Darling, Dance with Me

by Aisling Magic

  DARLING, DANCE WITH ME

  A novella by

  AISLING MAGIC

  Copyright © 2020 by Aisling Magic

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher except for review purposes where brief passages may be quoted.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, names, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to these are entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, brands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners

  E-Book License note

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Respecting the hard work of this author is much appreciated.

  Editor: Jennifer Halls Robert

  Proofreader: Judy Proofreading

  DEDICATION

  To a part of me who wants to quit every day, from a part of me that’s just too stubborn to do so.

  (This dedication was written on one of my bad days.)

  And,

  To all who have bonded and formed lifelong friends over books.

  (This dedication was written on one of my good days.)

  TABLE OF CONTENT

  Darling, Dance with Me

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  Read an excerpt of Silent Music by Aisling Magic

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  To my knowledge, there is no Wishme Town. It’s a fictional town I made up to suit the purposes of this book.

  The story takes place in a world sans COVID-19.

  This novella concludes at 92%. At the end, I have included an excerpt from my previous book, Silent Music.

  DARLING, DANCE WITH ME PLAYLIST

  TOURNER LA PAGE

  Zaho (Kizomba Remix by Nindja)

  ANABELA

  Shala

  LENTO

  Daniel Santacruz

  DANCA KIZOMBA

  Stony

  MÁGICO

  Mika Mendes

  REBOUND CHICK

  Nelson Freitas

  LOCO

  Jennifer Dias

  MOÇA LOUCA

  Yudi Fox

  TONIGHT

  John Legend ft Ludacris (M&N pro remix)

  MUSIC BOX

  DJ Rams ft. Miguel Monteiro

  DARK KIZOMBA

  Sakis Otravez

  ALL OF ME

  John Legend (M&N pro remix)

  DEEPER

  Nelson Freitas ft Kaysha

  ONE

  #InSearchofHealthyPenises

  “Donkey’s fudge, Kaci, you’ve got nice clothes,” Candee raves, inspecting the Roxy T-shirts Mom got me last summer.

  Three things about Candee. First, she’s my new roommate. Second, she’s an old Goodreads friend. And third, she’s got some interesting swear words which have been keeping my mind off certain people lately, namely my ex-boyfriend and my supposed best friend.

  “My mom got me those,” I admit, debating whether I should open my shoebox now or later. “And I kind of like them all, so that’s why I brought them.”

  She chews on her lips for a few seconds. “Just so I know, okay? Are you a supporter of clothes swapping between roommates or not?”

  Her question makes my lips twist up. She’s been eyeing my clothes since they got out of my suitcase. “I’m a supporter.”

  She jumps out of her bed and throws herself into my arms. “And this is the exact instant I fell in love with you,” she whispers with earnestness, eliciting a laugh from me.

  “You’re welcome to share my stuff, but I have rules.”

  She crosses her arms. “I’m all ears.”

  “No borrowing of underwear.”

  She scrunches her nose at me. “Of course not. What has graced your butt crack will not be near my butt crack.”

  That’s such a horrible image, but it’s Candee, so it’s not surprising. “Second, please ask before you take anything because I might have already decided to wear it.”

  “Of course. I was planning to ask anyway. I’d never take something without permission,” she confesses and then lifts her index finger. “Maybe I’ll take your food without asking for permission.”

  “That’s fine unless you start starving me to death.”

  “That’ll never happen,” she swears. “And I guess the last rule is to return the clothes washed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Great.” She jumps back on her bed. “Those are easy ones. My clothes aren’t as cool as yours, but you’re welcome to borrow mine anytime—same rules.”

  “Great.” I clap my hands together. “Glad we settled that.”

  Candee grabs her notebook and crosses another item off her checklist. She came prepared with a list of things that needs to be done before college. I’m glad Candee turned out to be the organized one. She’s cool, she’s open, and she doesn’t believe she’s in competition with the rest of the female population.

  Last week, I caught my boyfriend (I guess we can call him ex-boyfriend now) kissing my ex-best friend, so with my acceptance to Russell University in hand, I packed my bags and hightailed it to the beautiful town of Wishme. Luckily, the dorms were open early for us to move in. With Candee by my side, I’m sure I’ll be able to find a remedy for this heartache. So far, her company has been delightful. My major is English literature and language, while Candee chose communications and media. Another reason why I feel she’s going to be the perfect roommate.

  “So, number six is staying physically healthy,” she reads from her notebook and looks at me. “In other words, practice some kind of exercises.”

  My nose wrinkles. I’m not a huge fan of exercising but I do love to run. It gives me the solitude that helps clear my head.

  “According to Google, physical fitness boosts your mental capabilities and helps fight college stress,” she continues, putting the notebook down to help me separate my T-shirts, jeans, and shorts.

  “My bones may be too lazy for this sports stuff,” I admit.

