bows in their hair. They look authentic. Almost wish Ambrosia and I would’ve dressed up too, but then again she’s always dressed as her own character.
And there she is. Looks like she’s made friends and is dancing with a group of people. She likes Lyle less than I do—didn’t even tell him hello. No wonder she’s set up camp elsewhere.
Not much dance floor left. My heart starts to sink—maybe he’s gone.
A heavy guy, who’s been leaning on the stage all night watching girls dance, makes his way back to his usual spot. As he moves along, revealing people he was blocking from my view, Gray appears.
Perfect skin clings tightly down the steep slope of his imposing cheekbones. Lips so beckoning that the air around them fights in jealousy to slide over them. Piercing eyes. Blue and lit up like a fire. They’re on me. Oh my God,
Three girls dance around him, but he looks over their heads to me. Can’t look away.
He steps forward, girls sliding to the side as he passes them. Weaves through the crowd rapidly, despite his broad, muscular frame.
Eyes on him—his on me, paying no mind to the people he passes, even a girl who slides her fingers across his chest. His hair floats with his steps, just touching his shoulders, flowing like a black sea parted in two directions, a mane like a crown, untamed and setting him apart.
A few feet separate us now. Too embarrassed to speak. Too hooked to look away.
Inches. Inches away from touching me, he steps in synch with my dancing.
Quick glance down his body—slim waist, steel-tipped cowboy boots. My God, how does he move so well in them? Like some sexy ninja.
I step back and then forward toward him. See if he follows or lets me slip away. Does he want me, or is he just making his way around the floor?
Boy’s on my every move. About two inches from me no matter what I throw at him—swear he knows what I’m doing before I do it. Throw my arm out like a snake—he follows. Move my head back—moves his forward. Reflexes like an animal. Smooth, fast, beautiful…scary, almost.
So close, his tight gray shirt drapes over his rippling shoulders and chest like a sheet of water rolling over a cliff.
He starts leaning down. Blue eyes feel like they’re entering my green ones. Teal sounds like a delicious mix. Precious lips getting closer to mine.
What is happening to me?
An elbow pokes at his left arm—he turns sideways, instantly bringing his dancing body upright, snarling, and fists clenched.
Excitement faces Buzzkill.
“Hey, buddy, she’s with me,” grumbles Lyle with a tremble in his speech.
Gray’s voice slides out his throat, “She didn’t say anything, friend.” Powerful, but smooth, with a hint of rasp. If it were a color, it’d match his shirt.
“I’m saying it for her.
Shooting out of my mouth, “No, I am not!”
Gray looks at me and smiles.
“Hey, big man, this conversation’s between you and me. Not the girl.”
Still locked in on me, Gray pays him no mind. Neither do I. Lyle taps Gray’s shoulder roughly.
Looking back to Lyle, anger flaring in his face for a moment—Gray’s teeth flash before he pushes the emotion away, “Hey, friend, no reason to get ugly in here tonight—lots of girls in here. This one’s got a right to dance with whoever she wants, but so can all the others. Maybe you’ll find someone else you like.”
Dropping one of the drinks from his hands, energy drink spilling and spreading, cup bouncing on the floor, Lyle says, “Maybe, I should just beat the hell out of you.”
“Say that you could beat the hell out of me—then the night’d end with both of us in a jail cell together.”
Ambrosia pulls one of her new friends by the wrist, a blonde with a single ponytail, plenty of curve, and little of it covered by her low-cut exercise t-shirt and stretch pants with giant, pink leg warmers. They dance around Lyle. When he continues to stare at Gray, Ambrosia’s friend bends over very far and dances in that position right next to Buzzkill. Lyle’s eyes drop down and take in the shape of her butt. A smile sneaks over him.
Gray continues speaking to Lyle, his voice sending a tingle through me, “Wouldn’t you rather end up with someone prettier than me? Someplace better than a jail cell? God knows I do.”
Lyle looks at me. Then at the strange girl’s butt. Back to me. Strange butt. Then to Gray and says, “Look, I already told you…”
Ambrosia grabs Lyle’s hand and places it on the strange girl’s waist. Now standing, the girl moves in close and slides her arms around his neck. She pushes her body to him, rubbing against him, slowly leading him away from us. Lyle doesn’t look back.
Ambrosia bows at us, then resumes bouncing her body to the music.
Gray moves closer to me. We start dancing again. Still in synch.
“Sorr-” the first words out my mouth to him are interrupted.
Another man taps Gray’s shoulder. Long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, pointed nose, almost the same size as Gray.
Gray doesn’t look pleased, but shakes the man’s extended hand.
Ambrosia blindsides me with a girl huddle, and whispers urgently, “Bathroom break.”
Is the whole world conspiring to keep Gray away from me?
Start to shake my head no.
“Now!” she demands.
Before I can respond, she pulls me away.
Gray stares at his friend who is talking to him. Don’t think Gray likes him much.
My head turns away from them to watch where Ambrosia is dragging me. Everything is gloomy and mean and coated in despair. Not because anything I see deserves it, but because it’s all a part of pulling me away from him. How odd that everything pales in comparison to a guy with such pale skin.
Nothing registers but a longing to be back on the dance floor with Gray until she pulls me into the bathroom, spinning around to face me once we’re inside.
“Ruby, that guy is a
Suddenly feeling offended and hostile—how dare she say this about my wonderful Gray, I ask, “What are you talking about—you haven’t even talked to him?”
“We hooked up a few weeks ago here. He’s crazy.”
My heart sinks, and I feel my smile float away to the land of sadness.
“Oh, no,” Ambrosia laughs, “Not your guy—gray shirt. I’m talking about his friend with the blonde ponytail. His name’s Roderick. Complete psychopath—we gotta leave.”
My heart jumps at her last word, “‘Brosia, you say that about every guy you date after you break up. They’re all psychos or freaks. You wind up dating half of them again. And sometimes, again and again and again.”
Shaking her head and not smiling at my little joke, “Look what he did to my neck!” she says pulling her collar to the side.
At the base of her neck are two fiery dots.
“Psycho bit into me like I was freakin’ Buffy or something.”
“Oh, my God!”
“Yeah. And that was weeks ago—the marks are still there. Let’s sneak right out the front door—now.”
“What about your tab?”
“I’ll get my card from them tomorrow. I’ve forgotten to close out a few times before. No big deal—they all know me here.”
“But, the guy…”
“Told you he’s psycho.”
“No—”
“Oh, gray shirt!”
“Yes!”
