20. KAVI

20

KAVI

Lokhov appears from nowhere.

The cute guy in glasses gulps.

"You have somewhere else to be," says Lokhov in that rude way of his.

Without looking at me, Glasses Guy and his friends shirk back into the crowd, taking with them my dancing invitation. Chased away by what looks like an impudent, brutish six-foot-four boyfriend with darkness inked all over his arms. If I didn't know better, I would call him territorial. But I do know better.

Sonya snorts before getting approached by her own suitor. With a quick glance to check in on me, (I nod), she follows him to the bar.

Turning back to Lokhov, I glare. "Why did you scare off that poor guy? Don't tell me. You want to dance?"

"No."

I groan, looking around for other men who will spin me around. My lip curls in determination. I don't know what changed, but alcoholic bravery could be kicking in. Glasses Man wanted me. Others might, too. And, sure, I've told Tyler we are over, but I should act like it, instead of chickening out by not telling anyone where I am tonight, afraid of his and my parent's judgment.

That and maybe I'm wondering, what's the appeal? Why did Tyler want to be open ? What does it feel like to pursue other people?

(Am I thinking that?! I don't know. This feels chaotic.)

Before I can leave Lokhov, his arm catches me.

"Where are you going?" he demands.

"To look for a partner."

"No."

" Excuse you? "

"We'll dance," he sneers.

"No one is twisting your arm!"

If anyone's been twisted, it's me. He's moving forward, pulling me along with him.

"Why?" I ask when we finally come to a stop somewhere on the dance floor. It's packed enough so we blend into a crowd, but not overly. There's no fighting with strangers' limbs. Above us is a ribcage of dazzling LED lights strung on the roof.

"You want to dance," says Lokhov as if that answers everything.

No longer wearing a suit jacket, I've got an uninterrupted view of his top half.

I bet women have been staring since he came down, but every passing minute I sense more eyes getting added. He cuts such an impressive figure. So painfully attractive, but in a mean way. The personification of a handprint left after you get spanked. Bossy eyes. Flat scowl. Full lips. His direct attention almost hurts to experience in this hazily lit club.

What's worse? His sleeves are rolled up.

I'm in trouble. I shouldn't wonder what it's like to be closer to him. There should be no desire to feel that notched mouth. Or to curl my fingers into the dark hair on the nape of his neck. I can't be tempted to nibble on the spot right under his chin.

His grumpy face peers down at me.

I rustle, blinking. "Why are we doing this? You're acting like I've stuck toothpicks in your balls forcing you into this, whereas the other guy would have done this willingly."

Lokhov's lean muscles strain against his shirt sleeves. His voice drops to a gravel-whisper. "That's not the issue."

"What is?"

"You're using me."

Before I can process whatever the bossy-fuck that means, I'm being steered to move. He takes my hand and puts it on his shoulder.

"But you can't dance," I protest.

"I never said that, Princess. Only that I don't. Put your hands back on my shoulders."

They had lifted off, fluttering in the space between us, which slowly shrinks. Placing them back on the defenseman's shoulders, I'm glad I don't have to go on my toes for this to work, for then I'd be even more unsteady. My heels, while not sky-high, give me a lift. His stubble is eye-level.

"T-this isn't dancing," I claim when Lokhov moves.

"Isn't it?"

"People are staring."

"Don't look at them." When he spins me, my breath catches. The man commandeering my waist has golden eyes. Different hues coalescing under ceiling strobe lights. And he smells so damn good. Smokiness and something sharper. More enveloping.

The next steps are more cautious, as if he's slowly teaching me. The way he's leading makes a memory tumble loose from the past. Young Kavi practicing for her debutante ball. My dad's opinion was that before you could impress important people, you had to pretend to be important people. It didn't matter if the other girls at the club didn't look like me. He pushed and pushed until I finally made them accept me.

Such a hard-gained, short-lived, and quickly lost victory.

Country club fees were expensive for the whole family. Before I could make my ballroom entrance, Dad prioritized keeping his membership over mine. My debut was canceled.

Even so, some of the lessons have stuck. That's why I realize now… We're waltzing.

A modified version. There's not enough space, so Lokhov adjusted the steps. When he raises his arm, I'm pulled away like a thread unspooling, and then I'm brought back with a flick of his wrist into his arms.

My heart beat runs away. I blame it on the booming techno music—until I can't. Suddenly, the music goes softer. More waltzy. Looking across the floor, I see Pink Headband passing a wad of cash to the DJ. When he sees me looking, he flashes a peace sign.

Around us, people stop dancing, bamboozled that the music has gone from club bangers to…. violins? But then a bridal party storms the dance floor. There's exaggerated, drunk bowing. Single men tentatively participate, wondering if their chances shoot up when the stakes are less bums grinding against crotches and more romantic twirling.

The DJ adapts again, trying to get more people involved, I assume. Classical music transitions to slow-songs kids have danced to at their proms since forever. More bodies rush to the dance floor.

Through it all, Lokhov stays irritatingly in control. He's not even doing it on purpose, I think, or trying to be special or romantic. Regardless of whatever anyone else is doing around him or whatever music is playing, this is his world.

That nothing fazes him is aggravating and inspires jealousy in a person like me who thinks too much about everything. If I'm not scrutinizing context with a tweezer, I'm procrastinating until it's too late and all important decisions have sailed me by.

"Where did you learn this?" I ask in a quieter moment, when my mouth can reach the edge of his ear.

His grip tightens, then relaxes. "My dad."

"Was it a bonding thing?"

"One of his techniques to improve my footwork." There's a subtle stiffening of his body. Something nobody would notice, but in his arms like this, I feel it.

"One of the better ones," he adds.

"I can't imagine."

"What?"

