2. Turn the Beat

Turn the Beat

Nicole

T he man at the door is built like a brick shithouse and looks me up and down with such a sneer that I shrink behind Tima and her friend. Miriam Price is so beautiful that I surely look like the stepsister who wears hand-me-downs to the ball as I practically whimper behind her blonde hair and minidress.

To my surprise, the bouncer nods. Both women with me smile at the bouncer, and Tima grabs my hand, leading me through the door.

I’ve never been in a place like this. It’s beyond my wildest imagination, and I squint as my eyes adjust to the light. And…there’s a lot of light.

Purple and white shimmers come off the disco ball above us. The dance floor, lit in purple and blue neon lights and raised in the center of the room, gives the impression of a boxing ring as patrons gather around the base of it. Two bars, one on each side of the room, offer drinks. One of the bars is dedicated to beer and wine, the other to hard liquor and mixed cocktails.

Next to me, Miriam and Tima both wiggle their butts and bump hips in time to the music, laughing. The fringe around Tima’s top shakes wildly and draws all eyes to her cleavage. Eventually, Tima notices I’m not engaged in the celebration of a night out and straightens her face. “Close your mouth. You look like you’re catching flies. Go to the bar and get a drink. It’ll make you feel better.”

I glance at the bar, confused. “I’ve never ordered a drink at a bar. What do I do?”

Wrong thing to say.

“I can’t help you,” she says, and I hear the disappointment in her voice. “We’ll be over in the booth with those guys.” She points to a booth behind the dance floor. I smile a little because I’m pretty sure Tima and Miriam aren’t fitting in that booth with eight men and another woman already in it and gathered around something on the table in front of them.

Tima and Miriam walk off, and I make a beeline for the bar. I may not be a big drinker, but drugs scare me to death. If I have to choose a chemical here, I’ll go with alcohol. Besides, Tima said something about a Soviet drink I should try.

I approach the crowded bar and quietly try to hide and get a drink at the same time, which won’t work. People around me wave dollar bills in the air and yell things at the bartenders waiting on them. The music is loud, so I can’t hear much beyond the people directly in front of me ordering their drinks. A woman a few people over leans across the bar and pulls her shirt down, licking her lips at the male bartender until he slides over to serve her. I look down at my halter top. Yeah, there’s no way I can pull this down without my boobs coming out entirely.

“You have to get in there. Don’t be shy,” a voice says next to my ear, startling me.

“Is it that obvious I’m not a big bar person?” I ask, turning to the man who just spoke to me.

Dear. Sweet. Lord. Christ. Jesus.

My eyes move over the man, and my stomach drops like I’m in a runaway elevator. He’s a couple inches taller than an average man, but he leans down to make eye contact at my level. His hair is somewhere between long and short and curls nicely at his neck except for some curls that he’s tamed around his forehead. His hair is dark, and he sports a perfectly trimmed, dark mustache I want to smooth with my index fingers because he looks so much like that actor who was in that car movie, albeit a bit younger. His brown eyes are the most magical I’ve ever seen. Granted, that could be because the disco ball’s light shimmers over his face. He smiles, showing perfectly white teeth that are mildly crowded around the canines like my own.

I guess him to be about thirty-five, maybe a year or two older, and a quick perusal of the length of his body tells me he’s a fashionable dresser. This is a man who cares how he looks. I can imagine him lint brushing his black shirt which is open a few buttons and showing a smattering of chest hair. The amount of dark hair is so perfect – not enough to be obnoxious, but enough to tell me he’s well past puberty.

“Did you need help then?” he asks, tilting his head to the side and studying my face.

I wonder what he sees. Can he tell this outfit is borrowed? That my hair probably doesn’t get this feathered on a normal night?

What would Tima do? What would Tima do? I chant the question in my head as I throw my head back to position my hair perfectly and smile the biggest smile I can. She’d flirt with him.

“I’m a little shy. Do I just push through?”

“With that top? You could just shimmy through that line of men over there and get pretty much whatever you want. Dex Holden,” he says, holding out his hand. “Let me help you.”

“I’m Nicole. OK, Dex. I’ll have a white communist.”

He squints, and his lips move into a smirk. “What?”

“Um, I may have got that wrong. White…Russian? Do they have those here?”

