Ruckus (Sinners of Saint 2)

I snatched the laptop from his hands and played another video. “Roses” by OutKast. Dean burst out laughing, his eyes crinkling with mirth.

“Do it,” I prompted. It was the time he was the one to dance. And dance he did at Vicious’s party, mimicking the band’s choreography from the video. It was a part of a lost bet—duh—but it was so hilarious, the memory sat in my mind eleven years later, crisp like it was yesterday. I could still smell the alcohol and hormones wafting through the air from that night. “Please, Dean.” I squeezed my palms together. “Deep down in your brain, under all the dead cells courtesy of your weed habit and the porno movies, I’m sure you still remember the dance.”

“Only because you asked so nicely.” He jumped off of the hood again and said, “Play it from the start,” pretending to gel his hair and check himself out in an invisible mirror. It was all so surreal, I couldn’t help but giggle like a schoolgirl, which only made his already-huge smile widen.

I hit play, moving my eyes from the original video to Dean’s dancing, the ocean glittering behind him. He did almost everything right, from the part where he slides to his knees at the beginning of the song to the very end, barely messing up the composition. My stomach hurt from laughing, but his face was serious. And when the song ended, he stalked toward me, grabbing the laptop.

“My turn.”

I checked the time on my cell phone. “Okay, but then we have to go. It’s getting late and we need to get ready for the rehearsal.”

It was already four. I couldn’t believe we spent so much time together without even noticing. Dangerous chemistry, the words settled in my brain like thick dust. Be careful, Rosie.

“Yeah, yeah, Princess Saint and Prince Dickhead will have us right on time. Don’t worry.” He waved me off, his gaze fixated on the screen. “Drops of Jupiter” by Train started playing. My smile faded.

“I don’t remember listening to this song together.” I swallowed. He moved between my legs, his waist in a perfect position for me to wrap myself around it, but I didn’t, my eyes desperately staring at his lips. We were always a breath away from a kiss.

“We didn’t. You listened to it one time when you thought you were alone at home. I dropped by to give Millie her textbook back. The song kind of stuck in my head after that, because I kept wondering what the fuck you were looking for. I couldn’t figure you out, Rosie. When I saw other guys hitting on you, it killed me. Because whatever it was you needed, I didn’t want you to find it in them.”

Shamefully, the feeling was mutual. Every time he brushed Millie off and cancelled on her, my heart swelled a little. She is not the one, I convinced myself. I am.

“You had no right to be jealous.” I looked down at my black flip-flops. He shook his head no.

“Never claimed any differently. And you had no right to be jealous, either. Yet here we are.”

There we were.

I moved quickly, bypassing any attempt he may have had to kiss me. Hopping in the Volvo, I buckled in and pulled my knees to my chest, burying my face between them, praying like hell Dean couldn’t read my mind. The drive back to the house was wordless. The fact he hadn’t tried to sleep with me again proved that maybe Dean was a man of his word.

Then, when his tires screeched to a halt and we both got out, I said, “I think we should stop this.”

“I think we should not,” he retorted, his voice dry and resolute.

“We’re playing a risky game.” I swallowed. He opened the door for me and smirked. “Then it’s a good thing I’m the best fucking player in town.”

I wore a deep purple maxi dress Millie had gifted me to the rehearsal party, sitting pretty, sandwiched between Mama and Daddy. They, too, wore fancy clothes. The rehearsal dinner was scheduled way before the actual wedding, because half the people who were invited had an actual wedding to attend the day before. Todos Santos was small, and everyone was a someone you wanted to mingle with. Keeping up appearances was crucial.

The venue where Vicious and Millie were set to get married was in a vineyard resort that had suffered a serious identity crisis. The outside area had a Hawaiian setting, with palm trees, lush grass, and colorful flower arrangements everywhere. There was a dinner hall the size of a ballroom, swans, fountains, and other things that made it look like a cross between heaven and a Disney movie. Then we got inside and the place looked totally antique. We sat at a ripped-from-sixteenth-century-Europe type of fancy dining table under chandeliers the size of Mumbai.