Time Stamps

by KL Kreig

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Maybe. I admit I don’t know what it’s like to follow, but you have to trust your partner. Do you trust me?”

  “Yes,” I reply automatically, without a second thought.

  “Okay.” He takes a big inhale and exhales slowly, watching me as he does it. “Now you.”

  I grumble but follow suit. He takes me back into his arms and leans down to place his lips on mine. I close my eyes, forgetting everything around me as he kisses me tenderly.

  “Much better,” he mumbles against my wet mouth.

  And I realize he’s right. My muscles have loosened their pinch. “You may have to do that a lot.”

  Roth leads me right into the next step and floats us along effortlessly, even as we pick up the pace. “Kissing you is not a hardship, Laurel.”

  “It might be after we’re done here tonight.”

  He flings me out and twirls me around. It’s unexpected and I shriek in surprised delight, but as quickly as he does it, I am back in his hold and we’re practicing the same old steps that I am getting more comfortable with.

  When he slows his movements, I step all over his toes. He doesn’t even seem to notice as he draws me close and whispers, “A lifetime of kissing you wouldn’t be a hardship.”

  “Oh.” My mouth floods with saliva as we stare into each other’s eyes. Is that a declaration? An invitation? A promise? It feels like all three wrapped neatly into one. All that’s missing is a bow. And a ring. I swallow. “A lifetime huh?”

  “Does that scare you?” he asks as we sway, our rock, step, triple steps all but forgotten.

  Does it?

  No, I decide. It doesn’t scare me at all.

  “I should probably take you for a test run first,” I say, tongue in cheek.

  “A test run, eh?” He spins me again. Out and in. Then we’re nose to nose. I’m breathing hard and fast. “What kind of test run exactly?” His eyes smolder like molten lava. The heat burns me so good.

  “The, ah…” The sex kind, you fool. The hot, sweaty, dirty sex kind.

  He runs the hand that’s on my lower back to the underside of my tush. His fingers graze my crack and I swear to you, I’d call him a god to his face. If he stripped me naked right here right now, I would not object.

  “A test run seems to be a reasonable request,” he rumbles in my ear.

  “It only seems prudent,” I counter breathily, though he’s already agreed.

  He grazes the tip of his nose up the length of my jaw. Lord in heaven. This champagne music is distracting. “Prudence is practical, but one can miss out on the best adventures being too cautious.”

  Caution meet wind. So long! I wave her goodbye, the hanger-on.

  “Laurel…”

  “What?” I pant, exposing my neck in blatant invitation. I wait for the warmth of his lips or the flick of his tongue. Neither come. I pop one eye open and Roth’s staring at me, his grin wide and toothy.

  “You’re standing on my feet.”

  “Oh. Whoops.” I slide off, one foot at a time, bumping into a couple dancing behind us.

  The hazels I’ve grown accustomed to are dark and ablaze as he assumes his dance position once again and waits for me to move in. I would be affronted if it wasn’t unmistakable that he is as turned on as I am. The evidence is both in the sharp angles of his face and in the outline below his belt. “Shall we?” he croaks.

  Good.

  At least he’ll struggle as much as I will.

  “We shall.”

  I put thoughts of a test run in the back of my mind and for the next solid hour we learn variations of the same step, adding on turns and spins at various angles. I learn that the rock, step, triple step is the foundation for at least this version of swing. We put the moves we’ve learned together and all of a sudden, I feel as though I might actually be dancing. It’s still a bit confusing and I stumble more than once, but Roth is always there to guide me back, his hold firm and confident. He’s extremely patient and it’s clear he’s enjoying himself, even though I may very well be the worst partner on the floor.

  Then the lessons are over and now it’s open dance, and while I’m hungry and thirsty when Roth suggests we take a break, I decide I want to stay on the dance floor. I’m truly having fun. Who would have thought?

  “Mr. Romo would be so proud.”

  “Who?” he asks, twirling me out, then back in.

  “I’ll tell you later,” I yell over the throng of voices and live instruments.