He laughs. He actually freaking laughs, and it’s so beautiful – so engrossing – that I’m not mad that he’s laughing at my expense. I wring my hands, wondering what to do next now that I’ve obviously turned him off. I jolt in surprise when his warm hand is suddenly on my lower back .

“That was a good one,” he says, shaking his finger at me. “I’ll have to remember it. You’re funny.” He pushes me forward a bit as he nudges us both up to the crowded bar.

The man next to him sneers at the intrusion but soon takes a step back when he sees Dex. “Sorry, Mr. Holden,” the man says, holding up his hands like he’s being robbed. He moves further down the bar, and Dex and I lean comfortably against the wood.

Dex raises his hand to get the bartender’s attention. Other hands are raised near us, tits are out, and some patrons even wave large bills at the two bartenders working. To my surprise, the bartender approaches Dex immediately. “What can I get you, Mr. Holden?”

Is Dex someone important here?

“Do you own this place?” I ask.

Dex smiles and orders our drinks at the same time he slides a ten-dollar bill across the bar, telling the bartender to keep it. When the bartender leaves, Dex turns to me and casually leans on the bar like he does own the place. “Not yet, sweetheart. Owners don’t usually pay for drinks,” he says with a smile. “But I’m well-respected, and I tip well. Why are you here?”

I jerk my head in the direction Tima walked. “My roommate dragged me out. I got fired today. I guess this is her attempt to cheer me up.”

The bartender appears with my drink and a martini for Dex, and I stare at the beige concoction in front of me.

“You’ve never had one of those before, huh?” Dex asks .

I shake my head. “I’m kind of a drinking virgin except for a few sips of wine.”

Dex leans closer to me. “Well, let’s pop that cherry, shall we?” He whispers it in my ear, and I shiver as his breath moves over my lobe and down my neck. It’s suddenly very warm in the club, and I’m hyper-aware of the sensory experiences around me. The lights move over every surface of the room, and the music switches to a faster song.

He clinks his martini glass with my white Russian and downs half his drink in one go. Pulling the olive out of the glass, he sucks it off the toothpick and focuses back on me. I’ve never held the attention of a man like this before, and I’ve certainly never had the attention of a man like him .

“Why’d you get fired? Fuck a coworker?” He waggles his eyebrows.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Do you have a reputation?” he asks, but there’s laughter in his voice. He’s teasing me.

“That’s the funny thing about it. I certainly don’t.” I taste my drink, barely sipping it, and immediately put it back down. Ew.

“Don’t like alcohol either, huh?” Dex says, picking up my glass and swirling the creamy liquid. “I better taste it to make sure Robbie made it right.” Tilting the glass, he swallows a large gulp of my abandoned cocktail. He smacks his lips for a moment and then waves the bartender over again by only waggling two fingers.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Holden?” the bartender asks .

“Nothing is wrong. Can you get this beautiful woman a Shirley Temple?”

The bartender nods and walks away. “What’s a Shirley Temple?” I ask. My fingers itch to wave down the bartender and tell him I’m fine. The drink is fine. I don’t like making waves, and I don’t want him to make me a different drink.

Dex laughs and rubs his face. “You really don’t get out much, do you? Relax, it’s a virgin drink.” He stares at me a moment. “I think you’ll like it. I know I like the occasional virgin…drink.” Heat moves up my neck and to my cheeks. “Now, tell me why you got canned. I’m very interested in hearing this story.” He sets his martini down, and I’m mesmerized by the purple light bouncing off the clear fluid.

I blink, trying to think and not look at every little detail about anyone and anything around me. “They said I needed to go to church more.”

“Jesus Christ.” Dex’s eyes widen like he’s never heard such a thing. He probably hasn’t. It’s clear we come from two different worlds.

“Literally,” I mumble. He probably can’t hear me over the loud music. I lean forward and speak next to his ear, and he puts his hand gently at my waist. I’ve seen men do this with Tima and Miriam, but never to me. I stumble a little, but his hand at my waist keeps me upright. “I worked at a religious grade school.”

He gives a short nod and a smile. “Well, that’s some shit, huh? ”

The bartender brings my drink and sets it in front of Dex. Not me. The man slings his white bar rag over his shoulder and nods at Dex in a show of respect. The bartender doesn’t move to the next customer, breathe, or smile until Dex approves the drink.

“Are you sure you’re not the owner? If not the owner, are you the manager?” I ask.

“Neither.” He slides the drink to me after it meets his approval. “Maybe someday,” he says, sighing. "I own my own dance studio a few blocks away. I find talent here. They know me.”

