by Mia Sosa
His meaning is clear: We can enjoy this without reading anything into it. And given how much I love dancing, it’s a message I appreciate. So I move my hips from side to side. “Exactly.”
The artist’s words are sharp, her voice gritty, but the lyrics sit on a bed of percussion that is so sensual, my mind can only focus on the way our movements mimic lovemaking. We’re not touching, but we’re close enough that I can feel his body heat. Somehow I don’t think this is what Tori meant when she issued those marching orders this morning. Professional? No. Friendly? Very.
He twirls me around with just our pinkies linked, and then he’s behind me, his broad chest serving as a resting place for my head. A few beats later, his arms circle my waist and he splays his hands on my belly, his touch light and achingly heavy all at once.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Definitely,” I reply.
And it’s true. I’m definitely enjoying this. I’m definitely okay. And I’m definitely screwed.
Chapter Eleven
Anthony
Temptation, thy name is Eva. Anthony, thy name is Jackass.
Eva’s compact body is pressed against mine, the sweet vanilla fragrance in her hair flooding my nostrils. How am I supposed to suppress my attraction to her when she smells like freshly baked sugar cookies? The urge to nibble on her ear and nuzzle her jaw staggers me, it’s so strong. But the reality is, if I don’t fight it, I’ll become the very asshole I’m trying not to be. Making her think I want more when I don’t.
“We need to get going,” I mumble.
She spins around and stands on her tiptoes, leaning in to hear me better. “What?”
I turn my face away to avoid inhaling her sweet scent. Her hair is up today, those springy curls sitting on top of her head like an intricate crown. My fingers itch to dive into that thickness and massage her scalp, tugging her head back to bring her luscious mouth to mine. Fucking reggaeton is lethal. “I said we should head out. To avoid the rush out of the park.”
If she’s an observant woman, she’ll notice the park is brimming with people, laughing, dancing, drinking from conspicuously unmarked bottles, and no one’s scrambling toward the exits. No, the way the emcee’s hyping up the crowd, this party’s likely to continue well into the evening.
Biting on her bottom lip as she surveys her surroundings, she sees it, too. And maybe I’m imagining this, but I think I can pinpoint the moment she realizes I’m trying to bring our time together to an end: a flare of awareness in her eyes that dulls slowly, her expression going slack before she pastes on a sleepy smile.
“That’s a good idea,” she says. “The sun’s sapping my energy anyway.”
“You? Depleted?” I make a big show of looking around me. “Where’s a camera crew when you need one? This is breaking news.”
We laugh together. The emcee interrupts the moment, though, speaking unintelligible words into the microphone that cause a stir around us. Then several men rush through the crowd, pointing their index fingers at people and gesturing for them to follow.
A man wearing a T-shirt with the word STAFF on the front sidles up to Eva and me, a big, seedy smile on his face. “Vamanos, amigos. Concurso de baile reggaeton.” He motions us forward while three couples climb the steps to the stage.
Eva shakes my shoulders, bouncing as she asks, “They want us to dance up there?”
“Worse,” I say. “It’s a couples dance contest.”
She tugs on the sleeve of my T-shirt. “Let’s do it, Anthony. It’ll be fun.”
“Not my thing.”
And it really isn’t. I’ll happily crash through a cement wall. Sign me the fuck up for some crazy shit like that. I’d even serenade someone in a crowded square. Badly. But getting on a stage in front of hundreds of people and shaking my ass suggestively—c’mon, that’s what reggaeton requires—sounds like a nightmare come to life.
She pouts at me. “Oh, c’mon. It’s a stage. And there’s dancing. This was made for me.”
“For you, is the operative phrase,” I say, pointing at her face.
“For us. It wouldn’t be all that different from what we’ve been doing down here.” She pulls on the bottom of my T-shirt and looks up at me with her doe eyes. “It’s just dancing. Anthony. I’m not asking you to marry me, you know. Please?”
Okay, she smells like freshly baked cookies, and now she’s pleading for me to dance with her? I’m smart enough to know when resistance is futile. “Fine. But just one dance.”
She snaps her fingers and shimmies backward, watching me with a triumphant expression as I trudge to the stage.
“You look like I’m escorting you to the guillotine,” she notes.
“Sounds about right.”
As she climbs the steps, she hesitates and loses her footing. I shoot forward to place my body between her and the ground, but she rights herself without my help. Breathless, she asks, “Does anyone ever fall around you?”
“Not on my watch, no.”
Maybe it’s the lack of enthusiasm in my voice, but something about my demeanor stops her from taking another step. She shakes her head, her shoulders slumped. “This was a silly idea, and I can tell you’re not into it. Let’s forget it.”
A minute ago, her smile was bright enough to light up this park, but now she looks like a kid who’s lost her favorite stuffed animal. Just because I’m wary of sending mixed signals doesn’t mean I need to be a damn stuffed shirt. “If having me twerk my way across this stage is going to take that sad look off your face, I’ll do it.”
“It will,” she says, her bright smile returning. “Watch.” She swipes a hand in front of her face and frowns. “No dance.” Then she swipes again and gives me a wide smile. “Dance.”
