Page 13 of Winning Match
Marlowe looks up and nods. Her eyes are wide, that alcohol glaze nearly gone from her brush with adrenaline.
“Gerard’s here,” she murmurs.
My stomach sours at the sound of his name.
That’s who fucking spooked her. Fucker.
I shake my head, not bothering to look over my shoulder. I don’t want to see him, don’t want to know who the fuck he is.
“Do you care?” I ask, even though it’s clear that on some level, she does. The wounds he inflicted are too fresh, still bleeding rather than scabbed over.
“Will you dance with me?” she asks instead, a needy thread in her tone.
I nod, releasing her hair to take her hand and draw her closer. “Come here, mi niña.”
5
Marlowe
Gerard is here, his arms around another woman—this one, a brunette—his lips on her neck.
Jesus, how many women are there?
How many red flags?
I shake my head, wanting to clear him from my mind, from my heart, from my history.
“I got you.” Ale’s voice is steady, and I relax further.
My eyes flicker to his in surprise as he begins to dance bachata with me as raggaeton pulses through the club.
“This isn’t the right music!” I holler, too distracted by Ale to think about Gerard.
“But it’s the right woman.”
Around us, people surge forward, their phones pulled out, already recording.
My eyes dart to Ale’s in confusion, in alarm, but he holds me closer, ignoring everyone but me. And holy shit, Ale can dance. It’s not the sweaty, body-on-body grinding that the music calls for, but a sensual give-and-take. Swaying back and forth, forward and backward, and on the fourth beat, a hip roll that has my core connecting with his very solid thigh.
I gasp, and Ale’s fingers flex on my hip, that half grin ghosting his lips.
“Wait,” I panic. “I don’t know how to dance like this. I don’t know the steps.”
“Could have fooled me,” is his low reply.
A second later, the music changes and a cheer ripples through the crowd. The opening notes of what is clearly a popular song, although I’ve never heard it, floats through the club and the air tightens. My heart hammers, my stomach fluttering with a million incandescent butterflies, as Ale single-handedly captures the attention of the entire dance floor. The entire club.
He dances with me like no other person, no other woman, exists, and it hits me like a shot of pure adrenaline. He leads me through the steps with ease, his steps so sure that I’m able to follow even though I have no clue what I’m doing. The dance is intense and intimate, with body rolls and caresses that build anticipation. Expectation. As the crescendo of music mounts, Ale pauses and tosses me a knowing wink.
A moment later, a beat drops, as the DJ mixes the song with electronic dance music. The dance floor erupts as the club goes wild.
I laugh, shaking my head at him in disbelief. He grins back, not remotely flustered, not a care in the world that we’re taking up most of the dance floor.
I miss an obvious step and wince, but Ale shakes his head, leading me smoothly into the next step.
“I got you,” he says soothingly.
And I believe him. What does it mean that I believe him?
