Chapter 13 #2
Zach points at a door that’s open a crack, a flash of metallic fabric peeking out.
He opens the door farther to reveal a walk-in closet, overflowing with elaborate costumes.
“If our disguises aren’t cutting it for facing them in the studio, there might be something in here we can use to supplement. ”
He glances toward Brenda’s desk where she’s still on the phone, facing the front door.
He slips into the closet, and I follow, closing the door behind me.
It’s a small space about six by eight feet with a mirror on the back of the door, a bench, and a tension rod full of costumes on coat hangers.
On the ground is a wicker basket, overflowing with accessories.
Zach pulls a blue sequined one-piece suit off its hanger, slips his shoes off, and puts the costume on over his shorts and T-shirt. He turns around. “Zip me up?”
“Uhhh . . . sure,” I say, and I curse my trembling hands. Why is something as simple as helping him with his zipper giving me a tingling sensation in all the wrong places?
I yank the zipper upward, inch by inch, feeling the heat rise between us. When it reaches the top, I lean in close and tap the small of his back, my fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “There,” I murmur, my voice low and wavery.
“Perfect.” He turns around to face me and gives me a wink. Winks usually make me gag, but his wink makes me swoon. I seriously need to control myself. “I think you should try that one on for size,” he says, pointing to a red sequined leotard with a short flouncy skirt attached to it.
“Okay.” Red’s normally a pretty good color on me and it looks about my size. “But I’m going to have to take off my outfit to put that on instead.”
Zach cracks a smile and turns around to face the line of costumes. “I won’t peek.”
It might be my imagination, but I think his voice quivered slightly, almost like he’s nervous.
“Okay,” I say softly, thankful that he’s already turned so he doesn’t see that my face is the same color as the costume.
I slip out of my pants and pull my shirt and bra over my head, and a thrill zips through me at the thought of being in my panties so close to him.
I step into the leotard, relieved when it fits perfectly.
“Tell me when I can look,” Zach says.
“I’m ready.”
Zach turns to survey me, and I take the opportunity to check him out at the same time. His blue jumpsuit looks surprisingly alluring. He looks at me from my face down to my toes, lingering as he makes his descent. “Very nice,” he says quietly. “I think we look great.”
I reach into the basket, my fingers brushing against smooth plastic, and pull out a black-and-white full-face masquerade mask. With a quiet breath, I stretch the elastic strap and slip it over my head. “Do I still look like Lexi?” I ask, readjusting my blonde wig.
Zach grins. “Wow. You seriously look like a different person. I wouldn’t recognize you at all, even if I did give birth to you.
Perfect plan.” He reaches into the basket and pulls out an identical mask, which he quickly puts on.
The mask is a cross between what someone would wear for a gala with what they’d wear when robbing a bank—meaning that he looks kind of creepy in the hottest way possible.
Zach opens the door a crack and then motions that the coast is clear. He steps out of the closet and leads me along the hall to the middle studio. Without even a second of hesitation, he flings open the door and prances inside with me shuffling in behind him.
“’Ello there, maties,” he says in the English accent again. Why he’d test out pirate vocab and call our parents maties is beyond me, but he’s sure making it very hard for me not to laugh.
My mom and Nicholas freeze, mid-dip while the upbeat Latin music continues. Mom’s mouth drops open and Nicholas stifles an amused smile. The other dancers, mainly very elderly people, stop to stare at us.
A male dance instructor in tight black pants and a billowing white shirt switches the music off and gapes at us. “Who are you? And why are you dressed like that?”
“Brenda told us we could join this class for a complimentary trial,” Zach says, emphasizing every word with a dramatic flourish. If this guy ever gets bored of photography, he could have a career ahead of him as an actor. “She said you’d be thrilled to have us.”
The instructor opens his mouth and closes again quickly. “Of . . . of course,” he stammers. “I’m Roncarlo. We’re doing some Latin dancing today. Are you familiar?”
“Absolutely,” Zach says. “Right, honey?”
“Oh yes,” I say in what I hope is a better attempt at an English accent. “Very familiar.”
A bald man in shiny red shoes smiles at us kindly; his wife, a woman with curly white hair and a tutu, squints in thought.
Mom and Nicholas, meanwhile, eye us with suspicion.
There’s no way Mom and Nicholas know it’s us, I tell myself.
Relax. Besides our body structures, every other identifying feature is covered in some kind of costume item.
Roncarlo starts the music and demonstrates a few steps, quickly, then again at a slower pace.