  Another thirty minutes goes by, and I beg for a bio break. After that, we skip the beer and drink water to rehydrate ourselves, and by the time we’re ready to get back out there, an incredibly upbeat, happy song starts playing. A crowd forms a circle around the center. Roth grabs my hand and drags us up to the front.

  Two girls and two guys stand in the middle, their poses frozen. One of them is McKayla and the other is Greg. Every few seconds they change their poses to the feverish beat of the music, freezing again. But they’re all doing something different. McKayla shakes her hips. One of the guys wiggles his shoulders. The other girl knocks her knees together, while Greg decides to spin around. They’re bold and fearless and when the music reaches a fever pitch, they all fall into a choreographed routine. And nowhere in that routine do they perform a rock, step, triple step. I am envious as their arms whiz fluidly over their heads and their legs flick crisply to either side. Their bodies move as swiftly and sharply as an ocean wave crashing into the horizon, yet it’s honeyed and smooth at the same time.

  As they transition from moving as one to their own individual displays of personality, I notice that McKayla has locked eyes with Roth. Now, I don’t tend to be a jealous person and maybe that’s because I’ve had nothing to be jealous of, but at the same time my vision turns various shades of green, Roth lets go of my hand and announces, “Be right back.” Then he jogs onto the dance floor with three other people from the crowd.

  I’ve seen flash mobs on YouTube and in movies, of course, but I have never been witness to one until this moment.

  It’s thrilling and fascinating. And my boyfriend is apparently part of it.

  Wow.

  I have a boyfriend.

  With a quick, flirty wink to me, Roth seamlessly joins in their little act as if he was part of it from the very beginning, as do the others. About every fifteen seconds, another new person joins their group, and I stand there in absolute, utter awe.

  Roth’s moves are skillful. Flawless, as if he’s been professionally trained.

  His poise and self-assurance are not only commanding, they’re beyond arousing.

  And suddenly I envy everyone who is out there with him.

  I want to be them.

  I’ve never wanted to be able to dance more in my life, but I want to be a partner Roth is proud to have on his arm. I want to exude confidence and glide around the floor with finesse. I don’t want to have to count steps. I don’t want to be a Lisa.

  The song ends. The crowd goes wild. The band begins playing again and people flood the floor, coupling up. Roth high-fives with his dance partners and jogs back over to me. He’s barely broken a sweat.

  “That was…wow,” I say, flabbergasted. “I guess you weren’t kidding when you said you could dance.”

  “I do okay.”

  “Okay?” I snort. “I’d say you’re far better than okay. You were amazing, Roth.”

  And I am so, so inadequate. That doubt I’d given the old heave-ho a while back pokes her grubby little head out of the gutter and waves.

  “How did you do that?” I ask, still stunned.

  “Practice,” he answers with so much humility it warms me. “Hey.” He sweeps me up in his arms. I wrap mine around his neck as he swings me around. “Want to get a snow cone?”

  “A snow cone?”

  “They’re not just for kids, you know.”

  I check his face to make sure he’s serious and he is. He surprises me at every turn. “You�
�re right. I would love one.”

  The line is short. I choose cherry and Roth decides on blue raspberry. We split an order of nachos too, since we haven’t eaten dinner and I’m starving. We sit in our lawn chairs and watch people laughing and dancing and having fun.

  I pop a cheese-dipped tortilla chip in my mouth and look over, asking him in jest, “Tell me you’re not a two-time swing dance champion or something.”

  Scooping up a spoonful of blue-shaved ice, he replies, “I can say that I’m not a two-time swing dance champion.” He opens his mouth, and the shaved ice disappears.

  Thank goodness. With that devil in his eye for a moment I thought he was going to—

  “I only won the US Open Swing Dance Championship once.”

  I stop cold, watching for some sort of tell that he’s teasing me. As his shoulders rise to his ears, I notice a blush creeping along with it. He’s not.

  “You’re joking,” I say, astonished.

  “It was only the novice category,” he adds. “Not a big deal.”

  I sit there with my mouth agape. If I’d won the US Open of Swing, I’d wear the medal around as a gawdy necklace. But not Roth. He is modest and unpretentious. He probably has his trophy buried in a box, as I’ve not seen it proudly displayed under a spotlight anywhere at his house.

