Chapter 14
CHEMISTRY’S A BITCH, ACTUALLY
Holly
“Sure, we almost kissed. We also almost collided with the camera crane. Welcome to live TV.”
The lights came up on performance day like a reckoning.
Everything shimmered art deco gold, with a spotlight haze and the gleaming smiles of Indie Clarke, their perfect host, beaming manic energy into a million living rooms. Holly stood just behind the curtain with Nate, her heart banging against the inside of her ribs like it was trying to break out.
She adjusted her grip on his hand, fingers warm against his palm, and forced her spine tall. Cheeky. Flirty. Controlled.
Lies, lies, lies.
“And now, closing out our evening… Holly Martinez and Nate Eriksson, dancing the Quickstep!”
An impossibly fast drum rhythm leaped into the air, setting the pace before the audience could even see them. And then… they took to the floor. Nowhere to hide now. Time to get the job done.
The flashy horns of Hey Pachuco! by Royal Crown Revue blasted into existence, made popular for its inclusion on the soundtrack for the movie The Mask starring Jim Carrey.
Cheesy? Maybe. But she’d grown up on this song, blasting from busted car stereos and backyard speakers at quinceaneras.
It was chaos and swagger and the unapologetic joy she wanted to infect Nate with.
Let them call it on-the-nose. She called it a home-court advantage.
Holly and Nate carried through that cheeky vibe but made it all their own as the brass hit like a slap, the tempo running wild.
She thrived in the chaos. Nate was a six-foot-four hurricane in navy pinstripes and barely contained testosterone.
Holly didn’t care. She grinned as they took up hold, the music launched, and spun them out into the lights like it was a battlefield.
Wrapped in blue feathers and highlighter confidence, every inch of her shimmered under the lights like a walking dare. He wore suspenders, a fedora, and a grin that could start wars. The crowd roared like they already knew this was the dance of the night.
We’re going to break them tonight, she thought. Let’s make it look like fun.
The footwork was lightning fast, furious, and designed to make even professionals sweat.
But underneath the chaos, her control kept it all stitched together with muscle memory and sheer force of will.
Nate only just kept pace, but God, he sold the hell out of it.
Every cheeky wink, every sharp turn that dragged her just a hair too close.
He was playing a part, but his body was writing new lines with every beat.
They moved like magnets, the tension palpable and deliberate. Each flick of her skirt was a challenge; each look he threw her, a retort. The crowd was hooked. Addicted.
Midway through—just as planned—Nate broke hold and threw his hand up like a flag, eyebrows raised in a cocky dare.
It was the moment they’d rehearsed, but his grin made it feel brand new.
Holly spun away from him with a huff and faced the audience, rolling her eyes and shoulders like she was about to throw down.
The band’s brass hit hard, and she gave him a sharp nod.
He mirrored it. The game was on. They circled each other like predators, each hitting sharp, syncopated steps.
Kicks, flicks, hat tips, and shuffles as they tried to one-up each other while the audience went feral.
And then the band shifted, and the whole world dropped into half-speed.
The brass cut back, and the bass line melted into something smooth.
The tempo slowed into a Foxtrot. Perfectly timed.
Nate reached for her hand like it was instinct, and Holly stepped into him without thinking, their bodies slotting together in an elegant frame.
Two eight-counts. That was it. Sixteen counts to go from smirk to seduction. No room for fluff. Every step had to earn its place. They moved as one. Fluid and close, her cheek brushing his as they turned. Designed to sell the fantasy of something soft blooming between them.
And maybe that’s what it was only supposed to be.
A production note. Just a beat to let them catch their breaths.
But the moment his hand splayed across her back with the fingers she could still remember him curling inside of her like a fucking expert, Holly forgot about the audience.
Forgot about the scores. Forgot everything except how it felt to have him hold her.
The tempo ramped up again, from Foxtrot back to Quickstep. Holly executed a flawless spin, landing with a pop of her hip and a devilish grin. Nate answered with a ridiculous air guitar solo and a moonwalk that shouldn’t have worked, but somehow did. She laughed. Genuinely.
Right before she snatched his tie and yanked him back into frame like she’d just reeled in a misbehaving dog before they devoured the rest of their choreo.
A high-octane Charleston that turned her lungs inside out.
A fake-out lift that made the judges’ jaws clench.
A final pose so tight, her fringe brushed his abs, and their noses almost touched.
They froze, breathless, practically vibrating. Their eyes locked. His lips twitched and then parted in a way that told her exactly what he was thinking about. Despite the panic living inside her bones, Holly almost smiled, their lips just millimeters apart.
Almost touching.
The crowd erupted with an explosion of sound and flashbulbs, and Holly knew this hit of adrenaline would crash later like a sugar high from poisoned candy.
But right now, she was high on it. On the heat of Nate holding her, panting like a warhorse in a tux, sweat glistening at his collarbones, shirt half-untucked, and suspenders askew like a sin.
His palm burned through her dress, resting against her back like a fucking branding iron.
The ghost of his breath haunted her neck.
They held their final pose with her back arched and his grip iron-tight, and she felt every muscle of his ridiculous body locked into hers like he was born to hold her and just forgot until now.
And then he’d murmured it. “Tell me again how we’re just acting.”
The way her stomach flipped. Like that goddamn Pixar lamp had landed on her intestines.
She didn’t respond. Couldn’t, with cameras on every angle and three million viewers ready to turn their fan cams into shipping fuel.
Indie rushed over to them like a raccoon stoking a glitter fire, mic first and sanity second, as the pair of them stood up like they weren’t already eye-fucking each other.
“Well, if THAT didn’t just burn the floor down,” Indie gushed, practically vibrating with excitement, “I don’t know what will! Guys, what the hell was that?”
