Gradation: an enemies to lovers, steamy romance

by KC Decker

  “Sunrise, this is the Electric Slide, and it will take you four and a half minutes to learn. Come on.” Now it’s my turn to drag her to the dance floor. I haven’t line danced since college, and if you had told me a week ago that I’d be country dancing in a Los Angeles bar right now, I would have told you to put down the crack pipe.

  As far as the line dance goes, Sunrise picks it up pretty quickly, and before long I have a small group of eager learners clustered around me. One such learner is an elderly man wearing a Vietnam War Veteran hat, which puts him at an age where dancing in an LA bar elevates him to rock-star status.

  I’m only vaguely aware of Gavin’s presence at the bar, but I can feel it like an itch down the back of my neck. When I catch him looking at me, I’ve got my arm around the Vietnam Vet’s waist, and I’ve slowed down the steps to help him learn them easier. I’m so flustered about being caught glancing at him that I flub the next couple of moves and it takes me a few seconds to re-focus my nervous energy.

  After a handful of songs, I feel like the stress from this morning has mostly dissipated and I feel relaxed, yet amped up. I’ve quickly settled into having a lot of fun dancing with my protégés—that, or the caffeine jolt from Sam’s earlier coffee drink has hit me like the stray crack of a whip.

  At one point the lead singer of the band gestured me over, and when I stepped forward, he put his cowboy hat on my head. I think he felt it necessary for me to wear one while line dancing to Cotton-Eyed Joe. However, putting a cowboy hat, heated by another, onto my own sweaty head only served to raise my temperature a solid ten degrees.

  By the time Sunrise and I have danced our asses off and shed ten pounds of water weight, the bar has emptied out quite a bit. At the same time, Gavin’s fan club has dwindled to a few guys, including his Neo-Traditional tattoo buddy that I met earlier today.

  Just as I’m wondering if one of the guys he’s standing next to is also the friend he is staying with; I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  “May I have this dance?”

  This actually marks the first time I’ve ever been asked to dance in a bar. The fact that he even wants my humid existence anywhere near him is equally as surprising. Because the giant teddy bear of a man asking has such a nervous, worried look on his face, I decide what the hell.

  “Of course,” I say as I place one hand on his upper arm and the other in his hand. My last two-step partner was Ivy, and this guy is twice her size and triple her weight. I feel like I’m dancing with a brick wall.

  The poor guy was so timid when he asked, and the fact that he fully expected to be rejected made me want to dance with him. This might help him have a tiny bit more confidence the next time he approaches a woman.

  As we are making our way around the dance floor, I see Gavin and his two buddies looking at us. Which all but confirms they are talking about me. Gavin’s face is unreadable, but the other two guys are smiling like Jackals. Their fixed attention makes this cowboy hat feel even more like a furnace on top of my head.

  When the song is over, I tell the guy he is a great partner and thank him for asking me to dance with him. I overdo it, but I’m seriously hoping it helps him not be so nervous next time he talks to a girl.

  I get Sunrise’s attention to let her know I’m going to get some water from the bar. Then, as I’m handing the cowboy hat back to the singer, he surprises me by hopping off the stage and holding out his hand. Looks like I’m two-stepping again.

  The band carries on fine without him, but when he quietly sings the song just to me while spinning me all around the dance floor, I giggle. The giggle is purely out of discomfort though because it’s hella weird to have him looking deeply into my eyes and singing to me. If I would have known wearing his hat branded me in some way, I would have skipped it.

  “What’s your name, Pretty Girl?” he asks.

  “Alabama.” I’m so uncomfortable I don’t even ask for his name. The first guy was nothing but a gentleman, even after he loosened up while talking and dancing. This guy is the opposite. He wants to take me backstage and introduce me to his zipper.

  “Stay and have a drink with me tonight, Alabama.”

  “Oh. Um. Thank you, but my boyfriend is waiting for me at the bar.” I awkwardly put the hat back on his head, and he backs up before spinning me under his arm one last time as the song ends. I loathe the fact that Gavin and his friends have watched me get passed around like germs in preschool—and I know they have because the crowd has dwindled so much.

