Dancing Shoes and Honky-Tonk Blues

by MCLANE, LUANN

  I halt him by putting both palms up like a cop directing traffic. If I had a whistle I would have blown it too. “Forget about it, Rio. It ticked me off but I get what you were doing.”

  “Mi Dios.” He runs his fingers through his hair and looks at me for a long moment before giving me a slow smile. “Okay, who cares about being prom queen? You’re going to be the Redneck Ballroom Dancing Queen.”

  “Ya think?” I joke but I was secretly hoping that he was going to say something different . . . like he found me irresistible and couldn’t stop himself from kissing me, but I force a smile, anyway.

  “Yes, I think. After all, you have me as your teacher.” With a teasing wink he jams his thumb toward his chest.

  “Oh, how lucky can I get?” I tease back while I’m thinking not nearly lucky enough but then mentally chastise myself. Don’t go there, Abby! I try really hard not to stare at the nice slice of exposed chest that felt so supple and smooth beneath my hands. He really should button that danged shirt up.

  “Ah, now you’re seeing things my way.” He points the small remote toward the boom box and the music starts up again. “Now back to work.”

  I groan. “But my dogs are barkin’.”

  “What?”

  “My feet hurt.”

  He shrugs. “You want to win this thing, right?”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Now show me some Cuban motion! Balls of the feet! Swing those hips, Abby. Flirt. Make me want you and then shove me away.”

  Oh, I want him all right. It’s the shoving away part that’s gonna be tough. I have to laugh even though my feet are killing me and the muscles in my calves are as tight as hard-packed snowballs. I’m still a little miffed about the kissing test that he gave me but every once in a while I catch him giving me an unguarded glance that tells me that our little interlude might not have been as one-sided as he pretended. Not that I’m about to go there again . . . once bitten twice shy and all that. But his belief in me is something I’ve latched on to like a pit bull. This whole competition might be a joke or a spoof or whatever Comedy Corner wants to call it, but to me this is serious stuff and I aim to win or at the very least give it my best shot.

  “One more time, Abby.”

  Groan. “Okay . . .” One more time turns into ten. I’m grinding my teeth and biting my tongue but I refuse to cry uncle.

  “Good job,” Rio finally tells me and I notice that he’s actually broken a sweat. Imagine that. After glancing at his watch he says, “Wow, we danced right through the afternoon break. Time for dinner.”

  “Thanks for working extra with me, Rio.” I’m smiling even though my feet are on fire and I think that even my skin is tired.

  “No problem,” he replies with a smile and I’m thinking that we’re sharing a warm and fuzzy moment until he says, “Um, Abby, take your shoes off unless of course you plan on dancing all the way back to your room.”

  “I was considering it,” I lie.

  “Yeah, right,” he says with a chuckle but then his smile fades and he gives me a look that I can’t quite decipher. “You’re something else, you know that?”

  “Is that good or bad?” I act like I’m joking but I secretly want to know.

  “Bad . . . all bad,” he answers with a frown. Of course my eyes must be as big as twenty-five-cent gum balls, because he laughs. “Abby, I’m just kidding.”

  “I knew that,” I lie and purse my lips for good measure.

  “Right.” He draws out the word and gives me a knowing grin. “I do have a sense of humor, you know.”

  “Right . . .” I mimic and he laughs again. I sit down on a nearby bench with a wince as I begin to unbuckle one shoe. “Ah, that feels so good.”

  “Your dogs still barking?”

  “No, they’re too doggone tired. All they can manage is whimperin’,” I answer with a weak grin.

  Rio gives me a look that’s actually laced with sympathy. “Here,” he says softly. Brushing away my hands, he kneels down in front of me on one leg and props my foot up onto his thigh. I try not to dwell on how his silky shirt is molded to his damp skin but, heaven help me, I am dwelling and I have to grip the edges of the wooden bench so as not to reach out and touch him. He bends his dark head and eases my shoe off my foot. Good Lord, I hope that my feet don’t stink! I’m thinking that he’s going to lower my foot and undo the other shoe but instead he grips my heel in his palm and then ohmigod, he begins to massage the ball of my foot with his thumb.

