by Cynthia Dane
Maybe he wasn’t much into his mother’s lifestyle at all. Perhaps their similarities ended with a love for dancing and entertaining others. Angelina’s policy of open and free love worked for her throughout her life. For Rick? Maybe he was starting to take more after his father, whoever he was.
“I’m meeting someone in an hour, sorry.” It was a lie. Better than saying that he didn’t want to see her, though. “Maybe next time.”
He didn’t get a response, nor did he want to. Fiona probably felt that rejection like a masochist feels pain. It stung, but it probably felt good too. How many women could say they were rejected by Rick Rodriguez?
“Okay, man, you need to get out of here.” Rick forced himself off his couch and took a look at the bright, warm day beyond his windows. Where in the world could he go without getting in trouble? What could he even do?
There was really only one option. Rick grabbed his wallet and headed out, careful to remember his hat and glasses.
A dance studio lurked nearby. Not owned by his label, but ran by a trusted member of the community who let Rick in under an assumed name. Once in a while, when he was tired of executives and choreographers breathing down his neck, Rick would rent a practice room for a few hours and do whatever he wanted. This sometimes included his latest moves he had to perfect, but more often than not it was freestyling and the various dances he learned growing up. For example, he didn’t get to rumba very much as a celebrity. It was easier to practice with a partner, but when a man didn’t have one, flying solo was okay too.
Rick arrived without being seen. He went up three flights of stairs before finding the twenty-by-twenty abode he would call his for the next three hours.
A bench. A barre. A wall of mirrors. A small water fountain in the far corner. Speakers attached to a phone jack. It was everything Rick needed to stretch his muscles and have his fun. He pulled out his phone and brought up his favorite dance playlists. Most of the songs were old. The tunes he heard growing up in the ‘90s when Tejano was big. Some Argentinean folk music. Brazilian samba. There was nothing like those beats pumping through him, setting his blood on fire and taking him back to a time when people treated dancing like it was a ticket to nirvana. With the horns blaring in the room, Rick grabbed the barre and swung his leg to stretch it wide. He planned on moving a lot that day and wasn’t about to pull a hammy before his tour.
When he was a kid, his mother told him to not get overwhelmed by what culture, what ethnicity he “really” was. There were times the kids at school or even the visitors passing through tried to tell Rick he was more Argentinean because his mother raised him. Others said that Brazilian suited him more because the father’s genes are stronger. Other people said that since he grew up in California he was more attuned to Central American culture. When he switched from tango to Tejano music, he sometimes got weird looks. As if he didn’t know the difference between the two cultures. Of course, certain people didn’t know their ass from their elbows and insisted on calling him Mexican. Kid Rick often lashed out against these thoughts. Who was anyone to say what or who he was?
Yet no matter how much his mother reassured him that he was “American” or “A Citizen of Global Culture,” Angelina could not protect her son from the conflated messages hounding him from every angle. Sometimes Rick proudly told guests and the other kids that he was Argentinean. The flag hanging in his mother’s dance studio meant something to him. Except other times he wondered if he could really call himself a proud Argentinean. Until he became an adult he never even visited the country. Besides, what country was more popular in America? Certainly it was Brazil. Whenever the teachers at school would allude to Brazilian politics and culture, Rick would interject with an anecdote about what a proud Brazilian he was.
I’m no one and everyone at the same time. As he leaped from one end of the studio to the other, his powerful body the only thing he had control over, Rick realized that he needed to accept the fact that there would always be someone around to argue with him about who he was. My body is all I have. The body his mother gave him. No matter what, the blood of dance flowed through him. No matter where he was from, that was a part of his identity. Whether he spoke Spanish, Portuguese, or English, Rick was a dancer first and foremost. His body was everything.
Then there were women like Olivia, who had the same blood coursing through her. That Colombian grandmother did the right thing when she encouraged little Olivia to become one of the greatest dancers Rick ever had the privilege of dancing with.