“Talent? What kind of talent?”

“Dancers mostly. I need teachers or demonstrators. I find people who can dance, pay them a few bucks to show my classes some moves, and everyone’s happy.”

“What kind of dance?” My eyes dart around the room. Modern styles, I’m certain.

“Disco mostly, but I teach a little of everything. I even teach jazz and tap classes for children. Those have a waitlist a mile long and fill up fast. Everyone wants their little Suzy to learn jazz.” He rolls his eyes. “Even more annoying are the old people who are trying to relive their youth. Learning the Hustle is the midlife crisis of the Midwest. You understand?”

“I think so.”

“You’ve never heard of Holden School of Dance?”

“I don’t get out much,” I say .

“Not to places like this, huh?” Dex asks, taking a sip of my old drink.

I look around again, and a small smile slides up one side of my mouth. A smirk, really. “No, I mean anywhere. I don’t get out.”

“That seems a waste. You’re beautiful.” Dex smiles again.

A blush creeps up my neck. Thankfully, Dex probably won’t notice with the bar lighting.

“Will you dance with me?” he asks, sliding his hand up from my waist and trailing his fingers over my arm.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Laughter replaces my words, and I snort. Awkwardly. Taking a drink of my Shirley Temple – which is quite good – I stall, my mind frantically looking for an excuse not to make a damn fool of myself. “I don’t know how. I’m just here for a drink.”

“You’re not even really drinking,” Dex says. “Come dance with me. One song. I need to get up there anyway. Find some fresh talent. You never know when you’ll find the next instructor or big thing.”

“My only experience with this type of dancing is TV.”

Dex puts his finger under my chin and tilts my face to look into those damnable brown eyes. A dimple creeps into one of his cheeks. “Then you’re already as much of a professional as every other person in here.”

Before I can argue, my feet move. Dex leads me to the dance floor. Actually, Dex pushes me to the dance floor if pushing can be done in a sexy and gentle way. After meeting him, I can confirm it can. This is interesting and something I should talk to Tima about. Then again, she probably already knows. There’s something scintillating about having him behind me and walking toward a new experience with a sexy man mere inches from my back.

He leads me up the dance floor stairs, and I look around, obviously out of place as everyone gives me a weird look. I don’t blame them. I’m on the dance floor and not moving.

Dex is suddenly in front of me. “The key to disco is always staying on beat but not letting yourself get too tired. This goes on for hours.” He looks my body up and down. “You look scared.”

“I am scared.”

“Why?” he asks.

I look around again and can feel the panicked creases on my forehead. “I’m on a dance floor in my new city, I just lost my job, and the guy in front of me is gorgeous. I’m a little nervous, OK?”

Dex bites his bottom lip, then licks it as he shakes his shoulders. He moves his face until it’s two inches from my own. “You think I’m gorgeous?” We stare at each other a moment until he clears his throat. “Do what I do. You’ll be fine. Be my mirror image.”

Dex moves side to side with a bounce in his step. He puts his hands on my hips and makes me move with him. I look around, and he tilts my chin to him again, forcing me to look at his face. “Look at me. Not at them. They may look, but they don’t care. Trust me. Even if they do, do you care? ”

“We haven’t met. My name is Nicole Tate, and I’m a people pleaser.”

“A people pleaser, huh?” He smirks. “I like to please people, too.” Was that a sexual innuendo? “But don’t worry about pleasing these people. If you’re…performing with a partner, you focus on them. I’m the only person in the room you care about right now.”

I look into his eyes and notice goldish halos in the irises. They practically sparkle in the disco ball light. Reflective sparks of color from my halter top move over his face and body. His hands guide me, and I’m soon stepping and matching him. My arms are stiff at my sides because I’m not sure what to do with them.

He notices and runs his hands down my arms, making every single micro hair on my body stand on end. My nipples harden in my top, which is a new feeling for me. I understand now, though. I understand why Tima and Miriam traipse off to the club every weekend. This male attention is something I’ve never had, and my head spins like I’m drunk off it.

“What do I do with my hands?” I ask.

He smiles a devilish grin and leans toward me. “Never ask a man that question if you’re not ready for it, Nicole.”

