Page 20 of Body Check
“I’m in,” I say, opening my door and getting out of the car. She does the same, and as we cross the parking lot, I reach for her hand. “My resting bitch face is legendary,” I tell her. “And I was scowling at the thought of another man bringing you here. It’s stupid, and I’m sorry. I’m acting like a caveman, I know. I’ll do better, I promise.”
Her face lights up. “You’re acting like a total caveman, but if you take me dancing, I might forgive you.”
“You do realize that you chose an activity that requires you to put your hands all over me, right? And then you questioned if I want to be here? Who the hell would be dumb enough to say no to that?”
“I’m well aware of tonight’s activity and all the places that my hands—and yours—will be.” Bridgette’s smile is coy, and I love it. There’s no doubt she’s a good girl, through and through, but she’s definitely corruptible, and that turns me the fuck on.
Once we get inside, I’m surprised to see the place is hopping, since the parking lot was only about half full. We’re still holding hands because I like the feel of her skin on mine, and I’m a sappyfucker. She squeezes my hand and leans over to speak right into my ear because the music is loud and damn near shaking the walls.
“There’s an assisted living community not too far from here, and they bus residents over,” she tells me. “But don’t let their age fool you. If Marty is here tonight, you might have some competition. That man can dance.”
I make a mental note to keep an eye out for Marty, and then I squeeze her hand in return and speak into her ear. “Are you busy tomorrow afternoon?”
“Are you planning our next date already?” she asks, amusement lacing her words.
“No,” I answer. “I planned that while we were still in the parking lot. I’m trying to see when we can meet up so I can change your oil.”
“It’s fine,” she says, waving me off as I pay the cover charge at the door. ”I can take it to one of those quick-change places in the next few weeks.”
The hell she will. “So, like I said, what’s tomorrow afternoon look like for you?”
She shrugs, that flirty smile back in place. “That depends on how tonight goes.”
Swear to God, she puts a little extra swing in her ass as she leads me into the dance hall, and I’m not mad about it. Not one bit.
We’re the youngest people here, for sure, but not everyone is from Shady Acres, or whatever that place is called. Some people are my parents’ age, and there are even some folks who look like they left the little kids with a sitter so they could have a mid-week date night. When we hit the floor, though, it’s clear my girl is the best dancer in the room. I don’t know what this song is called, and I don’t know the name of the fancy footwork she’s doing as we rock back and forth in time to the music. But I knowhow damn good it feels to have one hand on her waist and the other on her shoulder. I know how intoxicating it is to be this close to her. I know my shirt might burst into flames from the warmth of her palm on my chest.
“You’re a ringer,” I tell her, leaning a little closer than necessary so she can feel my breath on her skin. “If this was a competition, you’d be waltzing away with the prize money. I don’t know shit about dancing, but I know you were born to do it.”
The smile she gives me is so pure, so genuine, that it cracks something inside me. Probably the barbed-wire fence that guards my newly-discovered heart.
“I took dance lessons when I was little. My parents had me try ice skating for a bit?—”
“You skate?” I ask, thinking about how much fun it would be to take her out on the ice.
She nods. “I do, but I like dancing in real shoes on a wood floor a lot better. For one thing, ice rinks are always freezing.”
“That’s kind of the point,” I tease, bringing my face closer to hers. She’s tall, and with her heels on, she’s only about an inch or so shorter than me. Our lips are so close you could barely fit a sheet of paper between us. When I hear her breath catch, I brush my lips across hers in a featherlight motion. It feels so good, but it’s not nearly enough. I’m torturing both of us, but I’m convinced that’s what tonight is all about. Her body feels like heaven in my hands. Every time she presses against me, my cock throbs in response. When her breasts brush against my chest, my blood feels like fire in my veins.
She whimpers as I pull away, but I offer her a smile, and I hope to hell it looks natural and not painful or sadistic. “I’m thirsty,” I said, threading her fingers through mine and leading her to the bar in the back. The bartender looks old enough to be my grandfather, but he beams when he sees Bridgette.
“Dollface! You made it back,” he says, his smile showing off his pearly white dentures.
“I did. And this is my friend, Dutton,” she says, gesturing to me.
Friend isn’t the title I’m going for, but I can be patient. We’re only about an hour into the date, so it seems premature to have the “let’s move in together” talk.
“Is this Marty?” I ask quietly, unsurprised when my voice comes out like a growl.
“This is Howard," she says, “He’s a great dancer, too, though.”
“She’s a flatterer, this one,” he says, and I notice that he hasn’t stopped smiling at Bridgette. “I used to be light on my feet, but my knee has been giving me fits lately. That’s why I figured I’d man the bar tonight. I’ll be back on the dance floor soon, though. What can I get you two?”
Bridgette orders a Dirty Shirley, and I ask for water, since I’m not much of a drinker. It’s apparently the correct order, though, because now Howard’s turning his chompers in my direction. “Smart man!” he exclaims. “You are driving precious cargo, after all.”
I pay for Bridgette’s drink, and we linger at the bar even after we’ve been served. A few other older people stop by to chat with her, and I’m struck by how genuine she is. She’s not just talking to them to be nice or polite. She’s actually invested in the people around her. After her friends head back to the dance floor, she scans the crowd and taps her feet to the music. She’s watching the dancers, but I’m watching her. More specifically, I’m tuned into the way her pouty lips wrap around the striped plastic straw in her drink.
“Are you having fun?” she asks, and I get the sense that she’s about to weigh my answer. Doesn’t matter to me. I’m honest to a fault, so I’m going to give her the truth.