  “Is this making it better?” Without looking up he massages deeper using both of his thumbs to work his magic. When he looks up in question I nod because speaking is beyond me at this point. My tired body is about to slither right off the bench like melted butter on a hot griddle. I grip the bench so hard that I wonder if I’m leaving fingernail marks.

  “Relax, Abby.”

  “I’m relaxed,” I lie.

  Rio glances at my white-knuckled grip and shakes his head. “Lean back against the wall and close your eyes.”

  “ ’Kay,” I say weakly.

  “Now breathe deeply and try to release the tension.”

  “ ’Kay,” I lamely repeat and suck in a big breath of Rio-scented air. Can a girl have an orgasm from getting her feet rubbed? I’m thinking yes. The cool wall feels good against my shoulder blades and his warm hands are easing the pain while making my feet feel tingly and pliant. “Mmmm,” I groan long and low in my throat. It’s kinda embarrassing but I can’t help it.

  When he finishes with my now limp, droopy foot I’m disappointed and thinking of protesting until he starts working on my other foot and I’m suddenly wishing I had two more feet instead of hands, but then again that would be weird . . . Bottom line is that I don’t want him to stop. Ever.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Mmmm . . . if you ever give up teaching rednecks to dance you could make millions doin’ this.”

  He chuckles. “Millions, huh?”

  “I’d fork it over in a heartbeat at the end of a double.”

  “What’s a double?”

  “Back-to-back shifts. Basically workin’ from mornin’ till night.”

  “You have to do that very often?”

  I hear a frown in his voice but I’m too weak to open my eyes to find out. “Um-hmm, more often than not.”

  “That’s got to be difficult.” His hands still for a minute and I wiggle my foot in impatience.

  “I’m used to it.” With my eyes still closed I shrug, making my shoulders slide against the smooth wall. “I’m not alone. Most of the folks here in Misty Creek are in the same boat . . . working overtime or moonlightin’. A lot of the farmers have second jobs when farming is enough work for an army. We might be rednecks but let me tell ya, Rio Martin, we’re the backbone of this country.”

  Rio remains silent and I think I might have gone overboard with my little speech so I sneak a peek at him through my eyelashes. He has a thoughtful frown on his face and seems to have totally forgotten about my tired feet. “Um . . . whoof, whoof.”

  His frown disappears and he grins. “Okay, okay. So your dogs are still barking.”

  “Yes, uh, but not stinkin’, I hope?”

  Rio waves a hand over my foot. “Now that you mention it.”

  “Oh!” I try to pull my foot from his firm grasp and he laughs.

  “Just kidding, Abby.”

  “You’re becoming quite the jokester. Ha, ha, ha.”

  “I guess you bring it out in me.”

  “In other words I’m an easy target.”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “Mmmm . . .” Whatever comeback I was going to shoot at him is lost when he starts the magic massage once again. “You must know what’s it called . . . ? Oh yeah, reflexology.”

  “Some,” he admits and sounds surprised that I asked. “The feet and hands are much more sensitive than most people realize. There are detailed charts about places on the foot that mirror organs in the body and are supposed to deal with
all sorts of ailments. There are claims of everything from losing weight to removing toxins from the body.”

  “Do you believe in all of that?”

  “I simply think that it relieves stress and feels good,” he admits and continues to massage my foot.

  “Y’all got that right.”

  He chuckles.

  “What?”

  “You talk funny. Long and lazy with extra syllables.”

  I sit up from the wall. “And you don’t?” He does something to the arch of my foot that makes me shiver and I slide weakly back against the wall.

  “I speak a foreign language. That’s different. Don’t be offended. I think it’s cute.”

  “No offense taken,” I tell him but for some reason I suddenly think of him dancing with the dark-haired beauty and cute isn’t how I want Rio to view me. I don’t want to be cute and sweet. I want to be hot and sexy. Then I remind myself that I shouldn’t be thinking in those terms anyway. Closing my eyes I let my mind and body relax and simply enjoy his hands on my feet . . . Oh, it feels so good . . . I could do this for a living. “Mmmm . . .” I inhale a deep breath and try to control the silly smile on my face while the tension drains from my body like water through a sieve.