  “How old were you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Do you still dance then? Like that I mean?” I gesture to the dance floor. It’s obvious he does. The flash-mobbers clearly practiced together. That much was undeniable.

  “Not much anymore. I’m a little rusty.”

  “But you knew what you were doing out there. You didn’t look rusty to me at all.”

  He focuses his attention on me again. “Every major city has a swing club. It’s a great way to meet people and stay up on your skills. I’ve been a few times. It didn’t take long to learn that.”

  There are a dozen other replies that are far more appropriate than, “Oh. So that’s how you know her,” but nooo…that’s the one I latched onto instead.

  Roth crumples up his snow cone wrapper. He plucks mine from my hand and does the same thing, stuffing them in his cup holder. Then he tugs on my hand until I stand, and he drags me over until I’m sitting in his lap.

  “I’m going to break your chair,” I tell him, ashamed I let doubt’s doppelganger, insecurity, get her claws in me too. I try removing them, one by one, but those suckers are impacted, like rotten wisdom teeth.

  “You’re not jealous of McKayla, are you?”

  Yes. Yes, I am.

  “Of course not.” I roll my eyes for effect, but my tone is unconvincing, even to my own ears.

  “Laurel.” Roth palms my cheek and forces eye contact. “I have no interest in McKayla.”

  I should have kept my mouth shut or said, “Hey look” to distract him or kissed him until he grew hard again beneath me. Again, many, many options to choose from. But what I should do and what I do are usually on opposite ends of the spectrum.

  “She’s pretty. And peppy. And she’s a far better dance partner than I am.”

  His fingers flex and he brings his face within inches of mine. His breaths are still cool from his snow cone. “She’s petulant and immature and condescending.”

  “Oh.” I guess looks can be deceiving.

  Roth moves me closer yet, his lips brushing mine when he says in a hush so low, I strain to hear him, “I have been blinded by you, Laurel.”

  A cohesive sentence doesn’t come together for a minute. Maybe two. And during this tender silence, I let down every guard I have. I let him see the real me. Every scar, every imperfection, every weakness, every wound, every loss, every uncertainty. Everything that shaped who I am today I uncover and leave out in the open. And though he doesn’t know the stories behind them all now, he will in time.

  I let Roth Warren Keswick in completely and thoroughly. I let him in where I’ve let no one else before. And let me tell you, being that vulnerable to someone who you want to love you for you and not just who you portray yourself to be is paralyzing.

  Because what if they don’t?

  But rejection or revulsion is not what I see when Roth gazes back at me.

  What I see is…my heart runs wild. Could it be?

  “That sounds like a nasty side effect,” I end up saying, because sarcasm is my go-to when I get anxious.

  “It definitely was unexpected.”

  Some guys would say this, and it’s just a line…a way to reel a woman in and make her think you mean more to him than you do.

  This is not a line.

  It’s not an act or a game or manipulation.

  He’s in as much amazement over us as I am.

  “Roth,” I breathe. My mind is swimming in need.

  He is fixated on my mouth. Reverently, leisurely he kisses one corner, then the other. Then he kisses me like he means it.

  I squirm. My new panties could be wrung out. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a man this much.

  “Are you ready to go?”

  His breaths have quickened, and he’s hard as a rock beneath my thigh.

  Yes. Yes. Yes.

  “If you are.”

  “I am,” he husks, leaning his forehead to mine briefly.

  “Let’s go then,” I tell him, wanting nothing more than to get back to my apartment as fast as possible.

  We pack up quickly. Roth drapes the blanket over his erection, and we giggle like children all the way to the Jeep. We hold hands, both quiet on the twenty-minute drive, but the anticipation is thick and electric. If I reached out and ran my finger through it, I’d get a slight jolt.

  “Feel up to that test run?” Roth asks me, pulling into a guest spot outside of my apartment. He’s peering at me, waiting patiently on my reply.

  And this time I don’t mince words. I don’t think one thing and say another.

  “Only if you stay.”