Zach leads me as he steps forward and back, making me move in ways I didn’t know I could.
He’s definitely done this before. I’m called back to remembering one of Maren’s philosophies that doesn’t include astrology for a change.
She always told me to find a guy who can dance because chances are he’s good in the bedroom too. An unwelcome flush heats my neck.
“Yes, just like that. You’re naturals,” Roncarlo calls. “Keep it up.”
Zach leads me in the steps, and we twist and turn across the springy floor. Then he leads me closer to Mom and Nicholas, who look at us indignantly.
“Mind giving us a little space?” Nicholas huffs.
Mom blushes and looks down at her dance shoes, in her typical confrontation-hating style. This is perfect.
“Oh, dear. I am so sorry,” Zach calls, adding a singsong quality to his terrible accent. The music continues and the next thing I know, he lets go of my waist and hand and fakes a fall, body-checking his dad in the process.
“This is ridiculous,” Nicholas huffs, brushing off his fitted polo and tailored chinos like he’s trying to get rid of Zach’s cooties. “This lesson was going well before you came in. Mind doing your trial after we’re finished?”
“Yes, I do mind,” Zach says loudly, brushing off his one-piece and taking me in his arms again. “Brenda told us we were welcome to try the class. We have the same right to be here as you do.”
Nicholas sighs and shakes his head firmly, scowling at us.
“It’s all right, darling,” Mom whispers softly, squeezing his forearm gently.
“No, it isn’t!” he snaps, turning sharply to face Zach. “That mask’s got you feeling brave, huh? Take it off and look me in the eye, face-to-face.”
“No, no. I really much prefer to keep it on,” Zach says. “I’m actually a bit of a celebrity. If I didn’t wear this mask, the paparazzi would be swarming the place. Trust me.”
The lady with the tutu grins widely in excitement.
“Oooooohhh,” Roncarlo says, clapping his hands in delight. “I wondered about the masks but that makes sense. A celebrity. Remind me to get your autograph before you leave.”
“Celebrity my ass,” Nicholas says under his breath. He goes back to dancing, steering Mom several yards away from us.
Zach spins me around and sidles over, knocking his body into his dad’s with full force. Nicholas falls to the ground. Mom tumbles down on top of him, her arms flailing as she lands awkwardly.
Nicholas quickly helps her to her feet. “What the hell?” he shouts, glaring at Zach. “How clumsy can you be?” Then he storms out of the room. “This was our last lesson, Roncarlo,” he calls over his shoulder.
“Sorry,” Mom says softly, her brow furrowed and shoulders hunched as she follows him out.
Roncarlo wrings his hands and looks terrified he’s disappointed them. “Excuse me a minute.” He pushes open the door.
The other couples huddle together and speak in muffled whispers.
“That was awesome,” Zach says, holding out his hand for a high five. He cracks the door open, just enough for us to hear Nicholas giving Brenda an earful at the front desk. Without a word, Zach links arms with me and steers us back to the closet, where my clothes are waiting.
“We’d better hurry,” he says. “They’ll be looking for us and I don’t want to get caught in their costumes.”
Zach spins around to face the wall, then takes off his blue suit to reveal his T-shirt and shorts.
I step out of the leotard and then something about the danger of the situation comes over me and there’s a light flutter in my abdomen.
My body buzzes once again at the thought that I’m naked, trusting that Zach, who is practically a stranger, won’t peek.
I stare at his broad back, the lines of muscle definition through his thin T-shirt, as I slowly put my clothes back on, half hoping there will be a reason why he’ll need to turn around.
“Where are they now?” I hear Brenda say from the hallway right outside the door.
“Probably still in the studio,” Roncarlo answers, his voice sounding farther away.
Zach hangs our costumes back on their hangers. He flashes me a smile, gives a quick nod, then presses a finger to his lips. Cracking the door open, he peeks out and gives me a thumbs-up. We creep down the hallway, and as we near the doorway, he suddenly breaks into a jog with me right at his heels.
“Sir, sir, ma’am, excuse me?” Brenda calls from along the corridor where the studios are.
Zach grabs my hand, throws open the front door, and races to his car. He opens the passenger side door, apparently never in too much of a rush to forgo being a gentleman, and I get in. He runs around to the driver’s side, jumps inside, starts the ignition, and drives away.
Brenda pokes her head out of the front door, shielding her eyes from the sun in an attempt to get a good view of us.
I twist around to watch her as we pull out of the parking lot. “What if she writes down your license plate?”