  I’m not sure what protocol is right now. I’m ready to leave, but since Gavin isn’t staying in the hotel, and I haven’t hung out with him all night, I’m not sure if I should tell him I’m leaving. Do I say goodbye? Do I wave?

  I finally decide to at least tell him that I’ll see him tomorrow, but as I make my way over to them, I almost lose my nerve. They are all watching me approach, and I have no idea what any of them are thinking.

  “Looks like your dance card is pretty full tonight, Hot Stuff,” Gavin says with a sneer before raising his beer bottle to his lips.

  Before I can respond—or even flush with embarrassment, the band launches into a particularly rousing version of Sweet Home Alabama, and the three guys in front of me crack-up laughing.

  I look right at Phillip, the Neo-Traditional tattoo phenom who also happens to be the most heavily tattooed of the three of them.

  “Laugh it up, Phillip—I told him you were my boyfriend,” I say with raised eyebrows and a squared-off jaw. Gavin and the other guy laugh, but Phillip sucks in his breath—right before his lips slide into a devious looking grin.

  “Is that right?” he asks, with one eye on Gavin and one on me. “Then, I do believe your last dance is reserved for me,” he delivers his words slowly and methodically as his eyebrows rise up his forehead.

  “You even know how to dance, Dawg?” the other guy asks as he shifts the chewed-on toothpick in his mouth to the other side.

  “Are you kidding me? I grew up in Wyoming—I’ll own that dancefloor.” Then he places his hand on my lower back and says, “Let’s dance, Lover.”

  As we approach the dance floor, the band abruptly stops playing Sweet Home Alabama, and they begin a very upbeat Shania Twain song. Looks like my tribute song is over, but they don’t want to risk playing a slow song either. I look over at Phillip, unsure how he is taking the shift in tempo.

  “Don’t worry, Baby Girl, I got this,” he says as he winks and joins in on the initial stomp, stomp, clap that the song seems to require. When he gets the subsequent toe and heel taps right, it’s obvious he knows what he’s doing. Unfortunately, I’m a little rusty on this one, so I spend a good amount of the song laughing at myself and remaining a half step behind everyone else.

  I have to be honest though, part of what is so funny to me is Phillip. He is all tatted up—wearing combat boots and a wallet chain, but despite how out of place he looks, he is owning the floor—just like he said he would. He’s good, and his huge grin is completely charming. He even adds in all the fancy, extra dance moves just to show everyone else up.

  Between you and me, I think he is relishing the fact that he is so unexpected. Just being able to disprove his stereotype and obliterate everyone’s assumptions about him must feel really good. Tattoos or not—this guy can country dance.

  We stay on the floor for the next handful of songs, and I’ve got to be honest, I haven’t laughed this hard or had this much fun in a very long time. I am really starting to enjoy my first tattoo convention. Who would have thought?

  After another song change—upbeat of course, Phillip decides on his own to turn it into a slow dance. He leads me to the perimeter of the floor and dances me around the small group of newly impressed dancers.

  “You sure you and Gavin are just friends?” he asks as he weaves me around everyone like a pro. I haven’t told him that, so evidently, Gavin has. That’s probably better than the truth, though.

  “I’m not too sure we are even friends. He barely tole
rates me, and the only reason I’m here is because his employee canceled at the last minute.”

  “Girl, you’re talking nonsense. What makes you think that’s all you are to him?”

  “I dunno, maybe everything that comes out of his mouth,” I emphasize.

  “Does he look like a crazy man to you?”

  “Often, yes.”

  Phillip clicks his tongue, “I’ve known that man a long time, and I’ve never known him to be crazy. I’ve also never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.” This last statement stops me in my tracks.

  “I think you might be misinterpreting that look.”

  He hauls me back into step with him, “And you may be misinterpreting everything that comes out of his mouth.” I think about Phillip’s words for a tender second before I remember Gavin calling me a cunt, and the tenderness dissolves.

  “Hey, can I get in on this?” Sunrise says from behind me. Her timing could not be more perfect because I don’t know how to respond to Phillip, and my feet are ready to be out of these shoes and in bed.

