Dancing Shoes and Honky-Tonk Blues

by MCLANE, LUANN

  And then I’m annoyed. I’ve been waiting all my life for Danny to be interested in me and then Rio comes along, a guy who will be in and out of my life in just a few weeks, and he’s all I can think about. Danny is a hometown boy, a hard worker and successful in his own right. He is the kind of guy I need to be setting my sights on. Not a Spanish-speaking, world-class ballroom dancer who makes me melt but is way out of my league.

  I need to do more than resist Rio Martin. I need to not think of him in that way at all. I’m only setting myself up for a fall if I do. So from here on in I’m really going to start thinking of Rio as my dance instructor and nothing more. There, I feel better already.

  “Hello, Abby,” says a deep, smoky voice laced with a doggone Spanish accent that can only belong to one person.

  My traitorous heart begins beating triple time but I carefully school my features into a nonchalant smile and turn around to face Rio. “Good mornin’.” I incline my head politely. He gives me an equally bland smile and a crisp all-business nod. Good. We’re still on the same page. Perhaps this won’t be so hard after all. I just won’t think about how hot he looks in tight black pants and an ice blue formfitting shirt or how sexy his long hair is pulled back in a short ponytail. Where I come from guys don’t do this, but on Rio it works . . . not that I’m noticing or anything. I’m certainly not going to think about how his inky black hair feels sifting though my fingers. Nope, not me. Shaking my head as I follow him inside I ask, “Did you get here early?”

  He nods. “Yes. I wanted to get a feel for the layout of the dance floor. We’ll all get turns rehearsing and I’m happy to say that we’re first. Are you ready?”

  “I was born ready.”

  Rio chuckles at my comment and flashes me a grin that makes it so darned hard to remain aloof. Note to self: no more jokes. His broody bad-boy scowl is hard enough to resist but his laughter lights up his face and warms my fast-beating heart. But there’s a hint of sadness about Rio that has me wanting to make him smile in spite of my resolve to resist my growing attraction to him. There’s so much more that I want to know about him but then I remind myself to concentrate on the competition that’s important to my family.

  As I pass by him into the dance hall he says, “Are you okay? You look so . . . serious.”

  “Got my game face on.”

  He frowns like he doesn’t understand and then I realize that he probably doesn’t.

  “I’m concentratin’ on the task at hand, Rio. That’s the plan, right?”

  “Ye’re danged tootin’,” he says, making my head whip around. When I raise my eyebrows he explains, “Heard that big truck driver use that phrase a couple of times. Seemed like an appropriate time to use it. You know, when in Rome . . .”

  I roll my eyes but have trouble not smiling. “Um, you’ll have to work on that accent to be convincin’.”

  “Ye’re danged tootin’,” he repeats, attempting to sound southern but ending up sounding like a Spanish John Wayne.

  I have to laugh, which is a mistake because when Rio joins me my resistance starts to dissolve as quickly as a sand castle slapped by a big wave. I’m thinking that I don’t have a lot of willpower when it comes to chocolate chip cookies or Rio Martin. In fact, he looks good enough to just gobble right up and I’m sure I’m gazing at him like I want to do just that, but resist I must. That’s the plan. Clearing my throat I say, “Okay, well, let’s get this show on the road.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Let’s get this party started.”

  He shakes his head. “Party?”

  “Let’s dance, Rio.”

  He grins. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

  I return his smile, glad that I’m able to keep things lighthearted and upbeat. We go through a series of stretches and warm-ups when Rio turns on the music. Finally after he decides we’re limber enough we settle into the closed position with my hand resting lightly on his arm, and I suddenly understand the meaning of sexual tension. The brush of his fingertips down my back raises goose bumps on my skin, making me wish I had worn something more substantial than this thin cotton T-shirt. I try to concentrate on the sequence of the dance steps and to ignore the hum of desire that being in his arms creates, but the beat of the music, the Cuban motion of our hips sends a sensual message that my body will not deny. My heart beats faster and faster while my breathing becomes quick and shallow. I follow Rio’s lead, feeling the rhythm and dancing the routine without even thinking about the steps.