It’s not the first time he’s been close tonight, but it’s the first time I notice that he smells good. Really damn good. Like a man. A hint of sweat is somewhere beneath faint laundry detergent and a light cologne. It’s not overwhelming like some men spray. He’s aware of what he’s wearing and knows damn well that an overpowering scent in a club would turn people off. But he also knows that a woman up close would find the scent arousing. Like it’s only for her.

His hands slide down to my wrist and then away again to do his own hand movements, which are small and loose. Nothing huge. No large pointer fingers. It’s subtle, and I remember what he said about disco being an experience that goes on for the whole night. The movements are liquid, and he moves his hips and shoulders in a relaxed way I try to emulate.

I shimmy my shoulders in a swivel motion until I feel like I’m somewhat matching him. I’m aware that eyes are watching Dex. I’m happy they’re not watching me, but I don’t like the other women watching him like they wish he was dancing with them and I’m not good enough. Something possessive comes over me, lighting a fire under my ass.

I have to impress this man.

I spy Tima in my peripheral vision as she sashays onto the dance floor with Miriam. When she sees me with Dex, she stops short and opens her mouth in surprise. If Tima is shocked, Miriam looks positively scandalized that I managed to land the hottest and best dancer in the place. She scowls, and her lips turn into a sneer. I expect no support or cheering from her because she’s Tima’s friend, but her expression reminds me of the pithy jealousy women have for other females.

I flick my eyes back to Dex, focusing on the man in front of me like he asked. Soon, I’m smiling as my hips and knees loosen up. I may not be perfect, but I’m moving like the people around me. Dex is a dance instructor and does this for a living. He’s expected to be good.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a few moments and dance. I let myself go and do what my body feels like doing. A freedom I’ve never felt before moves from my feet into my body as the beat vibrates the dance floor. I can feel the music and the people dancing nearby. The air between Dex and my breasts practically crackles with electricity.

When I open my eyes, Tima and Miriam are gone. Searching the room to see if they’ve left me here, I eventually spot them in a nearby booth with two men bent over a white substance. Tima smiles at me, but Miriam leans over the drugs on the table so I can’t see her face. I blink twice, suddenly scared that I’m in the same room as drugs, and Dex notices.

He follows my line of sight. “You don’t do drugs?”

I shake my head. “Never tried them.” I look back at him. “Do you do drugs? Are you going to push them on me?”

Laughter erupts from his mouth and people nearby stop and stare as the music around us changes to a new song. “Yeah, sweetheart, I’m going to get my trench coat and jump out from around the back dumpster. ‘Hey, baby, I got some good powder.’ What do I look like?”

“Trouble!” I yell over the music. “You look like trouble to me. Everything I’ve ever been warned about in life is either in this room or standing right in front of me.”

He smiles and moves closer to me until we’re touching as we move in unison. My entire body tingles, my stomach trembles, and a line of nervous sweat drips down my spine. “I am trouble,” he says. “But to answer your question, I don’t fuck with cocaine. Not my thing. Now some quaaludes to calm the nerves every now and then? You’ve really never even tried it?”

“No, and I won’t.”

“Noted. Doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.” A slower song comes on, and I awkwardly step back from Dex. “Want another Shirley Temple?” he asks.

Why is this guy still hanging out with me? A quick look around shows there are two hundred beautiful women in the room, most of whom are probably salivating over Dex Holden. But he follows me to the bar where he raises his hand yet again and summons the bartender like a king. He doesn’t even speak to Robbie this time – just makes a hand gesture between us.

“Where are you going to work now that you’re without a job?” he asks out of the blue.

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far.” I prop my head in my hands and lean forward until my hair flops into my face. I feel sorry for myself for a few seconds until I remember where I am. People don’t want to see a sad woman at the disco. I raise my head and blow my bangs out of my eyes. “I’m kind of licking my wounds here, but I’ll need to think about it tomorrow. Bills will be due the end of the month.”

“Sounds like you need a job interview,” Dex says, casually leaning against the bar. A drop of sweat rolls down his temple, and my fingers itch to swipe it away .

“Do you know of one?” I ask, chuckling and taking a drink of my Shirley Temple as soon as the bartender sets it in front of me.

“We can talk at home.”

“Excuse me?” I ask, practically spitting out my drink. I pound on my chest to keep from choking. “Home?”

He throws back his martini like it’s water and sucks the pimento out of his olive before answering. He holds out his hand for me and straightens to his full height. “We should hash out the details somewhere quieter. My place isn’t far from here.”