by Lexus Love
Dance With ME
Lexus Love
Copyright © 2020 Lexus Love
Cover Illustrations Copyright © 2020 Lexus Love
Cover Design by Lexus Love, KDP Launch Cover Creator
Cover Photograph by Ameer Basheer on Unsplash. https://unsplash.com/@24ameer/portfolio
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below:
Publisher: Levisca D. Charles
Balata P.O
LC02 201
Castries, St. Lucia
ISBN: 9798634719818
DEDICATION
I dedicate this book to the love of my life. Love you babe.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To my loving spouse, who used his Jedi powers to edit my draft and ensure that my characters flourished across each page.
Love you Babe.
To Najah Smith. Your insight helped make this book possible.
◆◆◆
Table of Contents:
Anonymous quote
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
◆◆◆
Falling in love is easy,
Finding true love is hard.
Staying in love - Challenge Accepted.
- Anonymous
Prologue
An ear-piercing alarm shrieked forth from the battered car in the early hours of Saturday morning, alerting the residents of the ‘hood’ of the vandalism taking place.
The repeated sound of shattered glass rang through the quiet morning, as the metal bat made contact with the side windows and windscreen of the gray 2015 Honda Civic.
A howl of surprise and a scream of fear filled the air as well as loud cuss words and the muted thuds of metal hitting flesh rang up and down the street.
Curious, sleepy by-standers, some fully clothed, some half-dressed in robes and slippers, watched the show as the young black man vented his rage on the shattered car, his mother screaming at him to stop, his father lying unconscious on the cold wet ground.
The shrill of sirens could be heard in the backdrop as two cops rushed out of a hastily parked cruiser on the curb, to jump the young black boy swinging the weapon at the broken vehicle, trying desperately to wrestle the assault weapon from the six feet, 220 pounds, raging bull.
One of the bystanders had quickly called the police about a domestic issue in the ‘hood’, which had resulted in one man being brought down low from body injuries and damage to his personal property - to prevent the boy from killing his own father.
Not that the nasty, drunken SOB didn’t deserve it. Even in the slight darkness, Lucinda “Lucy” Swayne’s face was darkly bruised on one side.
The peering audience never made a move to help the crying woman nor the man who got knocked-the-fuck-out on the ground.
His blood sipping slowing into the wet earth where he lay.
It was about bloody time someone gave that mean ole’ Harold Swayne a nice boat full of his own medicine, they all thought.
But that didn’t mean it was worth knowing that the young Nigel Swayne, barely fifteen years old because of his high level of intelligence, had just graduated from high school a few weeks ago in May, would spend the rest of his life upriver, for disposing the world of a cowardly maggot that could only beat up on anything weaker than itself.
The largest and heaviest of the two cops handcuffed the boy and shoved him into the back seat of the black cruiser, the by-standers raised their voices to be heard, cheering the young man and were hassling the remaining white cop, who tried to shoo them out of the way of the reversing cruiser.
The patrol car made its way back to the 115th precinct. Officer Alan Campbell, the heavyset black cop driving the car looked into the rear-view mirror at the silent occupant in the back seat of the car.
He exchanged a glance and a nod with Officer Peter Marshall, the cop riding shotgun with him today, then back at the kid.
The boy was well known in ‘hood; quiet, dark-milk chocolate–skinned, fit and heavily muscled brother with a sharp mind, good manners and good grades.
He'd worked hard-part-time during his high school years as a good handyman and an even better mechanic, to get away from his father’s drunken tantrums.
He had a man’s mentality for one so young but had a ruthless rage bottled up inside him. It was a well-known fact in the hood that the boy and his mother were the available punching bags of the shamelessly drunken SOB.
Looks like the boy would no longer be a moving target for Harold’s fists and had earned himself his self-respect back from the maggot. With a proud tone yet much concern, Officer Campbell asked, “You alright back there, son?”
The boy sat still in a white cotton t-shirt and a pair of gray track pants, looked out the window at the sidewalks, brownstones and townhouses of East Harlem rushing by, didn’t respond but nodded in acknowledgment.
“He kicked you out for good this time?” Again, the boy nodded.
“Damn!” came from the passenger seat of the car.
He knew both cops on a neighborly level; they knew his history with his no-good daddy.
A heavy defeated sigh filled the slow-moving vehicle. “You know we had to arrest you for the assault, and we gone have to charge you for the eyewitness account of you vandalizing your dad’s car, right?” Officer Marshall said conversationally to the still silent occupant in the back.