  Roth leans over the console and kisses me sweetly. His lips linger and he comes back in several times like he can’t get enough. Each time, he becomes greedier. Each time, I become needier.

  “Just try and get me to leave, Laurel.”

  He thumbs my lower lip, watching as he does it. His mouth finds mine again and he groans as he forces himself away. He exits the car and opens my door. As we walk hand in hand to my apartment building, I am not nervous. Not much anyway. I am ready, because I am certain of one thing.

  Tonight, is the night that changes my forever.

  7

  The One

  Laurel

  Ten Years Earlier

  June 7, 10:28 p.m.

  “Do you want a drink?” I ask.

  Dropping my purse on the kitchen island, I open one cupboard after another looking for any stitch of liquor. Didn’t Carmen leave a sliver of rum in the bottom of a bottle a few months back? I just need to find—

  “Laurel.” Roth says my name quietly, ending my frantic search.

  The heat of him at my back has my stomach tumbling into a free fall. I close my eyes in anticipation of pleasure and wait. Wait for him to do something. Anything. Each quiet, patient exhale trickles over the back of my neck, making my muscles quiver and goose bumps explode.

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t want a drink.” As gentle as a breeze, his hands set low on my hips. His thumbs circle the sensitive spot right inside my hip bones in slow, drugging motions. God. I can hardly breathe as desire I’ve tried to keep in check unfurls and blooms. I tremble everywhere. I want everything. Pressing his lips against the shell of my ear, he whispers, “I want every one of my senses to be razor sharp.”

  Ohmygod.

  Applying gentle pressure to my hips, he turns me to face him.

  I lied earlier. I am so nervous I am shaking in my high-waisted thong that now feels like it’s digging into my oversensitive flesh.

  “Are you nervous?”

  He deftly traces a line from the crook of my neck over the length of my shoulder, drawing an honest
answer from me in the process.

  “Yes.”

  I grip the countertop behind me for support and my knees knock in toward each other.

  I have to look the exact opposite of provocative. Yet for some reason, Roth never sees what I see. And when he tells me, “You are so sexy, Laurel,” with such sweet, unadulterated reverence I liquify on the spot.

  “Make love to me, Roth,” I beg him, reaching for the hem of his untucked shirt.

  “Oh…” He wraps his fingers around my wrist, gently stopping my advances. “I plan on it.” And in one smooth motion he sweeps me into his arms as if he’s preparing to carry me over the threshold. “But I am definitely not making love to you in your kitchen.”

  He carries me into my bedroom with ease, as if I weigh nothing. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and nibble on a spot behind his ear.

  “Fuck, Laurel,” he grits, depositing me on my feet at the edge of the bed.

  He reaches over to flick the switch on the lamp, casting a dim glow around my room. He’s half-bathed in light, half-shadowed in the darkness. He looks disheveled and hungry. Starved, in fact.

  “You, ah…you gonna leave that on?” I ask breathlessly, folding my arms around my middle.

  Removing a strip of condoms from his pocket, he sets them on the nightstand. Oh, okay then. He came prepared. I half wonder if he has more. Taking a step toward me, he tugs my arms apart. “I want to see you, Laurel.”

  “You already know what I look like,” I counter, rocking back on my heels apprehensively.

  Surely, he doesn’t mean to make love to me with the light on, does he? He’ll see that unsightly bulge on my belly and the cellulite on the backs of my thighs. Every imperfection will be magnified by a thousand.

  “I would never ask you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.” Thank you, baby Jesus. “But…I will point out that you didn’t want to dance earlier and…”

  He leaves that sentence hanging, waiting for me to fill in the blanks.

  And it wasn’t so bad after all.

  Crap.

  How does he do this? How does he manage to effortlessly push me out of my comfort zone?

  If I want a life with this man, which I do, he’ll ultimately have to see me naked, right? I mean, I could keep him at bay for a bit longer while I hit the gym and drink collagen, I suppose. But your underwear does pretty much cover up your stomach fat. That will only last so long, though. Eventually they have to come off. Maybe if I arch my back with my arms over my head, I’ll stretch my torso, so it flattens out. Maybe we can start with the lights on and then I can convince him…