  “That’s good, Abby. You’re improving by leaps and bounds.”

  “Thanks.” I hope he thinks my breathlessness is from the exertion.

  “We want to dance closer to the judges if possible. I’ll have to adjust where we begin the dance.” He points to a long table set up where there are usually high tables with bar stools. The huge dance hall is rustic, with a western flair, and I’m guessing they will leave it this way to contrast the elegant dancing with the hoedown atmosphere. Lighting is being set as we speak and I notice for the first time that a camera has been filming us.

  “Ignore the media,” Rio says, noticing my gaze. “You can’t allow yourself to be distracted by the cameras or the crowd.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “But at the same time we must play up to them.”

  “Okay.” I nod but I’m a little confused. How can I play up to them and ignore them at the same time? “Shouldn’t I just concentrate on the dance?”

  Rio shakes his head. “I wish that were the case. But this is a reality show, Abby. The most popular couple will win. Unfortunately, we can be the best dancers and still come up short, so we have to play both angles. Am I making sense?”

  “Yes,” I answer slowly but I can’t suppress a little nervous quiver in my voice. “People watch Comedy Corner to laugh so they might vote for the funniest couple, right?”

  “Exactly. We don’t have any control over that.”

  “That won’t be our angle, will it?”

  “Funniest?” Rio chuckles. “Do I look like a funny guy?”

  “Uh . . . no.”

  “Exactly. I couldn’t pull that off if my life depended on it. But we can entertain. I’ve won enough competitions to know how to work the audience and the judges.”

  “Yes, but I haven’t. Rio, I don’t have a clue as to how to do this.”

  “Remember the chase of the cha-cha. Show some of that cheeky personality. Woo the judges and wow the crowd.”

  “You really think I can do that?”

  He takes a step closer. “I know you can.”

  But then he gives me an intense look that has me asking, “Oh boy, there’s something more, isn’t there?”

  Rio nods but remains silent as if what he has to say is going to make me uncomfortable.

  I sigh. “It’s okay. Lay it on me.”

  “Lay it on you?” He frowns and seems to mull this over.

  “Spit it out, Rio.”

  “Spit what out?” He runs his tongue over his teeth as if he’s afraid he’s got some food stuck there.

  “Mercy me. Just tell me straight up, will you? I’m a big girl. I can take it.”

  He throws his hands up in the air. “¡Para la consideración de Dios, habla inglés!”

  “Speak English, Rio.”

  “That’s what I just told you to do.”

  “I’m speakin’ English!”

  “But I’m hearing you in Spanish and the literal translation of your redneck lingo isn’t making sense.”

  I narrow my eyes and thin my lips. “Did you just call me a redneck?”

  “Is there a problem with that? I mean, you are a redneck, right?” He gives me another confused look.

  “Yes, I am,” I tell him and add a little head bop but I’m suddenly wondering why the hell I’m getting all fired up. I think it has something to do with suppressing the need to kiss him senseless. Still, I take a step closer and try to look all big and bad like when I try to intimidate Jesse even though
it never works. I don’t think it’s working now, either. Suddenly remembering my train of thought that was sidetracked by Rio’s too sexy self, I add, “And I’m proud of it.” I feel the need to jam my thumb toward my chest for emphasis.

  “And I’m proud to be Mexican. Just where are you going with this, Abby?” His voice is a low, exasperated growl and Lord help me, I want to kiss the man.

  “I—I don’t rightly . . . know.” My own voice is barely above a whisper and I can’t help but stare at his mouth that is so very close to mine. “I guess I’m a bit confused and feeling . . . um, frustrated.”

  After glancing over at the cameras Rio takes my hand. “Come with me.”

  Like he’d have to ask twice. Weaving past the tables and bar stools, I let him lead me out the side door away from the prying eyes of the media and camera crew. Once outside I take a deep breath of cool morning air and give Rio my attention. “Okay, spill.”

  “Spill?” He rolls his eyes. “I’m guessing that translates to tell you what I mean.”

  “Yes.” I sigh. “I’m going to have to refrain from pop culture references and redneck slang.”

  “That would help.”

  I shrug. “Sorry, it’s who I am.”