  “Seriously? According to Google, men who don’t exercise have floppy dicks, and I don’t want to be amongst the poor females who’ll deal with those willies.”

  “I didn’t know that, but how does it help me? Last I checked, I still fall in the female category.”

  Candee huffs out an annoying breath. “Men who go to the gym and exercise have a firm meat popsicle. And, on the other hand”—she raises her index finger—“those who do not exercise have floppy ones, right? So, if we go to the gym, we’ll, you know, be friends with the good ones.”

  “Okay. We’ll have access to the college gym, so I guess we can exercise then,” I grumble, placing the separated clothes in the closet.

&nbs
p; “But then we’ll never know the locals, the town, or the different places here. All we’ll know is college, which will be as sad as a skunk’s ass,” she pouts, looking at me with puppy eyes. “And aren’t you interested to know what happens in a town that’s named Wishme?” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Maybe wishes come true here.”

  I’ll admit, when I was researching Russell University, I wanted to know more about this Wishme town, but after what happened back home, I lost interest. “Fine. I guess we can see what Wishme has to offer.” I finally get to the box of shoes. “These are my shoes. Flats, sneakers, and heels,” I say, standing beside the box, knowing she’ll crush me if I stand between her and the shoes.

  As expected, she rushes to the box and opens it like a child opens a Christmas present. She squeals. It’s amusing to watch her excitement, but at the same time, it saddens me because I know Candee can’t afford a lot of things—Dad did a little background check before finally declaring her “safe” as my roommate.

  “I promise I’ll keep them safer than my underwear,” she promises, caressing my velvety, royal-blue, ankle boot to her cheek. “Can I try?”

  “You should,” I prompt, “so you know whether they fit or not.”

  “Eeeee …” She throws her ass on the bed and wipes her sole with her hand before sliding the shoe in. “It’s a little loose, but I can wear it,” she says, lifting her shoulders a little.

  “Great.”

  She places the boot back in the box and goes back to her bed. “Now, for our physical fitness, I saw a studio when I went to the store yesterday, and their board says they have some classes starting next week, including a Zumba class, which I find interesting. What do you think?”

  “Zumba? Yeah, why not.”

  “Do you think we can go tomorrow? I have some stuff to buy at the store too,” she asks, folding her legs.

  Back in the box, I slide the shoes underneath my bed. “Sure. Tomorrow’s good.”

  #PlansMade

  #InSearchofHealthyPenises

  TWO

  #DontCluckwithMe

  “So,” Candee starts, curling her legs on the bed as she reads from the list. “I have to buy a desk lamp, a laundry bag, a shower caddy, and an ethernet cable.”

  “I’ll drop you at the store, get us enrolled in the Zumba class, and then pick you up,” I answer, dropping my purse and phone in my mini backpack. Today, we’re buying the few things Candee is missing and crossing number six off her to-do list: figure a plan to stay healthy—#ForSexyBoys.

  “Great, let’s get going,” she says, flipping her ponytail.

  I’ve chosen to wear a gray cotton T-shirt with the words “Don’t Cluck with Me” written in yellow—the T-shirt was gifted to me by an author, who loves chickens, at a signing event—and a pair of faded denim shorts because I don’t want to squeeze a gallon of sweat out of my clothes by the end of this trip. In the short time I’ve been here, I’ve already learned that Wishme is an oven in summer, so I’ve twisted my hair into a messy bun. In short, I look like I just stepped out of bed, but that doesn’t matter. It will be a short trip.

  By the time I’ve dropped Candee at the store, and driven to the studio, my back and armpits are wet. Backpack in hand, I get out of the car and make my way to the studio. The walls are adorned with graffiti of various dancing forms in different colors. It takes my breath away.

  “Excuse me,” I address the lady at the reception, but she lifts a finger to say “wait” and continues with her conversation. Arms crossed over my midriff, I pace the floor for a few minutes, but her highness is still on the phone.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. I’m here to enroll for the Zumba classes.” I deliberately raise my voice, but she again lifts a finger, signaling me to wait. She laughs at what the other person is saying as she finally takes a form out of the drawer and slides it to me.

  “I need two. One for me and one for my friend,” I explain, taking a pen out of my bag and silently thanking Candee for reminding me to bring one because it would have taken this woman another hour to give me a pen.

  She distances the phone from her ear and murmurs, “It’s one form for two. Just add the name and required details of your partner.” She gets back to her call.

  I look at the form. It asks for name, address, occupation, age, blah, blah, blah, and as she mentioned, there are grids to fill for the partner. Partner? Why would I need a partner for Zumba? Maybe it’s some new style? I scan the form, and yes, it’s written Kizomba in caps at the top—it must be a new form.