Why am I thinking about her? Sweating, breathing hard, Rick leaned against the barre and imagined Olivia, with her long, dark tresses and that turn to her nose that said she knew what she was doing all the time. Ever since Rick flubbed at chewing her out, Olivia had shown more initiative than even Rick. After their dinner at the sushi place, they rarely talked. Olivia was always professional, even when in Rick’s arms in the practice studio. Where was that woman he met on the music video set? Rick read the comments – good and bad – that went with that video. Almost everyone hailed Olivia as a fresh-faced newcomer. Even the label was pleased with how she was doing in tour rehearsals. Sure, she wasn’t a known entity like Clara, but Clara wasn’t going anywhere for a while.
Women.
Rick sat on the bench, a towel draped around his shoulders and his water bottle against his lips. Ah, this was the problem with dancing solo. He always thought too much without someone telling him what to do. When could he simply enjoy dance for the sake of it again?
A figure walked by the window in the door. At first Rick paid it no mind. Then it walked by again. A woman. Medium complexion. Dark hair. Sharp nose…
Olivia?
He rose. The door eked open, Rick poking his head out and laughing to himself. There was Olivia, looking for an empty room to borrow.
“Well what do you know?” He stopped her in her tracks, that head of hair whipping around as Olivia sent him her shock. “Never thought I’d see you around here.”
Olivia stepped forward, those eyes growing larger as she realized that yes, it was Rick she saw in some plebian studio. “Shouldn’t I be saying that to you? What are you doing here?”
“Practicing. Like I assume you are.”
“Uh, couldn’t you go to the label’s studios for that? They have way better facilities. And don’t cost you anything.”
Rick shrugged. “People coddle me there. And keep an eye on me. It’s pretty annoying. Besides, this place is closer to my apartment. I come here when I want to be alone.”
“Then I’ll leave you alone.”
Before she could completely turn away, Rick opened his door wide and took a step toward her. “Don’t have a room, do you?’
“Guy at the front desk said I could have a room if I could find one. Serves me right sleeping in late on my day off.”
Rick gestured to his room. “Come on in and keep me company. I’ll save you a few bucks.”
He had her at the first invitation, but when he mentioned the money part she balked. “I don’t need you to pay for stuff.” She smiled. “The label does that for you, duh.”
Ah, that smile was infectious. It made Rick smile too. “You coming in or not? I have this room for at least two more hours. It’s getting lonely in here.”
Olivia poked her head in but immediately scrunched up her nose. “I can tell you’ve been sweating all over this place. Ew.”
Rick gently pushed her in and latched the door behind them. “I sweat all the time during our rehearsals, and you’ve never complained. Besides,” he watched her put her bags down by his, “I know for a fact that your body odor isn’t exactly roses either.”
“Rude.” Olivia tied her hair back and scuffed her dance shoes against the floor. With her arms up, her shirt rode up as well, revealing her taut, firm dancer’s stomach and the muscles beneath. Down, Rick. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you to not comment on a girl’s sweat?”
Funny she should say that. “My mother taught me that everyo
ne is natural. Me, you…” he gestured toward Olivia, who had a scrunchie in her mouth while she fought with her thick hair. “Whether it’s hair or odor, we are all the same. Bodies are natural and beautiful.” He flashed her his cheesy smile, intent on confusing her. My mother really did say that stuff. Olivia could figure it out, though.
“Uh huh.” While her eyes nearly rolled out of their sockets, Olivia went to the barre and began stretching. Her leg came up easily enough, resting against the bar while her arms stretched toward her toes. She made it look so easy. Women in general made it look so easy. What I would give to be half as graceful as a ballerina. Might not be the most manly thing in the world, but Rick always admired ballerinas for their utmost grace, whether they were male or female. Of course, he preferred the female ones. Especially when they…
Olivia raised herself en pointe, toes curling beneath her weight while her breath steadied. “You’re really good at that,” Rick said. “Did you take ballet as a kid too? I don’t remember you mentioning that. Just the tango and rumba and all that good stuff.”