  “Abby?”

  “Mmmm?”

  “Are you asleep?”

  “Course not!” I tell him but do believe that I dozed off for a moment there. “I was . . . practicing my dance moves in my head.”

  “Ah, so that explains the snoring.”

  Of course I gasp. “Oh no, really?” I sit up straight and check the side of my mouth for drool. It’s dry, thank the Lord. I hope it was a girly snore and not like a freight train. “Was I loud?”

  “I was merely teasing,” he answers with a chuckle. “You’re easy.”

  “You!” I give him a playful shove in the shoulder but because he’s holding my foot on one leg he loses his balance and topples sideways. “Whoa!” I squeak. Since he’s still holding on to my foot I’m pulled from the bench with him, giving him an unintentional elbow to the gut and a knee to the groin in a pro-wrestling-worthy move.

  With a hiss and a grunt he says, “La mierda santa que usted me agarró en la ingle.”

  Oh, that can’t be good. “Ohmigod, Rio, you okay?”

  “No todavía. ¿Deme por favor un minuto, bueno?”

  “I’m not sure what you just said but I’m taking that strained sound in your voice as a no. Did . . . did I catch your family jewels?”

  “Sí, tengo miedo que usted hizo.”

  “That means yes . . . right?”

  “Yes, Abby. Yes . . .” With his eyes closed he does a pitiful little moan that has me biting my bottom lip between my teeth. “Please, mother of God, get off me.”

  “Oh . . . right.” After rolling off him I prop myself up on one elbow and ask in a very timid voice, “Is there something I can do?”

  “No. Please, dear God, no.”

  “An ice pack maybe?”

  He groans. “Abby, apenas me da un minuto y permitió que mí agarrar el aliento que jode.”

  “You have to speak English,” I patiently remind him.

  “I said give me a minute to catch my fucking breath.”

  “Oh.”

  Wincing, he squeezes his eyes shut. “Sorry.”

  “That’s my line.”

  “About the”—he pauses to gasp—“language. It just . . . slipped out.”

  “Think nothing of it. And if it’s any consolation my elbow smarts. Your gut is rock solid.”

  He manages a half grin. “That helps a little. So, how is your knee? Must hurt too.”

  I think about this for a second and then start laughing so hard that my elbow slips on the hardwood floor and I land on my back. When the laughter ends there is an awkward moment of silence and I have this compelling need to reach over and hold his hand. Of course I don’t but I feel a sudden emotional tug that I don’t quite understand. There is just something about Rio Martin that makes me want to fall into his arms. I know that he’s my dance instructor. I know that he’s out of my league. And I just bet that he more than likely has a hot Latina girlfriend waiting for him somewhere. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting him.

  “You should head on back or you’ll miss your dinner,” Rio says.

  I’m relieved that his strained voice is sounding more like his raspy sexy self. “I can wait for you.”

  “There’s no need,” he tells me in a casual and dismissive tone that’s disappointing.

  “Oh, okay.” I mentally chastise myself for thinking of him in any other way other than my instructor. I’m only setting myself up for heartache. When am I gonna learn?

  “See you bright and early, Abby.”

  I scoot up to my feet and smile down at him, hoping that I don’t look too wistful. God, he’s gorgeous.

  “What?” He props himself up to his elbows with a slight wince.

  “What do you mean?” I try to look innocent but it’s hard when I’m feeling anything but.

  “You were giving me a funny look.”

  “Goes hand in hand with my funny talkin’.”

  With a low chuckle he shakes his head. “Scoot, Abby. You need your dinner.”

  With one last look over my shoulder to make sure he’s okay I leave him and hurry to the dining hall. It looks like I’m the last one to enter the room but I notice a vacant chair next to Danny. When he spots me, he smiles and waves me over. Wow, what I would have given for him to do that back in the high school cafeteria. But then I tell myself that those days are over and that I need to live for today. With that thought in mind I head to his table and sit down to a very nice tossed salad.

  “Hey there,” Danny says with a weary smile. “Tough day, huh?”

