Page 103 of The Publicity Stunt
“I’m not,” he says. “All I want to do is wear flared pants and have a few drinks with my best friend. Not a secret.”
A second later, the bartender comes over with our shots.
“As long as I don’t end up dead in an alley somewhere,” I say and a low laugh rumbles through him. I love making him laugh. It’s like having a superpower when I see the way his nose scrunches up and his face lights up. It might be my only superpower.
We pick up the glasses and clink them together. I remove the wedge of lime from the rim and carefully place it on a napkin, take a deep breath as though I’m about to run a 10K, and gulp my first one down in a single go.
“Keep going, keep going.” Parker winces back the aftertaste and slides another glass my way. I pick it up and chug it, and so does he.
His shoulders droop.
“All right, let’s go.” He grabs my wrist.
“Go where?”
Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” starts to wind down, and a man dressed in nothing but a pair of yellow bell-bottoms and red-tinted glasses occupies the high stage at the front end of the room.
“Just follow me,” Parker says, tightening his grip around my hand.
Like I have a choice? He pulls me away and cuts us a path through the crowd, right to the middle of the dance floor.
“This is looking more and more cultlike,” I say. But he doesn’t respond. He continues to tug on my hand, hauling me through the swarming crowd. “What is going on?” I ask again. “Oh, God, is this a flash mob?”
Right then, Mr. Bell-Bottom’s booming voice cuts me off, filling up the room. “All riiiiiight! Are all you dancing queens ready?”
The crowd yells a synchronized “Yeah!” and the lights dim to a low neon blue. The grooves between my eyebrows rise and I look around, trying to pick up what everyone here already seems to be in on.
“Hey, Chere?”
I look back at Parker and he extends his hand toward me.
I glance down at it, then back up at his face. “What?”
“Will you dance with me?” He’s smiling so hard, it looks like he’s in pain.
“Dance? You want to dance with me?”
He tips his chin up and narrows his eyes, mulling over my words like grapes in a barrel. “I can be persuaded,” he says.
“You hate dancing.”
“Not with you.”
And right on cue, as if they were waiting for him to ask me this very question, the music starts to play. The crowd yells some more and the volume spikes up. I feel the beats reverberating through my bones.
ABBA’s “Dancing Queen.”
Parker grabs my hand and twirls me around to the instrumental beginning, singing right into my ear. I burst out laughing. He pulls me into him and I try to keep my balance, his hands on my waist, mine wrapped over his shoulder.
“You brought me to an ABBA disco party?” I shout over the music.
His grin splits open but he makes no effort to answer the question. At least, not in so many words.
“Having the time of your liiife!” He shuffle-steps us to the right, and back to the left, then does it all over again. I throw my head back in squealing laughter and place my arms over his shoulders, moving side to side, trying not to trip as a group of people next to us staggers to the left, knocking me into him.
He wraps his arms around my waist and steadies me.
Maybe it’s the sense of false privacy that comes with dimly lit dance floors, or maybe it’s the fact that this man who used to hate dancing brought me here to attend an ABBA disco party, but whatever the reason, I let my arms slide around his neck and pull myself a little closer.