“I have studied everything. Consider me a Jill of all dances.”
When she put her leg down and backed away from the barre, Rick put his hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t you show me?” he asked. “Perhaps you could teach me a thing or two.”
She cocked her eyebrow and put her hands on her hips. “And what could I teach the great Rick Rodriguez?”
Olivia did not relent when Rick slowly brought him into his arms. “I dunno. Show me.”
There was something about the bite to her voice, that spark in her eye, and even the sway of her hips that enticed Rick to nestle her close to him. Then Olivia snapped away, her face covered in the crime of mischief, and the next thing he knew he was seduced into her world of unexpected, unchoreographed dance.
***
When Olivia got up that day, she did not anticipate that her run to the independent dance studio would include an encounter with Rick. Of all people! What was a high-profile rock star doing at a place like this? Not that it was run down by any means. But if Rick was a man of money and privilege, then he should be using the label’s own studios. He would have everything he needed. Everyone would tend to him. To hang out by himself? To use the basic facilities? Man, what was he doing?
Did it matter now? Because here Olivia was, locked in his strong, athletic arms that wanted nothing more than to squeeze her body, her head resting against his broad shoulder.
The song playing through the speakers was a samba number that Olivia vaguely recognized. When Rick whispered in her ear, his gravelly voice asking if she knew how to samba, Olivia curled her bottom lip inward and shrugged her shoulders in his grasp. “Do I know how to samba? Why not insult me some more?”
“Just checking. Want to make sure you can keep up with me.”
“You sure you can keep up with me?”
On the count of four, Rick popped her out of his embrace, forcing Olivia to land gracefully on her toes as she snatched his hand and began to dance.
The samba required quick, brisk, and flawless footwork. To Olivia’s cheerful surprise, Rick did not make her do all the work when it came to movement. With every beat his feet were moving too, sometimes in time to Olivia’s, and other times on their own accord. We’re freestyling. Many professional dancers choreographed this until they could do it so flawlessly that audiences were stunned into silence. How could they do that? Was it magic? Were they so in tune with one another that they knew what the other was going to do next? Yes, to all of that.
Olivia had many kinds of partners through her life. Dance partners were the hardest to match well. It required even greater chemistry than sex. For a dancer like Olivia to feel one-hundred percent comfortable in a man’s arms on the dance floor, he had to be attentive, energetic, and strong. Oh, and talented, of course. Sure sounds like sex. Mediocre sex wasn’t nearly as offensive as mediocre pairs dancing, however.
It sure felt similar in some ways, though…
The practice studio was small, but adequate for a contained samba number. Olivia stepped to the beat from one side of the room to the next, Rick following, snatching her arms, caressing her side, and letting his hand fall to her rear more than once. Sly dog. Olivia doubted those were on accident. She sent him a cautionary look as his hand got close again, but then it diverted to her hip, squeezing her flesh before Olivia twirled out of his grasp and held herself to the wall.
The song faded out. Rick was sweaty, chest heaving in anxious breaths as he wiped his face and bent over, hands on knees. His dark hair glistened from his sweat, and Olivia, who was also catching her breath, had to look away before she got any ideas.
Dancing was dangerous. Those Puritans from yesteryear had the right idea when they banned dancing because it was too much like foreplay, like fornication. Even the most uncharitable man was suddenly attractive the moment he gave himself to music. If you dance with a man for too long, it is gonna happen. One heard about it all the time in the competitive dance circles. In order to compete at that level, the pair had to have incredible chemistry. It was no wonder they were always cheating on their lovers and giving in to their dance partner. How could they say no when they already knew every inch of their partner’s body? Even Olivia was quite familiar with Rick’s build by this point. How often did he think about hers?
Rick went to his phone and paused the next song to find something better. “What do you feel like?” He tested a song, a familiar one straight from Argentina. “You sick of the tango yet?’