  “Sure. Come here, my little ray of sunshine,” Phillip releases me with hardly a second thought, and the two of them fuse together. They have clearly met before because the energy that crackles all around them reads unrequited love.

  Gavin intercepts me as I’m walking off the dance floor and asks, “You ready to go?” I’m surprised by his question because we have separate destinations. Still, it makes me happy that he cares about me getting back safely.

  “Yeah, let’s go.”

  Chapter 13

  As Gavin and I walk the few blocks back to the hotel, he seems especially quiet and uncomfortable. Everything becomes clear when he finally opens his mouth.

  “Alabama, we are going to have to share the room tonight.” I stop walking while he continues, “I didn’t want to tell you sooner because it’s really not safe for you to stay at that bartender’s place. I know I won’t touch you, but I can’t say the same for him.”

  I pause with his comment. I know I won’t touch you—it sort of feels like a machete to the self-esteem after letting Phillip’s words from before start to marinate.

  I still haven’t resumed walking, and I’ve been stunned into silence. The first thing I think about is the bed because it’s not even king-sized. And the second thing I think about is the fact that I don’t have anything to sleep in except the slutty scrap of see-through mesh that Miles packed. I can’t even remedy that right now because it’s almost two in the morning and nothing is open.

  “I’m serious, you don’t have to worry about me trying anyth—”

  “I get it, ok?” Fuck, he doesn’t need to rub it in.

  “I’ll even sleep on the floor.”

  “Awesome.”

  ***

  When we get back to the room, it’s beyond awkward. To be honest, my feelings are still a little stung that he was so revolted by the thought of touching me. I hadn’t even thought that far ahead, and he was already assuring me that he’d rather chew his own arm off than actually brush up against me in a shared bed.

  When he pulls the extra blanket and pillow out of the closet and begins setting up his makeshift bed on the floor, he looks really handsome. He has untucked his shirt, and his suspenders are hanging in discarded loops from his waist.

  “Gavin, we are both adults. You can sleep in the bed too.” He looks at me as if to gauge my seriousness, and then nods his head but doesn’t say anything.

  “Can I ask you for a favor, though?” I mumble. There is no way I can wear any of my clothes to bed and not look like I’m trying to seduce him.

  He stops what he is doing and braces both hands on his hips. The cocksure way he is standing, coupled with his styled hair and the rolled-up sleeves of his dress shirt, makes me want to go back in time. Just far enough to see if I could lick that tattoo off his neck instead of stressing how much he isn’t my type.

  I think his swagger alone makes him more my type than the last five guys I’ve dated. His arrogance too. Although I don’t actually think he is arrogant—it’s more of a panty-melting confidence mixed with an aura of greatness.

  “Spit it out, Alabama.”

  “Right, do you have…I mean, did you happen to bring…uh—”

  “Alabama, I’m fucking exhausted, get on with it.”

  “Do you happen to have an extra t-shirt?” I finally force out. The sly grin that splits his face is nothing short of lecherous, and his long pause makes me almost wish I was at the bartender’s house right now.

  “Nope, sure don’t.” The amusement is dripping from his smile as he slowly shakes his head back and forth.

  “Um-kay.” I literally have nothing to say right now, so I just stand here like a dip-shit. “Well, I guess I’ll go wash the sweat off me before bed. Do you need to use the bathroom first?”

  “Hey, Alabama?”

  “What?”

  “Did you happen to bring any extra jammie bottoms for me?”

  ***

  It’s way too late to wash my hair right now, so I pile it on top of my head in a chaotic bun so it won’t get wet in the shower. A quick bathroom inventory of my suitcase proves what I already know. The sundress I wore on the way here is too stiff and too tight to sleep in. The “pajamas” Miles packed for me is a see-through, plum colored, boner maker, and it would serve Gavin right if I wore it.

  The problem is, I would crumble like Pompei ash if he laughed at me or was unimpressed in any way. I’ve also got thigh high stockings with a line up the back, a garter belt to go with them, a short pleated skirt, a leather halter top, tight black cigarette pants, a plunging top that I can’t even wear a bra with, two lace bodysuits, a bralette, and enough skimpy bras and panties for a week. Fucking Miles. Nothing—and I mean nothing to sleep in.