I circle my finger in the air, motioning for her to turn her sweet behind around. “Get up there before I change my mind.”
She claps and sprints up the steps.
I refuse to look at the audience, but the murmurs, laughter, and cheers leave no doubt that we’re in the spotlight. Two minutes into the emcee’s explanation of how this contest is going to work, I’m swearing under my breath, knowing I’ve made a grave mistake. I thought we’d all be dancing at the same time, with the audience choosing its favorite pair at the end. But no. This is worse. Each couple will dance alone, and the audience will choose the winner by a round of applause, or more likely, given the state of the crowd, by a round of hoots, shouts, whistles, and wepas.
Eva’s turned into the winningest coach in NCAA history, her body close to mine as she talks up to me, her hands poised like a conductor as she emphasizes her various points of strategy. “Okay, so if we don’t go first or second, we’ll volunteer to go last. The crowd will be bored by the third one, and it’ll be up to us to re-energize them.”
“Did you compete in team sports when you were young?” I ask her.
“Swim team at Drexel. Why?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Someone save me. “Just curious.”
“Another thing. Crowds love it when we surprise them. I’ll handle that piece.”
Wait a minute now. Coming from Eva, that sounds frightening. “What kind of surprise?”
She wags her eyebrows. “I’ll surprise you, too. That way, your reaction will be totally authentic.”
I make the sign of the cross and leave it in God’s hands. We watch the first couple, a middle-aged man and a woman who seem to think salsa dancing pairs well with reggaeton. Even the emcee’s confused. Next, a young couple saunters onto the stage, bravado in his steps, sultriness in hers. He’s licking his lips like she’s his meal, and all I want to do is pass my man a ChapStick. They’re selling sex, and the crowd’s buying it.
Eva nudges me with her shoulder. “That’s our competition.”
I just wanted to get her to stop pouting. Now I’m trapped in a dance battle. Can’t fault her on her prediction, though. The crowd does in fact lose interest in the third and fourth couples, and their cheers resume when the emcee introduce
s the last couple in the contest: us.
He points the mic at Eva. “¿Tú nombre, querida?”
“Eva,” she says, waving to everyone.
“¿Y tú hermano?”
“Anthony,” I say, waving at no one.
“Un fuerte aplauso para Eva y Antonio.”
The crowd cheers as Eva leads me to the center of the stage, her hips already swaying to the song’s slow, sensual tempo. Why am I doing this, again? Oh, right. Because Eva’s the kind of person I don’t want to disappoint. She’s fun and full of life—even when she’s annoyed with me—so interfering with her vibe makes me feel like I’ve registered for anti-fun camp. Me. Of all people. That’s unheard of in these parts.
She trails her fingers up my back, her touch featherlight, and then she rests her clasped hands around my neck, tugging me closer. “You look unsure. Where’s your trademark confidence? I need you to be an equal participant in this if we’re going to win.”
“Hard to figure out where to put my hands. I don’t want to get popped in the mouth.”
“We’re dancing. On a stage.” She winks at me. “Just go with it. If I don’t like where things are headed, I’ll body-slam you.”
I’d like to see her try.
No, really. I’d like to see her try. And that’s the problem. I wouldn’t mind one bit if we wrestled each other to the ground. It’s that image that prompts me to place my hands on her hips, directing them from side to side. She releases me and leans back, a sliver of her firm belly peeking out from underneath her top and her arms falling to her sides. The crowd loves it, loves us. My body syncs with the song’s steady drumbeat, and she turns around, rubbing her ass against me. I bend my knees slightly so she’s grinding right where I want her, and if I’m not mistaken, she gasps before she throws her head forward and sinks into the move.
She’s intending to surprise me, but suddenly I’m the one who wants to do the surprising. Unequal participant, my ass. I slip off my T-shirt while she’s still bent over, grasp it with both hands, and bring it over my head and across her waist, using it to raise her torso and bring her back against my bare chest. The crowd loses it. Shit, maybe I’m losing it. What the fuck is happening right now?
Not to be outdone, Eva twirls around and places her hands on my pecs. Her heavy-lidded gaze pierces me, tells me she knows this is no longer about a contest, but about enjoying ourselves in the moment. Then, in what can’t be more than a tenth of a second, she drops into a split, her face landing directly in front of my crotch. Holy shit. A sea of arms go up in the crowd. The audience cheers. And one guy charges back and forth across the area in front of the stage, a hand on his head and his mouth gaping in disbelief.
They’re not the only ones affected, though. My mind is taking me places that should be cordoned off with caution tape.
Like I said, she’s temptation, and I’m a jackass.
Chapter Twelve
Thou shall not shake your booty during a professional interview.
Eva
Anthony doesn’t say much as we walk back to his truck, but the small trophy I’m holding is picking up the slack and mocking me to no end. I imagine its beady eyes judging me, the small handle on each side of the topper representing a hand cocked on a hip. Oh, wait. The trophy has long curly hair, attitude to spare, and bears a striking resemblance to my best friend.
How’s Anthony going to take you seriously after that performance, missy?
Was it necessary to grind your ass against him?
And what about the way you brazenly caressed his chest and stomach?
