“Damn you, Cole.” I lift a hand to shove his touch away, but my fingers curl around his forearm instead, holding on with aching desperation. “A fucking year.”
He hauls me onto his lap, arranges my legs around his hips, and hugs me tight to his chest. “I can’t stomach the thought of being away from you.”
“I’ll go with—”
“No. It’s not even an option.”
My eyes widen. “Will you be in danger?”
He laughs—an empty sound I’ve never heard him make—and strokes a hand through my hair. “No.”
“Then why can’t I go?” Mother of God, am I whining?
“You have a dance company to run. Besides, civilians aren’t allowed near the offshore oil platforms. You can’t be there.”
The gravity of the situation sets in, and the lump in my throat burns red-hot.
No Cole smiles for a year. No riding on the back of his bike. No strip teases on the pole. No holding hands at Cardinals games. No sharing beers in the backyard.
“No sex for a year.” I trail my fingers across his bottom lip.
“I’ll be jerking off to memories of you dancing naked.”
I smile sadly. “You’ll come back to me?”
“Yes.” He lifts my hand and touches his lips to my ring, his eyes bright and unyielding. “I promise.”
One promise.
One forever.
“I’ll wait for you.” I fold my arms around his neck and touch my mouth to his ear. “I’d wait for you forever.”
Chapter Eight
PRESENT
I didn’t see Trace at the casino when I met with HR the morning after our confrontation. In fact, I haven’t seen him or heard from him for the past three weeks. I’ve spent that time shuffling my schedule, moving evening dance lessons to days, and merging classes together.
So I can belly dance five nights a week.
At The Regal Arch Casino.
For three-hundred-thousand dollars a year.
Holy.
Fuckamoly.
“Waz up with you, hoss?” Nikolai O’Shay releases my hand midway through a left-and-right Samba whisk, his Caribbean accent thickening with exertion. “You need to grease dat waistline.”
In other words, I’m not moving my hips like they’re oiled. I hoped he wouldn’t notice. But of course, he did. We’ve been dance partners since college and entertain at ballroom functions a couple of times a year, like the mayor’s Christmas party. We landed a gig at Anheuser-Busch’s upcoming Fourth of July celebration, and we only have six weeks to nail this routine.
One More Night by Maroon 5 thumps through the speakers in my dance studio. The choreography is tricky, but the beats per measure work for the Samba. If I find my groove, we’ll be golden.
“I have a lot on my mind.” I bend at the waist and rest my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath.
“Tell your boy all about it.” Nikolai shuts off the music, takes a running leap, and slides across the dance floor, ending flat on his back with his legs between my feet and his silver eyes staring up at me.
Perspiration glistens in his tight curly hair, which he keeps cropped close to his skull and bleached blond. Half-Irish, half-Afro-Caribbean, he was born and raised in Trinidad. His accent sounds like he likes to sing when he talks, and his pale eyes and dark skin give him a head-turning exotic look.
“I’d rather focus on the routine.” I place a foot on his chest and lift his chin with the toe of my high-heeled dance shoe. “Let’s take it from the top with the traveling lock.”
He curls a hand around my calf, and his gaze journeys up my bare legs to my spandex shorts and sports bra. “You need to release some of that tension, girl.” He winks. “I can help with that.”
Nikolai is one of the best dancers in the Midwest. He also models, and recently finished an ad campaign for United Colors of Benetton. But his natural-born skill is flirtation. Coming on to women is as involuntary for him as breathing.
We had sex on and off through college, and over the past few months, I’ve considered taking him up on his advances again. But I know I’d regret it. One, he’s the closest thing I have to a best friend. Two, monogamy is a language he doesn’t speak. And three, he’s really not that great in bed.
“How about I dump all my problems on you,” I say, stepping toward the sound system, “after we run through the routine again.”
“All right.” He jumps to his feet, brushes off his loose pants, and rolls his neck. “Let’s do it.”
As the song begins, we take our positions and slide through the small light footwork. Swaying right and left, always turning, bending, and straightening, we create a unified twirling motion, two bodies swinging forward and back like a pendulum.
I concentrate on adding little lifts at the end of each beat, the subtle kicks that bounce in my pelvis and sex-up the movements. My feet ache in the heels, my soles covered in callouses. But I muscle through it, pushing against the floor to roll up on my toes and absorb that lift in my core. Soon, I’m oiling my hips and slipping into the zone.
“There’s my girl.” Nikolai beams, rolling me in a full turn out and back.
A knock sounds on the exterior door of the dance studio.
He pulls me into a closed position, bending me backward as I shout with my head hanging upside-down, “Come in! It’s open!”
It’s a Friday afternoon. The visitor could be any one of my students. Or my sister stopping by after school. Though she never knocks.
I sidestep through a circular volta, spinning to wrap my legs around Nikolai’s waist with my back to the door. He gyrates against me, hands spanned across my backside and bare chest flexing beneath my fingers. Then he stops abruptly and drops my feet to the floor, staring at whoever walked in.
Chest heaving, I turn and come face to face with Trace Savoy.
Hands on his hips and expression stormy, he aims his crankiness at the other man.
Oh, now this is interesting. Cole hated Nikolai, but that was a jealousy problem. Who knows what crawled up Trace’s ass?
“What are you doing here?” I adjust the spandex shorts where they gather uncomfortably around my upper thighs.
“Checking in.” Trace shifts his testy gaze to me.
Nikolai turns off the music and joins my side. “Who’s the stiff upper-lip?”
“The reason my evenings are no longer available. Nik, meet Trace. Trace, this is Nikolai.”
They don’t shake hands or exchange customary greetings. Nikolai crosses his arms over his nude chest. Trace maintains his wide stance, hands behind his back, spine straight.
He’s wearing a black suit today, the shirt stiff and blue like his eyes. No tie. The top few buttons are open, offering a tempting view of his strong neck.
“I’m gonna go.” Nikolai slips around me, pulls on his shirt, and changes into his street shoes.
“No, wait. We need to—”
“I’ve been here before.” He moves toward the door, gesturing between Trace and me. “Once was enough.”
Trace raises a brow in question. I’m sure he’d love to hear all about the night Nikolai met the bloody end of Cole’s fist, but it’s none of his business.