Grant rests his elbow on my shoulder as Crosby asks me about a pitcher on the Philly team. “How nasty is his stuff?”
At least, I think that’s what Crosby said, but I can barely hear him. “Later, man. We’ll talk later,” I shout.
He nods a yes and lifts his beer, knocks some back, then swings Nadia into his arms for a risqué kiss.
Chance is hitting it with River and Sierra, the three of them busting a move in the middle of everyone. Gotta love that about Chance—a straight man with zero issues dancing with a queer dude. His twin brother is gay, so maybe that helps. Though, judging from the way Chance is staring at Sierra, he may not realize there’s anyone else on the dance floor.
Gunnar hits the dance floor, and seconds later he’s flanked by men and women. He casts his gaze at a busty brunette, then at a fit, hipster dude, taking turns bumping hips with both.
Looking like he’s enjoying both.
Interesting.
Holden and Reese peel away, and then the rest of them, joining the crowds with wild glee. The club is packed, hundreds of people like sardines in a strobing tin. This should be fine—I’ll blend in. No one will notice me.
Grant slides his arm around my shoulder and brings his mouth against my ear. “Dance with me, baby,” he whispers, so close I can hear him even with the music. This is the first time he’s given me an affectionate nickname other than Deck. The way he purrs it sends a shiver down my spine. I need to focus on this tonight—his sweet nothings are my everything.
I set down my iced tea—party animal, that’s me—take his hand, and push through the crowds. We bump and jostle our way onto the dance floor.
Hey that corner far away looks nice, I want to say. But Grant is hellbent on the center.
Pushing past sweaty couples, men and men, women and women, women and men, we make it to the middle.
O Captain, my Captain!
I’ve got this.
I can handle crowds. My job involves getting up in front of forty thousand people in the ballpark and millions on TV.
This ought to be a piece of cake.
“Hey,” he mouths. “Let’s show them what we’ve got.”
“Okay,” I say, but I’m not sure if he can hear me. It doesn’t matter since we’re doing this no matter what.
Yup. I’m doing the awkward shuffle like Kevin James in Hitch, and Grant . . .
Grant is Channing Tatum.
The music slows to a painful thumping pulse, and I have no clue how to dance. It feels as unnatural to me as kissing a woman.
Maybe sensing my discomfort, Grant takes the lead, roping his arms around my neck, lining up my thigh between his. “You look so good,” he mouths.
“Thanks,” I shout back, my voice robotic.
For a moment, in Grant’s arms, dancing is easy enough. After only a minute, though, the music shifts again to a faster beat, and before I know what’s happening, Grant’s behind me, bumping up against my ass.
Okay, that I can handle.
I know how that works.
But what the hell do I do with my hands?
Grant knows exactly what to do with his. They slide down my sides, hitting my hips, and he holds on tight as he grinds against me.
It feels good. Mostly. But it should feel better. The man I love is rocking against me, grinding, swaying, and this is a familiar pose. But I can feel the eyes on us.
It’s not because we’re two guys. Hell, this place is an everything-goes zone. I glimpse Reese dirty dancing with Layla and Tia. Holden joins in with the River, Chance, and Sierra crew. Beyond them, a pair of women I don’t know are wrapped up in each other, arms high in the air. Over there is a group of shirtless guys, tangled together.
So, it’s not the gay thing.
It’s the me thing.
I’m not into the scene, and there’s a reason, as with most things I do. I don’t drink because my father drinks too much. I don’t like being the center of attention for a reason because I know how shitty it feels when you’re singled out for the worst reason, like your dad stumbling onto a field while reeking of tequila.
Not just once.
Not just twice.
But many times.
That’s why I hate dancing in public.
It reminds me of all my shame as a teenager. Tonight stirs up all the stuff I’ve worked through in therapy. All the issues I’ve dug into, pushed past, crossed over to be where I am today.
Ah hell.
I should tell Grant.
I should stop being a chickenshit and say it.
But look at my guy. Grant is grooving and moving, and this is what he wanted—to show me what he’s got, to dirty dance for me and with me. I’m not going to stomp on his good time. He already doesn’t drink for me. I can’t ask him to not dance for me.