Glancing back, the boy caught his pensive look with an expressionless one of his own.
Nodding from the silent response he got from the kid, Officer Marshall settled back into his seat wondering how he could help the young brother out.
The trial didn’t last long, as was expected by all since the victim of the attack was unavailable to plead his case nor were there any willing eyewitnesses who came forward to testify against the boy.
Judge Lance Nicholas- an upstanding man whose word was the law in the courthouse and a legend on the streets of New York it's self - he had sentenced the victim one too many times behind bars for domestic abuse of his wife and only child and wouldn’t have cared less if the slug ever c
rawled out of his slimy hole to face him in court.
All he knew was that he wouldn’t be the one to ruin the young man’s life for a little thing like handing Harold’s lazy black ass to him on a silver platter.
Oh no.
The boy was barely fifteen and needed to get away from his daddy’s abusive ways.
And his mama? No amount of therapy or bruises would make that woman leave that slug for good.
Judge Nicholas sighed and shook his head in regret as he rejected heading the case; because he knew sooner than later, he’d have to send Harold upriver for murder one.
However, Judge Cynthia Craig, a grieving mother of two recently deceased sons– the results of neighborhood gang violence- was not so sympathetic to the boy.
Instead, she sentenced him to two years in juvenile detention for attempted murder, which in turn frustrated and pissed the young man off.
After a year of struggling and fighting for his life in juvenile detention, one week before his sixteenth birthday, the boy was released for good behavior and was placed on a three month probation period to serve at a halfway foster home, where he would be staying for a few weeks till he found a place to stay.
Paying Uncle Sam back for his lodging by doing several hours of community service work.
His mother and most of the community were happy about this decision and were urging him to get up out of the ‘hood’. Unfortunately, this freedom was not about to last.
Six weeks later, the boy was picked up by the police on a charge of an undercover sting gone badly, where his fingerprints were all over the dead cop’s gun.
A cop was gunned down in the line of duty while some of the boy’s ‘hood’ friends, were on a street corner dealing drugs.
Of course, he was identified as being seen fleeing from the vicinity by the victim’s oldest daughter, at the time, by the clothes he was wearing, which was soaked with the victim’s blood.
He was arrested and sent back to juvenile detention for another two years on a trumped-up murder and drug possession charge.
At his second trial hearing, with new evidence found, this time Judge Nicholas was the one who handled the young man’s case and with a good, honest lawyer, the boy was released once more on good behavior to perform 7000 hours of community service unsupervised by his probation officer, at the Latin Heights Dance Studio in Jackson Heights, a new dance company set up less than a year ago, not too far away from the Brownsville Halfway house on 98th St.
There, he would come to learn the art form behind the sultry dances taught there and meet his destiny.
1
Thursday 6:15 pm
Two months later…
“Yo’ Papi! When you gone fix this shit?!” the effeminate voice James ‘Jaime’ Marba, Puerto Rican accent in full effect, called out to the young black man crouched in front the busted AC unit in the storage closet across the large room, that broke down at least twice a month.
A sharp cuss slipped from the boy’s lips as the tool he was holding slipped from his large sweaty hands as he came to his feet and fell hard on his sneakered foot, loud enough for Jaime and some of the near-naked dancers on the newly installed hardwood floor to hear.
Jaime chuckled.
He was thinking the same thing as sweat ran down his handsome face, slender muscular arms and broad back, soaking his sleeveless black tank top.
The excess water pooled in the exposed waistband of his boxer shorts on his narrow waist above his long blue sweatpants as he shifted his weight from one foot to the next, hands-on hip, elbows akimbo, pouting his girlishly full lips.
On days like this one, he often regretted leaving the well-established dance studio that is Mambo Luxe, which was just eight blocks from his new investment.
Leaving the high-end clientele he worked with and the dancing world stardom he had with the dance company, to choose to get a 15-year-old business loan to buy this low two-story run down renovated townhouse off the curb of 84th street across from the Vasquez Grocery Store with all its property issues and past tenant’s remnants.
At a great low price, it had old wood floors that had needed to be patched, sanded down and brought back to life, a leaky roof and patched ceiling, fallen plaster….everywhere.
A mess of old ductwork that was probably over thirty years old that had needed to be replaced, a mold-infested half-finished basement that was now fully renovated and had new drywall and a beautiful slate tile floor.
The upper floor’s 2 ½ bathrooms which were total wrecks were now beautiful works of the interior art design, a demon-possessed air conditioning system that still haunted him and four large painted shut windows that he had had the boy recently replace, which helped him convert the old townhouse into a legitimate dance studio.