  “No need to be sorry, Abby. I like who you are.”

  “Real—” I begin but then stop myself.

  He tucks a finger beneath my chin and says gruffly, “Yeah, really.”

  Swallowing hard I back up a step and come up against the brick wall behind me. “So . . . so, what is this thing you need to tell me?”

  “We have something that, as far as I can tell, no other couple in this competition has.”

  “And just what is that?”

  He takes a step closer and rests his palms on the wall behind me. Mere inches separate us. He blocks out the bright sunlight and replaces the cool breeze with the warmth of his body and yet I shiver. “We have chemistry, Abby. Something smoldering between us.” He leans in even closer but not yet touching and whispers in my ear, “Do you feel it?”

  I nod. “You know I do. Just . . . just what are you doin’, Rio? I thought resistance was the plan.”

  “It is, but only off the dance floor. On the floor we must sizzle. This is the thing that will separate us from the pack. I think the only way we have a chance to win this is to play up our chemistry. What do you say, Abby?”

  “I reckon I’m down with that.”

  He gives me a half grin. “Down with that means that you’re in agreement, right?”

  I start to say yes. I should say yes. But instead I put a hand on his chest and shock myself by saying, “I suppose. But why? We’re both adults and there is something between us that we can’t deny. There’s no rule that says we can’t be together, Rio. I checked. Why fight it?”

  He goes very still, making me regret my outburst. His heart is pounding beneath my hand and for a moment I think he’s going to throw caution to the wind and lean in and kiss me. “It would be a mistake, Abby. We’ve already discussed this.”

  “A mistake, Rio? Or a risk? There’s a big difference.”

  “It would be both.” A shadow of sadness passes over his features. “A mistake I’m not willing to make and a risk I’m not willing to take for both of our sakes.”

  I open my mouth to protest but he places a gentle finger on my lips. “I do care about you, Abby. But I know what this money would mean to your family. I was so wrong to let my desire and my feelings overcome what I know is best. Now let’s get back in there and rehearse before our time is up.”

  Although I nod in agreement I see regret in his eyes and deep down inside I know that I’m not ready to give up.

  11

  Dancing with the Rednecks

  You might think that there is a limit to how nervous a person can get, but with each passing minute while Rio and I wait our turn to dance in the first live competition at the Bluegrass Dance Hall my nerves stretch tighter than a rubber band on a slingshot. My stomach feels like it’s sailing over the first hill of a roller coaster . . . rising up and hovering near my throat before plunging like a bat outta hell.

  “I have to pee.” We’re waiting our turn in what they call the greenroom but in reality is a big storage area that’s been cleared of beer cases and hello, the walls are white. “I’ll be back in a minute . . . or maybe never.”

  “Abby, how can that be?” Rio takes his gaze from the television monitor where we can watch the performers dance and gives me another worried once-over. “You’ve gone twice in the past thirty minutes. There couldn’t be anything left in your bladder.”

  “The second time I didn’t pee. I barfed.”

  “Barfed? What is barfed?”

  “Threw up. Blaaah.” I demonstrate with a hand motion from my mouth toward the floor and then rest my hand on my sequined stomach. “In fact I think I might have to do it again.”

  “You don’t have to pee or . . . barf.”

  “Oh yes, I do. I have to do both. Maybe at the same time.”

  “You don’t,” he quietly assures me and takes my shaky, cold hand in his firm, warm grasp. I hang on for dear life, hoping that we won’t need a visit to the hospital for crushed fingers. “You don’t have long to wait. After this dance there’s one more and then us.” He nods toward the monitor. “Take your mind off your nerves and watch.”

  I inhale a deep breath in an effort to calm myself, but the stench of stale beer and cigarettes hovering in the storage room, excuse me, the greenroom, makes me cringe. “ ’Kay,” I say weakly. “Sorry for bein’ so crude.”

  “How so?”