Holly didn’t move. Just turned slightly, letting Nate take the first hit. His chest was still heaving beside her, suspenders halfway to indecent, hair an absolute crime scene.
“That,” he said, still breathless, “was about nine hundred hours of foot drills and the fact that Holly Martinez scares me more than getting checked into the boards.” And then the bastard grinned like he’d just won a gold medal in sexual tension.
Indie’s grin was positively feral. “Oh, so we’re playing that game. Got it. Because the chemistry? The footwork? You two looked like you were having a whole conversation out there.”
Nate didn’t miss a beat. “We were,” he said with a cocky smirk, voice low enough that Holly felt it in her teeth. “She just didn’t like my answers.”
Holly shot him a look. “Because your answers were wrong.”
Indie pressed a hand to her chest like this was an episode of The Bachelor. “Okay, I can’t tell if I should give you a trophy or a therapist.”
“We’ll take both,” Nate said with a cheeky wink.
Holly couldn’t resist the smile that cracked across her face, no matter how hard she tried. And that was the problem. Nate already watched her like she was a secret he’d only just partway solved. And the worst part? She kind of wanted him to hurry up and figure her out. Sort of.
The crowd screamed. Indie laughed. But Holly felt seen in a way that was way too close to known. And that was dangerous.
She tried to pivot and play it cool. Said something about trusting the work and letting the rest happen naturally. But there was absolutely no way in hell she could concentrate because that’s when his fingers brushed hers.
And she should’ve pulled away. Should’ve drawn a line, cracked a joke, walked offstage and into oncoming traffic. Should have yanked her hand back. Instead, she held her breath for a split second and prayed her feelings weren’t showing on her face.
When his voice reached her, it was a quiet prayer he didn’t mean for anyone else to hear. Except the whole country was listening, live-to-air.
“Holly’s the reason I made it through tonight. It’s all her. I’m just the lucky thug she takes along for the ride.”
She turned and looked right at him, her heart leaping into her chest for the second time that evening. He meant it. There was nothing performative in his eyes. Just Nate, raw and open and daring her to admit she felt it too. Which she absolutely, positively would not be doing.
Indie, oblivious and chipper, jumped in to save her from the threat of her own feelings.
“Alright, folks!” she beamed, barely holding onto the mic as the audience roared. “Judges’ scores in just a moment, but first, let’s take another look at that final move.”
The jumbotron flared to life behind them, throwing up a slow-motion replay that made Holly want to scream into the nearest throw pillow.
There they were, bodies fused, noses nearly touching, feathers swaying, Nate’s hand splayed wide on her back like it belonged there.
The eye contact. The smirk. The moment right before his mouth moved.
The almost kiss.
The audience breathed out a loud, contrived awwwwwww.
Holly groaned. “God, please don’t zoom in on that part,” she grumbled, but there was a flush living its best life high on her cheekbones.
“Too late,” Indie cackled like the menace she was. “That one’s going viral before the credits roll.”
And Holly smiled through gritted teeth, because of course it was. And because, worst of all, she kind of wanted to watch it again. Alone. With a drink. Maybe a fan.
“Alright,” Indie announced, stepping center stage, “Let’s go to the judges! Muffy?”
“Oh my gooood.” Muffy leaned into her mic, looking flustered. “It was cheeky, it was chaotic, and it was filthy. Loved it. Costumes on point, song choice so ridiculous it’s right. And if chemistry were a category? You two just won the Academy Award. An 8 from me!”
“Praise indeed,” Indie grinned, looking at the somewhat unimpressed-looking guy at the end of the judging panel. “How’d you like them apples, Stan?”
Stan Mahoney adjusted some papers on the desk in front of him, all business.
“There were timing issues. A few rough edges.” The audience started to boo, and he cracked a smile, lifting a hand to stave them off while he finished speaking.
“But your recovery? Sharp. Your attitude? Criminal. And the storytelling? Off the charts. An 8 from me, too. Well done.”
“Great scores so far for Nate and Holly! Let’s go to our resident fashion-queen, Chantreuse.”
The incredibly fashion-forward Chantreuse sat there, fanning herself with her scorecard. “I don’t care if he forgot half the steps,” she said. “He followed her. And she controlled the floor like it owed her rent. I was entertained. I was scandalized. I’m calling my therapist. 9.”
The crowd screamed.
“Well, there you have it folks! Holly Martinez and Nate Eriksson proving for the second week in a row that they’re coming for the Season 12 crown with a judges’ score of 25 out of a possible 30!
” Indie beamed into the camera. “Don’t forget to vote for them using the number on your screen.
We’ll be right back after this, with former Miss USA Jorja Ray and her partner Lars Holm dancing the waltz! ”
Miles higher than Holly had expected for a week two Quickstep with a hockey enforcer who danced like he was trying to win the key to her chastity belt instead of the grand prize.
His hand brushed hers again, but she didn’t dare look at him.
Didn’t have to. The tension between them had its own gravity now.
Before she knew it Indie was ushering them off to the press line, still riding the high of those numbers.
God help me, we’re winning.
And I’m starting to want it.
@chaoticballroom on Threads:
sorry but that wasn’t a quickstep that was a foreplay montage with jazz hands and i would watch it on loop until the sun explodes #hate2hot #quickstepgate
@realityrecapper on X:
HOLLY MARTINEZ GRABBING NATE BY THE TIE LIKE A BOSS???? the power. the dominance. the eroticism. the choreo. i need to sit down. forever.
Strictly Scandal Online:
Holly and Nate’s Quickstep: A fever dream of fringe, footwork, and filth. Suspenders haven’t seen this much action since Magic Mike. Insiders are saying… READ MORE→
@judgethirsty69:
“chemistry isn’t a category” WELL IT SHOULD BE. i don’t even like dancing shows. now i’m binge-watching edits and crying into my wine. i need help.