Here his paying students and employees practiced the art form of dance; Mambo, Kizomba, Salsa, Tango and new to him, the famous Haitian dance moves of Kompa.
He’d had the two small bedrooms and living areas of the townhouse torn down by his free laborer who seemed to be blessed with magical hands for carpentry and woodworking, making the front of the house a thirty by fifty-foot mini ballroom with two and half large bathrooms complete with shower stalls– one male and the other female— and just recently added a large sauna near the bathrooms.
Most times, Jaime was just proud of what he had accomplished in the little time he decided to leave Mambo Luxe, to branch out on his own a year ago.
He currently had a two-year contract with the Plaza College to teach Ballroom and Salsa dances as a minor course of the school’s curriculum, through his friendship with his cousin’s best friend.
He'd also earned a year’s contract with the Club House in Harlem down on 3rd Ave. to showcase his current clientele at the very popular dance club.
Soon he would start an all age beginners’ class in his brand spanking new basement.
Now all his hard work was about to pay off, for he had just gotten the chance to prove the talent of his students and his worth as a teacher to professional dancers.
Today, however, was so not that day.
Though the four large new paned windows were thrown open to bring in a breeze and around the spacious room, many standing fans from the now cleaned and newly renovated basement, were twirling like maniacs to help keep the place cool along his fifty-two students - that ranged from age seventeen to sixty—from becoming human raisins while the maintenance guy worked on the old AC unit.
The summer heat made the high vaulted room of the studio into an overheated oven. Most of the students didn’t mind the heat at all i.e. the men didn’t mind the heat all that much.
Their female partners were clad in skimpy shorts or see-through leggings and tight tank tops as they practiced for their upcoming showcase for local ballroom dance competition happening two months from now, which made them all hard and ever sweaty.
They may not have cared about the heat, but Jaime did.
This was his dance studio, his baby, not even a year old and he needed to keep his students happy and healthy, though the studio would be cold one day and hellfire hot on another.
And to make matters worse, this was the third time in two hours he'd questioned the boy about the malfunctioning central AC unit that was getting on his nerves.
The boy turned around and faced Jaime with a very annoyed look.
“Give me a minute, okay Mr. Marba? I'm going to get it fixed in a few and it will be ready to go.
Hand flying to his chest, Jaime harshly sucked in a breath on a gasp and gulped to moisten his suddenly parched throat.
Apparently, his students were not the only ones becoming hot and bothered in this heat.
Guts tightening, heat radiated through his already over heated body and pulsed in his rapidly rising erection as he took in the manly look of the barely legal stud muffin standing before him.
This was no mere boy.
This was a fully grown man.
All 6’ 4”, 250 lbs. of him.
A big
ole- hot-stallion.
A real live giant MANDINGO!!!
He had a slight resemblance of a young Morris Chestnut only his face was more feline in features and he was much bigger in muscle mass.
His voice was so deep, it erupted like a lion’s roar rumbling from his chest.
A white cotton wife-beater clung tightly to his hard manly chest, outlining his hard Pecs, tight abs and broad chest for one so young.
Flawless dark, dark milk chocolate skin, shiny with sweat.
His long arms were bulging coils of muscle with large meaty hands, his long powerful legs encased in the black pants of the jumpsuit he worked in.
It was obvious this...kid was once a high school football player, who worked out regularly to have packed on so much muscle mass that large for one so young.
Either that or he spent most of his time, in juvey, lifting weights. Or ladies like Jaime himself.
Whatever! The KID was smoking hot!!
What in the hell?!!!
He’s barely eighteen and legal!!! He’s just a kid!! Jaime’s mind cried out, scandalized and … intrigued even as he subconsciously stepped closer to that hard body, to take in more of the boy’s manly sweaty scent.
But he hastily stepped back when the boy’s annoyed expression deepened into a menacing frown.
Jaime tried hard to fight the unwanted attraction he felt coursing through his effeminate body like hot lava, as his eyes took in the tidy and neatly combed six all- back cornrow braids, shoulder blade length, secured with a small black elastic band down his back.
The high forehead, a diamond cut face with high cheekbones and a square chin.
A man’s mouth with wide full lips, the wide flat flared nose and a pair of surprisingly deep Amber eyes that shone like bottomless pits of liquid gold.
The man-child’s feature was that of a giant six-feet plus feline with eyes to match.
Good Lawd have mercy!!