  “Sayin’ pee and barf and everything. I’m just not thinkin’ straight. I’ve been raised better than that.” I smooth my hand over my hair to make sure that it’s still in place, but there’s so much hair spray holding it back into the tight bun at the nape of my neck that there is really no need. A couple of snappy little no-nonsense wardrobe women are flitting around touching up makeup and checking our costumes. I tug at the top of mine, thinking that it reveals a little too much cleavage, but it’s double-taped in place to avoid any wardrobe malfunctions. Other than that it’s amazing. The teal sequins glitter beneath the lights and silver fringe swishes when I spin and turn. It’s tight like a swimsuit but stretchy and surprisingly comfortable except for where the tape is stuck to my boobies and my butt.

  Rio gently squeezes my hand. “Don’t worry. You look gorgeous. Those long legs of yours will impress the judges. You have the look of a champion, Abby.”

  “So do you,” I reply and he sure does. His tight black pants have a teal satin stripe down the leg that matches my costume. And Lord have mercy, you could bounce quarters off his very nice ass. His snowy-white shirt has full-sleeved arms but fits close to his torso and is unbuttoned halfway, revealing a generous portion of his tanned chest. A teal sash adds a bit of flash and with his hair slicked back into a short ponytail he has that Antonio Banderas pirate look that’s going to drive the ladies wild.

  Turning my attention back to the television, I have to be a bit impressed with big trucker Mac Murphy’s twinkle-toed quickstep that’s both powerful and light on his feet. He looks a bit like a gangster in a dark blue pin-striped suit, and the crowd is eating it up with a spoon. I guess his instructor whipped him into shape, because he hardly misses a beat.

  “He could be the dark horse in this competition,” Rio comments while rubbing his chin.

  “You mean like the underdog?”

  Rio nods.

  “I thought I was the underdog.”

  Rio chuckles. “I think it applies to just about everyone in this competition.”

  “We can’t all be underdogs.”

  “I didn’t think so until now. I’m seeing a lot of fight in all of you.” He gives me a grin. “I have to admit that I’m impressed.”

  “So you’re eatin’ your hat, huh?”

  “I’m not sure what that means but I’m guessing, yes.”

  I give him a warm smile and think to myse
lf just how much I’m coming to like Rio. He’s a lot more down-to-earth than what I had originally thought. Maybe he grew up a regular Joe in Mexico City so he gets where we’re coming from. I make a mental note to ask about his childhood.

  “Wow, that was a cool move,” I comment after Mac and his partner do some springy, fancy footwork, ending their dance with a flashy flourish that brings the crowd to their feet. Sure, it was far from perfect but who would have thought that Mac could move like that? In fact, except for Mary Lou Laker, whose dance ended in another disastrous out-of-control spin all the way off the dance floor and into the crowd, and burly Jimmy Joe Porter the plumber, who slipped during a turn and ended up on the floor twirling on his back like an upside-down turtle, the dances have been surprisingly well executed. I feel a measure of pride over this and it settles my stomach a tiny bit.

  As we wait for the judges to hold up their points I go over the previous dances in my head, wondering where Rio and I will stack up. Ex-cheerleader Julia Mayer was very good as Jesse had predicted, but Rio had whispered to me that she was too mechanical and lacking in emotional appeal. Travis the farmer was clunky and comical but charming. Gangly Betty Cook, looking more like Olive Oyl than ever, brought the house down with her serious attempt at the tango. With pursed lips and one eyebrow cocked she gave it all she had and actually looked kinda pretty without that hair net on her head and a ladle in her hand. If I had been watching instead of participating I would have enjoyed the entire show.

  “Oh my goodness!” I clamp my hand over my mouth when Ben Sebastian, the cocky Ryan Seacrest wannabee, announces Danny Becker, the Misty Creek mechanic, and his champion dance partner, Anna Fandango, who will perform the jive. Danny is dressed in black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a thin black belt. His hair is slicked back 1950s style, making him look like John Travolta in Grease. His blond partner looks like Sandy in her poodle skirt and letter sweater, and sure enough they begin dancing to the energetic song “Greased Lightnin’.” They begin with the hand-pointing, knee-popping part and the audience loves it.

  I giggle as Danny hams it up for the crowd and the camera. The dance is fast-paced with lots of kicks and spins, but being a natural athlete, Danny can handle it. “Wow, he’s good.”