"In high school, the outcast everyone had a crush on was secretly taking waltz lessons at home."

That corner of his mouth twitches. My heart buoys at the sight of his slight amusement.

"You had a crush on me?"

Dammit.

"Yeah right," I mutter. "You're Dmitri Lokhov."

"And you're Kavi Basra," he says, as if that means something.

His hand spreads on my back, and before I know it, I've fallen backwards. Except, I haven't really fallen. I float an inch from the ground, reliant on his strength to hold me. And it does. He's a hockey player that can probably bench me if he wanted to.

"You're showing off," I say breathlessly, accusing him.

Gold eyes narrow. "Stop looking at me like I'll drop you. I would never drop you."

"I'm—I'm dizzy." My heart is a trapped rabbit. There's that top-of-a-roller coaster-drop feeling mixed in with… other things.

His arms lift me. I'm tucked against this chest again, which shouldn't smell so good, but it does. When he loosens his hold enough to dance again, I don't step away. I find I can't. My head turns to the side. There's a strain in my lungs as if I haven't got my breath back. Around us, I notice mouths making out, crotches gone back to grinding, and someone seems perilously close to dry-humping to completion in that one corner.

"Do you miss the lessons with your dad?" I blurt out to say something.

Peeking upwards, I catch his brief-almost-smile fade. "No."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry."

We're swaying, side-to-side. All complicated moves have been reduced to this. My arms slip around his neck. His arms go around my waist.

He exhales.

I feel that, too.

"I miss one thing about the lessons," he admits reluctantly. "Teaching me how to dance was the only time my dad talked about my mom."

"Oh. You, um, never mentioned your mom. Even back in high school."

Come to think of it, I know little about Dmitri's family. Despite how we lived in a small town together, his personal life was a mystery. He never talked to me about it, obviously, but I've also never overheard him open up to anyone else about it.

All I know is Lokhov came to school, ignored the fact that I existed, played hockey with Tyler, and sometimes used to have a girl draped over his lap in the cafeteria during our final year. And also—prom…

"When my dad got scouted to play in America, he brought me with him," says Dmitri, his voice low and bland. "Mom was supposed to come, too. But by the time her paperwork got processed, she had passed away. Car accident."

Slivers criss-cross the surface of my heart. I'm so sorry.

The heel of my palm comes down and rubs the center of his chest.

Golden eyes snap down at where I'm touching him. "You don't—stop that."

I pull away, but then a knuckle goes under my chin. "Enough about me," he growls, as if boarding a door shut. "What made you change your mind?"

"About?"

"Today. Coming to my game."

He's finally asking why I'm here. Openly wondering why I texted him to come to his game in the first place. Does it really matter to him?

My mouth gathers into a weak smile. "To pour fuel on the fire of my life. Why else would I ask a man like you for a favor?"

"Why else indeed."

It's a statement, not a question. Maybe a taunt.

My head shakes. "You are not my knight in shining armor. I… We shouldn't even be seen together."

"I'm not. And no, we shouldn't."

I should be happy with how easily he agrees, but I'm not.

"You hate Tyler."

"I do," he confirms. His hands drag down to my hips. With a push, I'm walked backwards. Lokhov is taking me somewhere again, this time off the dance floor. I don't look over my shoulder to see where we are heading. Almost like part of me trusts him. That part must be an idiot.

We don't talk until my back finds a brick wall. We're no longer surrounded by people, but alone in a side hallway. One that leads to an unmarked door. The music is muffled. Is it another VIP section in the back? One only accessed by filthy rich athletes that this club likes to accommodate?

Tension rolls off of Dmitri in waves.

"Why did you say yes?" I have to know. "To bring me to your game?"

"I haven't figured it out."

He hasn't figured it out? My stomach clenches. I'm the one whose life was recently unmoored, a wedding broken, and parents pushing reconciliation to a potentially cheating prick.

"Fine." I don't know why, but I'm goading. "In the meantime, while you're figuring it out, do me a favor."

He doesn't argue that I've racked up too many. He should.

Lokhov palms the space above my head. "Tell me. What is it?"

I'm silent.

"Go on," he drawls, his tone mocking. "Be brave."

My back bristles. "You'll say no."

Lokhov moves closer, his frame almost enveloping me as his voice goes velvety. "Test me then. Test what I'll agree to do for you, Princess. I sure would like the answer to that myself."

Butterflies take flight. I'm overheating, not believing I'm here with someone like him. He's another hockey player. I shouldn't trust that species of man. I should only trust myself from now on.

Dark, intrusive eyes fastening on me shouldn't be flustering.

"Go on. I could stand here all night like this," says Lokhov.

I couldn't. My fingers tighten on his shirt. "If you really want to know, I would like… to make… today—" The last word rushes out of me. "Count."

He blinks. "Count?"

"Count."

His jaw ripples. "How? What are the rules?"

"No rules. I… want my brain to understand that I've got options. Other than him." Please.

It's as if inferiority has caught me by the throat. Getting cheated on, potentially or not, hammers down your self-esteem. I'm desperate for a lift. I need to remember my life hasn't ended. I've got options.

Lokhov steps backward. His hands go into fists. They unclench. Clench. Unclench.

I'm about to tell him to stop. That I'm taking back my desperation. He doesn't need to look so torn and pained right now. Just reject me already.

"Basra," he hisses, before surging towards me, mouth locked in a sneer. His hand goes around and grabs the back of my hair.

My head tilts, and I gasp. My whole body is now a furnace, lit hotter than ever before. The pinch against my scalp feeds more throbbing between my legs. I'm—wet. When did that happen?

"Alright," he croons. His lips barely skim up the line of my neck, moving from above my collarbone to right below my ear. "Go ahead, then. Fucking use me, Princess."