  I take an exorbitantly long shower and then spend fifteen minutes applying lotion just to ensure Gavin is asleep. I think—only slightly less ridiculous than sleeping in my pre-shower jeans and corset, would be wearing the bralette under the plum teddy to remedy the see-throughness of the top.

  However, there is nothing to be done for the bottom. Every single one of the panties in here are stupid-sexy—the kind you never even wear unless you are trying to seduce someone, yeah, those.

  When I finally come out of the bathroom, supremely humiliated in this ridiculous get-up, I see Gavin in bed. His back is to me, and he is blessedly asleep. And, I might add, as far over as he can be while still remaining on the bed. I also see a folded white t-shirt with a note on my side of the bed. It’s dark in here, but with the light from the bathroom, I can still read it.

  Will this work?

  Oh, thank, God! I grab the shirt and dash back into the bathroom to peel off the current stupidity. My excitement is short-lived though, because I realize it’s not a t-shirt at all. It’s a men’s ribbed tank top. Of course my rockabilly tattoo artist roommate wears tanks instead of t-shirts. Of course.

  It covers my ass just barely and leaves some gratuitous side-boob, but it will be fine as long as I get up first in the morning—which I will make sure I absolutely do.

  I set my alarm for ten because the convention doesn’t open until 11:00, and it is fuck-late right now. In fact, we had such an early flight, I’ve now been up for over 24 hours.

  Gavin had done exactly what everyone else does with those damn deco pillows—dumped them straight onto the dirty floor. So, now I guess there is nothing left to do except saddle up.

  I slide into bed as gently as possible and pull the blanket up to my chin. Jesus—the bed smells like him. Even in my sleep, I won’t be able to escape his looming sex appeal.

  I wonder what he is wearing right now?

  Was he kidding about not having jammie bottoms?

  What if he is in bed naked—at this exact moment?

  I hate this fucking pillow.

  The pillow is too big—my head would be at a ninety-degree angle if I slept on it. It’s a sorry excuse for a pillow. I’m a tummy s
leeper, and my pillows at home are fluffy down and essentially flat—unless I squish them together. I think I’d rather have my own pillows from home than pajamas right now.

  Chapter 14

  When I wake up, I’m confused…and mortified. While sleeping on my stomach, I have scooched down the bed just enough to have my head essentially in Gavin’s armpit, my arm thrown over his waist, and my face pressed against his side. His naked torso touching my nose and lips is shocking enough but to make matters worse, the blanket is bunched between my legs, and half my ass is uncovered.

  I’d like to say I use a certain amount of stealth when extracting myself from the situation so that I don’t wake Gavin up, but that’s not entirely true. In fact, that’s not at all true. I sit up so fast that when I get to my knees and sit back on my heels, I have to scramble to bunch the covers in front of my non-panty-panties.

  “Do you always start the day with this much fanfare?” he asks as he rolls onto his side to face me, supporting his sleepy stubble with his hand.

  “I’m just. You know… So, hey—what time is it?” I’m trying so hard to be nonchalant, but I’m sure he can see my heart pounding through his tank top. Luckily, my theatrics are what woke him up, so he wasn’t aware of me nuzzled against his side.

  “Almost ten.” He gets out of bed shirtless and then stretches his arms toward the ceiling. The exaggerated stretch manages to ripple his abs and lower his waistband. Damn him and his disheveled hotness. His arms are covered in tattoos, but the rest of his torso is bare—of ink and hair.

  “That’s some crazy hair you’ve got there, Alabama,” he says as he rounds the foot of the bed in his low-slung sweatpants.

  I have no words to respond to him. I thought he looked good yesterday all styled and polished, but the sight of him rumpled and scruffy from sleep actually dries out my throat.

  “Do you need to use the bathroom before I get in the shower?” he asks with a foamy electric toothbrush in his mouth. The truth is, yes, I have to use the bathroom desperately, but I would rather pee in this bed than walk past him dressed like this. I’m not taking the sheet off my lower half until he gets under the spray of the shower.