He releases me before I’m ready then thrusts his fist into the air with a shout, making me jump in surprise. “My girlfriend is the first woman to be named head drum major of the State Miners!”
A chorus of applause and cheers rains down on me until I’m forced to take cover in the crook of his neck. The weight of admiration is much heavier than that of being elevated to the status of girlfriend without so much as a discussion. I have mental whiplash from all the masks he’s rotating tonight, not to mention from the anxiety of the kind of party I’ve never attended before.
He wraps his arms around me like a shield and whispers in my ear, “Enjoy it, sweetheart. You have more than earned it.”
I lift my head because he’s right. I have. I have worked my ass off for this.
“Thank you!” I call, followed immediately by a response of laughter.
If they were hoping for a speech, they picked the wrong head drum major.
“Shots!” Nate demands, pounding on the bar. I’m not sure he needs any more alcohol.
“Just do one.” Jim smiles as he places a hand on my back to turn me toward the bar. “It’s tradition. Each section has an assigned time. Everyone who’s here will do their traditional section chant then down their favorite shot. Drum majors are always first in line for everything, so we go first with shots.”
“What’s our traditional chant and shot?”
Tim glances at me like I’m nuts. “Keep the beat and whiskey. You know that. We’ve already done it.”
“That’s what all the drum majors have done in years past?” I thought that was something special we’d created together. “You told me drum majors never did a sectional shot of their own before.”
“They didn’t.” Jake erases my confusion with his words. “That’s what we do this year. We’re changing things up.” He raises his freshly filled shot glass to me. “It’s only fitting.”
Jimbo finishes pouring the shots, then we all raise our glasses.
“Keep the beat! Keep the beat! Keep the beat!”
The whiskey goes down like a lightning bolt.
Or maybe that’s just the mood in the air. Everything feels electric. Heavy with the potential for beauty and destruction. Or maybe that’s just the whiskey.
The guys all get wide-eyed and excited like kids on Christmas when the first chords of a really old song start playing. They abandon the bar for the dance floor, and the rest of ITK follows suit.
What happens next is … hilarious. I’ve heard of line dancing, but that’s usually done to country music while wearing boots. This? This is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. They’ve created their own choreographed dance to an old ’70s rock song. The women are on one side, and the men are on the other while they dance-shout at each other about … actually, I have no idea about what.
I sip at my whiskey and cola, watching the spectacle and feeling a twinge of regret. They’re all smiles, singing, laughing, and dancing. I’m just a foreigner in a strange land. Even if Jim had explained this to me at my own initiation, he never could have done it justice.
Jared shakes his head with a smile. I’m not even sure when he arrived at my side, too lost in my voyeurism.
“Why aren’t you out there? You’re in ITK, too.” At least I’m pretty sure they didn’t kick him out. He’s here, and I’m Jim’s little, so …
“Because you need a partner.” He gestures, and sure enough, the guys are now twirling the girls around their bodies. It’s like human bumper cars, and the crashes are half the fun. “Like Jimbo has. Shouldn’t that be you out there?”
Jim is laughing at his partner, one of the sophomore saxophones, as she catches her breath with her hands on his chest. The song continues, and he places his hands on her hips while they sway to the beat and sing to each other.
Jared’s words are meant to bait me, but jealousy doesn’t flame in the pit of my stomach. It’s intimate, but it’s all for show. Shannon and Jake are getting into it in an entirely different way. Even though they’re performing the same moves as everyone else, they’re all wandering hands and carefully placed kisses between singing the words without a centimeter of space between their bodies.
The song changes, and the mood does, too. The dancers stay on the floor, but they’re just randomly jumping around now in their own private mosh pit. Jimbo’s laugh carries over the noise of the party and the music. He has the best laugh. He always has. It’s loud, unabashed, and just slightly obnoxious. It’s proof he doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him.
He’s in the center of the fray, and he raises his cup in the air, spilling a bit of the contents into his hair and not even noticing. Then, he does this weird move where he brings both his arms out to his sides. The dancers move back to give him room. He looks like an octopus. All those muscles are put to good use as he shimmies his body, and if he didn’t have the build he does, he’d look like a total dork.
He’s a crap dancer, but he’s the life of the party.
And they love him for it. He’s like everyone’s best friend.
I’ve never seen this side of Jim before. He’s … fun.
His smile is the best part. He’s not embarrassed in the slightest. Lines form around his white teeth, and his eyes are crinkled in the kind of happiness he can’t fake.
He points at me and gestures with his index finger for me to come to him before pointing to the spot at his side. And then, like a total doofus, he hands off his cup to someone else and mimes pulling me in by a rope.
“He is such an idiot,” Jared mutters. “I can’t believe he’s president this year.”
I can. Who wouldn’t fall in love with him?
I try to make as good of a show of being pulled into his orbit, but I’m not very successful. Mostly because I keep bumping into other people who laugh at the scene.
But when I reach Jim, that doesn’t seem to matter anymore because he wraps his arms around me and smiles that real smile.
“How did you get to be so good at dirty-dancing?” I ask with a laugh. The memory of his octopus arms is going to stay with me forever.
He wrinkles his nose, but it’s another act. He’s still happy. “I’m not good at any kind of dancing.”
The orgasm I had says otherwise. “Could have fooled me.”
His pupils dilate, and he grins. This one is predatory. He thrusts his fist in the air again and shouts, “What kind of dancing do we like?”
“Dirty!” the crowd responds.
The music changes again, and he hauls me against him. With the mash of bodies surrounding us, we barely have room to move. That doesn’t stop him from firmly placing his hands on my ass while he grinds against me. It’s not nearly as sexy as the last time. I keep knocking my large travel mug into his shoulder, and I only have one free hand to wrap around his neck.
He raises an eyebrow as he dips his lips to my ear to speak, “If I were a good dancer, I’d be able to make you come again.”
“I thought you only did that as another competition,” I admit.
“I’ve never thought of worship as competitive.”
He opens his mouth against my neck and sucks with just enough pressure to send my eyes rolling into the back of my skull. A few more minutes of that, and he might get his wish. But he’s not satisfied to stay in one place for very long. His lips, tongue, and teeth roam over any bare skin I have to offer—shoulders, hollow of my neck, chin, the top of my breast, ear—before finally descending on my mouth. He’s better than he thinks because I’m panting with want. Begging for him to kiss me with every swivel of my hips against his hard length.