  As soon as I finish, the receptionist ends her call. “Sorry, that was my boyfriend,” she admits with a shrug. At her mention of a boyfriend, I make a conscious effort to smile as I hand her my form and ID. She scans the form and nods. “This is a nine-week class. Twenty-five dollars per class, but if you want to pay for the nine-week package, it’s two hundred fifteen dollars.”

  My mind processes the twenty-five dollars per class. I can afford it, but I’ve been raised by my mom, who doesn’t like wasting money. She’s a woman who keeps track of every penny, and she’s taught me to do the same. “That’s a little expensive,” I chide, and she has the audacity to look shocked.

  “The rate is usually thirty dollars per class anywhere else, and for what you get, a two-hundred-fifteen-dollar package is awesome,” she gloats, still maintaining that irritating smile.

  I end up paying, badly screwing up number two on Candee’s to-do list: no stupid expenses. Depleted of my savings, I drive back to the store to pick up Candee, reminding myself to look for a part-time job. Even though Dad is going to throw a fit at me working, I don’t want to ask him for money.

  Candee gets in the car, and the first thing that comes out of her mouth is, “You won’t freaking believe it, but I just saw my soul mate.”

  I glance at her. She’s sporting a huge smile, her cheeks flushed with excitement. The wildness on her face reflects her voice—she saw a pretty boy.

  “Greaaaat,” I feign my excitement, and she groans.

  “No, you don’t understand. He’s so handsome. I stood behind him in line and that ass, grrrr ... but that’s not all. It’s the long blond hair that hangs slightly above his shoulders and the fierce blue eyes,” she exhales, a dreamy look on her face. “There was a little girl in the line with her mom, and she was crying, so he bought her a chocolate bar and ruffled her hair before leaving.” She sighs, casting a goofy grin. “He is my Chris Hemsworth.”

  Now she’s got my attention. “Seriously?”

  She nods vigorously.

  “Well, you’re doomed. And I hope you don’t see him again,” I joke.

  “Shut up. We’re meant to be, and I know it. I’ll see him again.”

  I want to break the bubble she’s in. I want to scream and tell her that maybe he has a girlfriend or several, or maybe he’s gay and has several boyfriends and how bad this guy will be for her, but I keep my lips zipped.

  “So,” she starts after a few minutes of daydreaming, “you enrolled us?”

  “Yeah.” I grab my backpack from the back seat. “It was more expensive than we thought. I paid two hundred fifteen dollars for nine classes.”

  “Two hundred fifteen dollars?” she screeches, making my eyes twitch.

  “Yeah. It’s a new form of Zumba or something.”

  “But still … freaking thieves.”

  I remove the receipt and the pass from the backpack and hand it to her.

  “GRANDPA’S BALLS!”

  My gaze flickers off the road and to the stunned expression on her face. “What?”

  “You signed us up for Kizomba,” she says, her voice sounds incredulous.

  “Yeah,” I hesitate, but then she shakes her head slowly, and I know I screwed up.

  “You don’t know what kizomba is?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s dancing. A bit like salsa,” she explains, and my brain freezes. I park the car on the side of the road and process what she just revealed.

  Danc
ing.

  “Dammit,” I curse. “We need to go back.”

  “No, wait.” She grabs my arm. “It’s just dancing. Not Zumba, but still good for our health.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t …” Goodness, how do I explain this to her without sounding like shit? “My dad won’t allow it.” That was the only explanation I could come up with.

  “Hello.” She waves her hand in front of my face. “You’re an adult. You don’t need your dad’s permission.”

  “It’s not that. My dad hates dancing. He says it’s useless and a waste of time. I come from a family of lawyers, who don’t dance except for weddings or parties, and definitely not sexy salsa,” I clarify, feeling a little awkward. This is the first time I’ve talked about my family, and somehow, I’ve made them sound like snobs.

  But apart from that, I know kizumba is not a good idea. Mom wanted to be a dancer, but her father wouldn’t allow it. And after marriage, Dad told her, “Dance is for those who can’t keep their feet on the ground.” I can’t count how many times he’s said that to Mom, chastising her for not having a clear goal. Because Mom’s goal was to be a dancer. But she let go of that dream and stayed in his marriage cage for me and Kane, my brother. Dad made sure Kane and I understood that dancing is a big no-no, in case we decided to follow Mom’s flighty footsteps—this reason, I don’t share with Candee. I keep it to myself.

  “You don’t need to tell him,” she suggests with a slight shrug. She’s right. Call it my upbringing, but I can’t overstep the line—I don’t want to lie—and if Dad finds out about this, I don’t even want to think about his reaction.

  “No.” Not elaborating further, I reverse the car back to the studio.

  ***

  Back at the reception, the lady is on the phone—again.

  “Excuse me,” I call for her attention. She lifts a finger for me to wait, and I don’t even blink. After a minute, I call for her attention again only to be met with her raised index finger. This is a pretty poor service for the price I’ve paid.