Goodness, Tori’s judgy. And she’s far from done.
You enjoyed it, didn’t you?
Too much, perhaps?
I thought you said Anthony’s a manipulator with a capital M. Why would you even be thinking about him in that way?
“I’m not,” I say.
“What’s that?” Anthony asks.
“Oh, nothing,” I say, grimacing at my own outburst. “Just thinking out loud.” Say something else, Eva. This isn’t only on him. “So that was wild, huh?”
He chuckles, but his laughter is subdued, petering out at the end as though he’s testing out how enthusiastic his response should be and wants to tone it down. “Definitely memorable.”
“Right? There’s no way I’ll ever forget my first weekend in LA.”
“I’m glad.”
Blowing out a long, frustrated breath, I toss the camping chair onto the bed of his pickup and slide into the passenger seat. He’s been giving me these one- or two-word responses since we left the stage. I want to channel Cher in Moonstruck and tell him to snap out of it, point out that we were just dancing. But I suspect that’s not entirely true. We were releasing sexual tension under the guise of dancing. And now he’s in a mood. He’s probably just frustrated that I’m damn near irresistible and “saving” myself for marriage. Bahaha. Serves him right.
He tosses his cap between us as he climbs into the cab. Then he attacks the seat belt, his range of motion sharp and controlled as he tugs the shoulder strap across his body and clicks the latch into place.
“I’m glad we did this,” I say, staring straight ahead, my voice airy and light and my hands tucked between my thighs. “It wasn’t awkward at all. Nuh-uh. No, sir. Not one bit.”
He turns to look at me and barks out a laugh. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“What is wrong with us?”
His lips twitch, and then he says, “We’re a goddamn mess, is what it is.”
Okay, he’s not hopeless after all. What we need is a come-to-Jesus moment. “Permission to clear the air?” I ask, twisting my torso to face him.
His expression sobers. “Permission definitely granted.”
“Here’s what I think is going on. We’re obviously attracted to each other. Connecticut was proof of that. Today is further proof of that. But neither one of us is interested in being in a relationship. I’m taking a well-deserved break from dating and you’re . . . uh . . . not interested in dating ever?”
“So far, so good,” he says, nodding.
“And we enjoy each other’s company. Agreed?”
“Wholeheartedly,” he says with a smile.
Ignoring the little flutter in my belly when I hear his answer, I grin and tilt my head at him. “Awww. Anyway, I think with a little work and maturity on both our parts, we can be friends. Good friends, even. And I’m willing to try, assuming you are, too.”
His chest rises as he takes a big, cleansing breath. “That’s exactly what I was hoping for. It’s like you reached into my brain and stole my thoughts.”
I clap my hands together. “Okay, perfect. We’ll be friends on three. One, two, three.”
Then we stare at each other, our faces blank, as though we’re playing the no-blinking game. He snorts first. I follow within seconds of him cracking. And then we’re both howling with laughter, my eyes damp with tears.
Still chuckling, he turns on the ignition and backs out of the parking space, while I settle in for the ride home.
“So tell me about Elite Stunt Training’s program,” I say.
He straightens in his seat, his hands resting comfortably on the wheel as he steers. “I’m proud to be a part of it. Mostly because we’re not a shady outfit.”
“Shady how?”
“Every few years, a stunt school will pop up in a random warehouse,” he says. “More often than not, it’s a scam designed to take advantage of a naïve person. They’ll get you into the business, they claim. You’ll make thousands, they say. All to entice you to spend thousands of dollars on stunt training. Months later, the warehouse is empty, and the trainers have taken a bunch of people’s money and their dreams with them.”
That’s awful. When I researched stunt work a few days ago, there weren’t that many programs to begin with. And I quickly ruled out a few based on their websites alone. Threadbare and outdated, the sites gave me little confidence that the people representing the business knew
how to run one. “So how’s EST different?”
“Well, we’re not scamming anyone. In fact, we pride ourselves on telling it to you straight.”
I smirk at him. “Discourage people, you mean?”
He glances at me, a smile dancing on his lips as the trucks slows. “I like to think of it as helping people go into it with their eyes open.”
His vehicle’s sitting idly at a red light, the ramp to the freeway coming up on the left, and here is where he takes his first opportunity to look my way. For a few uncomfortable seconds, he peers at me with laser-like focus, as if he wants to strip my top layer and investigate what’s underneath. When the light changes to green, he trains his eyes back on the road and asks, “Why the sudden interest in stunt training?”
I give him a halfhearted shrug, unsure if it’s in my best interest to talk about my father. “I could use the extra money.”
“That’s a flimsy reason to get into a dangerous profession like mine. You could drive a Lyft for extra cash.”
It figures he’d stumble upon that particular sore spot. “I don’t have a car.”
“Get a job as a restaurant server, then.”
I snap my head in his direction. “C’mon, can you imagine me as a restaurant server? Before you answer, remember that the job requires patience and a willingness to assume the customer is always right, and comes with a well-documented risk of sexual harassment.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but I jump in to tell him the most important disqualifier: “Also, I’m predisposed to throat-punch anyone who pisses me off.”