“Never.” Olivia said that much too quickly. “I mean… how could I ever be sick of the tango? It’s like my life-blood.”
“I feel the same way.” Rick turned the volume up on the song, and now Olivia could barely hear him. “Why do you think I named a whole album after it?”
“An album and single.”
“Ah, what a fateful single.”
He’s talking about us meeting? What a flirt. Sometimes Olivia couldn’t tell if Rick was genuinely flirting with her or if that was his default mode. Wouldn’t surprise her a bit to find out the latter.
So was it flirting when Rick pulled her into his arms again, tilting her head so he could whisper, “Don’t hold back now,” into her ear?
The sound was loud, vibrant, and echoing both in the small room and within Olivia’s body. She didn’t doubt that it echoed within Rick as well. What would happen when their bodies united in that smooth, fluid motion called dance?
Oh. That would happen.
Olivia didn’t mean for it to happen. She certainly never intended for it to happen, even back when she first realized it was Rick in the audition room. What could she possibly gain from her blood running – no, boiling – beneath her skin every time he touched her, whether it was on the side, the hip, or top of her arm? He’s trying to kill me. That stupid smirk, which flashed in her direction every time she glanced up at him, said he enjoyed it way more than he should. The beat was hot, sizzling even, and Olivia couldn’t help but let her hips, the rest of her body sway to the rhythm as a man’s large, strong hands clasped her hips and felt them move beneath their touch.
It was the same feeling of arousal Olivia had that day she stepped up to be Rick’s dance partner for the music video. When her blood boiled then, she thought it was because of the thrill of starring opposite one of the day’s hottest rock stars in his latest video. The career advancement! The prestige! But she had danced with him countless times since then. She should be over it. Over it. Rick was no more special than any previous partner… other than being very skilled and considerate on the dance floor. Why do I feel like this then? Olivia’s heart stopped when she looked up and saw that smile – not the fake one, the genuine one.
So wrapped up in these sensations was Olivia, her only escape from her mind came in the form of a dip. Her heart leaped in her throat as Rick bent her over his arm, her hair falling toward the floor as his lips came dangerously close to hers. The shock went right to her hear
t, as if Rick injected her with enough amorous adrenaline to light her spine on fire and melt the heart trapped in her burning ribcage.
Even though the song continued to play, Olivia remained down, her body draped over Rick’s as she looked into those dark and eager eyes.
It would be wrong. They were professionals. Olivia wasn’t the type of woman to throw away her opportunities in exchange for a quick lay. Especially with someone as unstable as a rock star!
And yet here they came. Rick’s lips, pressing against Olivia’s.
The kiss was gentle enough that if she protested it could be blown off as a joke. Heat of the tango moment. “Well, you know, I was so riled up and it sort of happened.”
Yet she didn’t protest. Olivia welcomed that man’s lips like she would welcome a cool breeze on a hot summer’s day. So when Rick pulled her back up, Olivia did not object to wrapping her arms around his shoulders and kissing him with all the power she had.
The scruff on his face felt as comforting as she expected. Usually she found facial hair obnoxious as it scratched her skin, obscured her lips, and made her feel like she was kissing a woodsman. Yet Rick was smooth, even with his stubble. It glided against her skin, warm and comforting, just like his deceptively muscular arms which squeezed her torso now, bringing her deeper into his embrace.
If it ended here, that would be that. Not the first time Olivia kissed one of her dance partners. However, the stakes had never been as high as they were with Rick. Even if he could kiss like a great lover. Even if his lips parted hers and his tongue began to dance with hers as if a tango could happen in one’s mouth.
Oh no. Oh no no no. Here it came. That spiraling descent into carnal madness.
With the music blaring all around them, Rick lifted Olivia off the ground, her legs dangling at his side while she held on to his shoulders. He carried her to the nearest wall where a barre held strong with her rear leaning hard against it.
