makes me a little woozy, but I choose to blame it on the alcohol.
“I think you’re just wearing me down. I’m losing it to your dimpled smile and nice ass.” I say it with such nonchalance it almost sounds like the idea doesn’t freak me out.
He leans back again, bringing his ankle to rest over his knee in a figure four. I focus on the rings scattered across his fingers because I can’t keep staring into his distracting eyes that never seem to stray from mine. “I wanna make you laugh like Frankie did on the dance floor.”
The way he says it makes it sound like he’s adding it to his daily check list.
For whatever reason, I don’t have a problem staring him dead in the eyes now, the challenge of a smile pulling at the edges of my lips. “Okay, Hotshot. Make me laugh.”