I peeked into his suitcase where it’s sitting on the bed of the spare room. A bed he hasn’t slept in except for those first two nights. He has a shit ton of styling products for a dude. I haven’t seen him use a drop of it, though, since he’s been in my house. I’m not sure whether to be flattered he’s comfortable enough to not have to primp and preen or insulted that I’m not important enough for him to give it his all. Since I remember how put together he looked when he showed up on my doorstep, I’m choosing to think its option number one.
The look he gives me is dripping with skepticism.
“Line dancing? You? No offense Cobra, but you don’t exactly scream the type. You know I haven’t seen you in a pair of jeans since I’ve been here? Or anything other than flip flops.” At the offense building on my face, he holds his hands up in front of him, then grasps me by the hips, giving me a hard squeeze. “Don’t take it the wrong way. I’m certainly not complaining. If anything, I’m planning on buying stock in whatever brand of yoga pants that is that makes your ass look that edible, but still, nothing I’ve seen yet points to you in a country bar yucking it up with the other hicks.”
I take his face in my hand, squeezing his cheeks until he’s mumbling “ow, ow, ow” between squished lips, then shoving his face away hard.
“Shows what you know, know-it-all. Just for that, challenge accepted.”
He gives me a bemused look, running his fingers over his abused face, as I turn off the gas on the burners and leave him standing in the kitchen.
I go into my bedroom, pull a pair of boot socks out of my drawer, and sit on the bed to yank them over my feet and calves, settling the material on my knees. Yes, I am wearing yoga pants. Grey ones today, but the socks stay up better because of it, gripping the material instead of immediately sliding down the meat of my lower thigh. I’ve got a spaghetti strap on, tighter than I’d ever wear in public with yoga pants. But, I figure, Derrick’s in my house, physically sleeping in my bed. Looking at me in unflattering clothing is just the price he’s going to have to pay.
I drop to my knees, pull my purple cowgirl boots out from under my bed, then pull them on one at a time from my place on the floor before climbing to all fours and pushing up from the carpet.
Derrick’s been watching me from the doorway with an amused smile on his face but hurries out of my way as I make my way into the living room, picking up the remote. I get the song queued I want, then pause, looking at the space in the room.
Without giving it another thought, I shove my couch forward three feet, giving me plenty of space in the walkway between the living room and the dining.
Then I hit play.
I haven’t done this in a while, and I have to watch the screen the first couple of beats as Gretchen Wilson’s “Fake ID” spins from the speaker system and the choreography from the Footloose remake dances across my screen. By the time the second verse starts, though, my back is toward the living room and I’m shaking my hips exaggeratedly at Derrick, who’s watching me with the broadest smile I’ve ever seen on him.
My heels dig into my flooring, giving me purchase as I turn in a circle, yelling the counts out loud.
“1 2 3 4—1 2 3 4.”
I clap in time with the other dancers, my hands on my pelvis in lieu of the belt buckles I’m not wearing. It’s faster than I remember, and I’m horribly out of shape, but that doesn’t stop me from shouting out my whoo at just the right time to blend in with Greta banging on her tambourine.
“Shake it, baby,” he yells at me over the blaring of the music, clapping along and howling at the sight I must make.
I’m huffing by the time the song ends three minutes later, and I forget all about Youtube’s auto play function, until Footloose itself starts blasting from my speakers.
Then, to my ever-loving surprise, Derrick jumps into the fray, spinning me into him before swinging me back out.
Dinner sits forgotten on the stove as my living room is turned into a dance hall.
Chapter 7
Derrick
“I’m bored.”
I throw myself into the chair next to the coffee table, then immediately push back out of it, too antsy to sit still for long. I feel like I’m crawling the walls. I need to get out and do something. Anything, at this point.
The last two weeks have been fun, but I’m starting to lose my mind. There’s only so much home repair a man can take without the relief of a bar and a barmaid at the end of the day.
Shelby is sitting on the couch with her legs tucked up underneath her. She’s got an afghan on her lap, a glass of wine on the table, and is scrolling through the menu on Netflix. She barely even glances at me before continuing with her search.
“God, Derrick. You’re worse than a five-year old boy. I promised to house you, but I made no such assurances about keeping you entertained.”
“And you’re like an eighty-year old woman,” I snap back, “who’s most exciting prospect is her weekly bingo game.”
I throw my hands up in exasperation, and she giggles at me, but still doesn’t stop her clicking on the remote.
“Guilty as charged,” she agrees, still not making any effort to get up from the couch.
“I know something we could do,” I suggest, waggling my eyebrows at her and tugging on my belt.
“Nope,” she says, popping her p with her lips.
“Why not?” I pout, dropping onto my knees next to her on her couch. She cringes at the impact, an arm tightening at her stomach. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Derrick. Just peachy. I don’t want to have sex.” Her voice is flat and irritated, and she’s now actively refusing to make eye contact with me.
“That’s fine. You can suck my cock, if you want. Help with that oral fixation of yours.”
I grin devilishly at her, and despite the battle for dominance going on over her expression, her smile wins, and she smirks with a teeny giggle.
But then she kills me with a stab to the heart. Or to the dick.
“No.”
If at first, you don’t succeed…
“I could eat you out. I mean, I’ve gotten really good at it, if I do say so myself. Or, we could sixty-nine. We haven’t tried that yet. Yes!” I beg, inspiration flowing into my rapidly hardening dick, “Please let’s sixty-nine. That could keep me entertained for hours.”
Her nose squishes up, a look of disgust coating her features. She flings the blanket off of her lap, and I think she’s going to storm off in a huff, until I notice the heating pad pushed up against her belly.
“Look okay. I’m on my period. I’m sorry—it’s gross. Whatever. Go bother somebody else.”
“Your period,” I repeat, as if I’m somehow new to the concept.
“Yes, Derrick. My period. My monthly cycle. My moon course. That time of the month. The visit from Aunt flow. Code red. Since God, in the most perverse move of patriarchal bullshit ever invented, decided that women were only good for growing tiny humans, every month we don’t grow a tiny human, we get to purge three weeks of preparation and start again fresh.”
I unconsciously start backing away as her rant grows more impassioned, hoping to put some space between us before her head starts spinning on her neck. It is, apparently, the wrong thing to do.