She sounds haunted. There’s a lot more than the Cliff-Notes version she’s telling. Like me. And there’s a thread of anger too that mirrors mine.
How the fuck did we end up here like this?
But I know. And she knows. The past might be long gone, but it’s not forgotten.
At least now I know her ex is out there somewhere, not dead. Not to be crass, but there’s no competing with the perfect memories of a ghost.
Though how someone could divorce Allyson, I have no idea. She’s perfect. Except for the leaving me part.
“And your parents? How are they? I remember dinners at your house,” I say, memories assailing me. “I washed my hands three times just to sit at your mom’s table and made sure to wear my best jeans, the only pair that didn’t have a hole in them.”
Allyson looks up through her lashes, not meeting my eyes as she shrugs. “I . . . I haven’t talked to them in a long time. I don’t know how they’re doing.”
I set my fork down a little too loudly and it clatters on the plate. “What? What happened? You were always so close.” It’s more accusatory than I intended, but seriously, what the hell? Allyson’s parents were picture-perfect nice in a Mayberry way that tended to make me feel that much dirtier and rougher.
Her shoulders tense, a sure sign the truth is buried deeper than what we’re sharing tonight. That’s okay. I’m not going to push her if I’m not willing to share either.
“Never mind. It’s okay, Al. We don’t have to talk about that.”
She looks back to me gratefully, both of us not knowing what to say again. Taking the easy way out, I stand up. “Come on, let’s dance.”
“What?” she screeches as I grab her hand.
She doesn’t fight me on it, but I wouldn’t have let her off that easy, anyway. Conversation’s hard. We need the action of spinning around the floor. I think it’ll do us both some good.
I pull her to me, keeping space between us as I lead her around the floor. It’s friendly but not friendly. It actually reminds me of the school dances we went to a few times where chaperones around the edges of the floor would keep everything PG-rated.
But though our bodies don’t touch, I’m drinking her in with my eyes. We sway together, and I spin her slowly in deference to her heels, my hand teasing along her lower back until we’re back front to front. This time, we’re a little closer as the music transitions into the next song, a slow and sultry one.
Cody Johnson’s Nothin’ On You washes over the floor, over us, creating heat all around us as everyone feels the music flow through them. I put Allyson’s hand on my chest and don’t bother with any fancy spins or tricks. We just move together, shifting back and forth.
Her fingers dance across my chest, searing me through my shirt. Even in her heels, I look down at her, watching her eyes trace her fingers’ movements. Her gaze moves left and right, measuring my chest, and my arms flex, drawing her attention. The pad of her thumb slips over the lines of black tattoo ink peeking out of my shirt sleeve.
“When did you get this?” she whispers into the space between us.
“A few years ago,” I tell her. “I’ve got others too. If you want to see some time.” Need rumbles through my voice, and though I’m shit for flirting, she knows exactly what I’m saying.
A tiny gasp passes her lips, and she looks up to meet my eyes in slow motion. “Bruce . . .”
I can’t hear whatever she’s about to say. I don’t want to hear her say she wants me, really don’t want to hear her say she doesn’t. So I do the one thing that will shut her up and take her breath away.
I kiss her, right there on the dance floor at Hank’s in front of the whole damn town, hard and sure. Not that I’m giving a single thought to them as I take her lips. She freezes for a single heartbeat, and then she’s kissing me back with a heat echoing what’s roaring through my blood. We stop any pretense of dancing, our tongues tangling and tasting, our bodies remembering and wanting.
“Fuck, Al.”
I wrap my arms around her tighter, pulling her against me, and I feel her lift to her toes, giving me more of her weight as she leans into me willingly. She moans, a vibration I feel more than hear, and I slip one hand up to cup the side of her throat, wanting to make her do it again against my palm.
“Whoooo, Brutal! Yeah, man . . . getcha sum!” a voice calls out from over by the pool table.