  “Tough doesn’t even begin to describe it,” Daisy Potter chimes in with an exaggerated groan. Then again maybe it’s not exaggerated. She looks too pooped to pop. “Who knew that dancin’ was so hard?”

  “I hear ya,” I agree with a sympathetic nod. I’m met with tired greetings from everyone else as well. Travis Tucker looks plumb, well, tuckered out and even Julia doesn’t look so cheerleader perky.

  Looking around I notice that several cameras are placed around the room but no one seems to care. Muted background music and the tinkling of silverware against glass as the servers bring out some sort of chicken dish are just about the only sounds in the big room. For long-winded southerners this quiet conversation, yawns, and scattered groans are unusual but understandable. It’s good to know that I’m not the only one dead on my feet, but then again it tells me that we are all taking this competition seriously. But with fifty thousand dollars on the line, who wouldn’t? I only hope that this remains friendly and that no one gets hurt during what I’m sure is going to become the adventure of a lifetime.

  One thing is for sure: my rut is officially over.

  9

  Keep Your Eyes on the Prize

  The next week can only be described as a whirlwind and of course before this nothing I’ve ever been involved in could ever be described as such. When we aren’t rehearsing, which fills up the bulk of the day, we’re getting fitted for costumes, or being interviewed for the clips that will be shown as teasers for the upcoming show or for fillers in between the dancing just like they do on American Idol. It’s all so . . . surreal. I still can’t get over the fact that there are cameras everywhere filming all of the time. It seems like a waste to me but I suppose it’s how reality shows are done. Jesse called to tell me that the families and friends of the contestants are also being interviewed and that a film crew has been hard at work all over Misty Creek. They were in the diner yesterday doing little snippets about me! I can only hope that people are kind and don’t divulge my rather clumsy nature.

  With a long sigh I prop my sore feet up on a couple of pillows and lean my back against the headboard wishing I had the nerve to call Rio and beg for one of his magic foot massages. But I don’t since nerve is something I’m sorely
lacking, so instead I point the remote at the temperamental television and surf through the channels. Like everything else in this here lodge the TVs need some serious updating. At least they have satellite so I have about a million channels to choose from but nothing seems to catch my attention until I reach channel 69 which is Comedy Corner, and . . .

  “Ohmigod. Th—there I am! There I am!” I point the remote at the TV and giggle when the caption THE WAITRESS waves across the bottom of the screen. For the few seconds that I’m dancing I look hometown and dorky while bumbling around with the suave and sexy Rio . . . Hey, when did they film that anyway? Those cameramen are a sneaky lot. I can cha-cha better than that, can’t I? Then I trip and Rio has to catch me. Oh no, I guess not. “They should have cut that part,” I mutter with a little sniff.

  “Oh no!” I have to laugh when huge Mac Murphy “the Trucker” does this twinkle-toe thing that I think is supposed to be the quick step. He’s surprisingly light on his feet but the contrast between his twinkle-toe dancing and his size is too funny. Betty Cook “the Lunch Lady” has a bug-eyed Olive Oyl expression as she does the tango with her very tall, serious-looking instructor. The commercial blends into a scene with Mary Lou Laker “the Maid.” Mary Lou is led into a spin with a move that for a shining moment looks pretty impressive but unfortunately she keeps spinning right out the door while squealing. Her horrified partner stands there with his hands to his cheeks. When we hear a crashing noise he then hurries out the door after her.

  “Oh, so that’s why she had that bandage on her forehead,” I mumble as I watch. The clips end with a “more to come” promise from the deep-voiced announcer followed by the Web site address and the upcoming date for the reality TV spoof Dancing with the Rednecks. The commercial concludes with one more shot of Mary Lou spinning out of control. I have to laugh but then feel guilty and put my hand over my mouth to hide my grin. “Oh my Lord,” I mumble behind my hand.

  My cell phone rings, bringing me out of my oh-my-God-this-is-really-gonna-be-on-TV shocked state. I smile when I see that it’s Jesse.

  “Abby! I just saw you on Comedy Corner.”

  “I know, I know! I caught it too.”