R. Lilley - Rock Bottom

DANIKA

I blew out my breath in a noisy sigh of frustration as we missed the step, yet again.

My dance partner, Preston, was a good sport about it, as usual. I’d worked with more experienced dancers, but I far preferred one with a good attitude. The guy never had a bad day.

“You wanna call it?” he asked with a smile, giving my fingers a little squeeze.

He knew better. I’d never be the one to call an end to a session. I always wanted to stay until we got the steps down right.

Our instructor strode into the room, took in our stances, and turned on his heel, moving directly to the stereo. I smiled when Mary J. Blige’s Family Affair came on. It was impossible not to dance to that song, or to stay in a bad mood when you heard it.

Anthony, our instructor, was at least forty, but still had a sexy older man kind of vibe, with salt and pepper hair, a slim but muscular build, steely gray eyes, and a hot Italian accent. He was also just plain nice, which went a long way with me.

I pulled away from Preston, loosened up my stance, and started dancing. Not the tango, just good old feeling it dancing.

Anthony moved closer, but not too close, moving his shoulders, twisting his hips. No Italian man had ever moved so well to MJB. The man had soul. Our sessions always ended like this, in a freestyle jam, so I knew we were done. His disposition, along with his talent, were what had attracted me to his dance studio. No matter what, I never wanted to stop doing this because I loved it, and I’d worked with people that forgot that part.

Tristan was out of town yet again, and so I went out for dinner and drinks with a group of dancers afterward, and, as was becoming the pattern, Preston wound up sitting next to me.

I was aware, in an uncomfortable sort of way, that he liked me as more than just a friend. He couldn’t have been further off my radar as far as that was concerned. I was a one man kind of woman.

But even if I had been single, I wouldn’t have gone out with him.

He was a good-looking guy, with light brown hair, and hazel eyes. His build was very slender, and he was a few inches shy of six feet. I’d developed a very marked taste for huge men that towered over me and had biceps like tree trunks. Tristan had officially ruined me.

The group stayed and talked for hours. I drank sparingly. I hadn’t been much of a drinker since Jared’s death. It had served as a wake-up call for me. I was not immune to the pitfalls of vice.

Addiction was hereditary, and it was in my blood, so I knew that I had to be more careful than most to avoid its trappings.

We were at a college bar across the street from campus, and it had a dance floor. There were eight of us, all dancers, and so of course we danced.

I had fun. It was nice to go out with new people, with fresh faces and carefree smiles.

I found myself texting Frankie, telling her to come out and join us.

Frankie: To a college bar? Do you have any idea how old I am?

I thought about it. No, I did not.

Danika: No, I don’t. How old are you?

Frankie: I am twenty-seven.

Danika: That’s not even old.

Frankie: It’s too fuckin old for a college bar.

Danika: It’s fun. Come on.

Frankie: How long are you going to be there?

Danika: I don’t know. Depends on if you come hang out with us.

Frankie: Fine. I’ll be there in thirty, but if I spot any sorority girls, I’m outta there.

I was dancing with Preston when I caught sight of Frankie in the crowd near the bar.

I squealed, rushing to her.

She smiled when she saw me. We hugged, but she kept looking over my shoulder. At Preston, I thought.

She reaffirmed my suspicion in short order. “Who is, uh, that guy?” she asked, pointing.

I knew whom she was referring to, since I’d just been dancing with him, but I followed her finger to look.

“That’s Preston. He’s my ballroom dance partner at the studio. Super nice guy.”

“And you’re, like, out with him?”

My eyes narrowed at her chastising tone. “I’m out with seven other dancers. There’s a whole group of us.”

“But you were dancing with him .”

“He’s my dance partner. It seemed like a pretty normal thing to do.” I found myself getting defensive.

“How do you think Tristan will feel about that?” she asked, her tone bland, the pointed arch to her eyebrow, not so much.

“Tristan is crazy when it comes to me and other guys. Do you think I should cater to crazy?”

She gave me a look that should have been reserved for disapproving mothers. “How would you feel if you found out that Tristan was going out to clubs with the band and dancing with other woman while he’s in L.A.? That’d be fine with you?”

I mulled it over, and finally got her point. I’d hate that. Really hate it. Yes, I was dating crazy, but I had apparently fallen from the same crazy tree.

“But he’s my dance partner. We have to practice. I can’t give up dancing for Tristan. That wouldn’t be healthy.”

“Agreed, but how ‘bout you keep it to the studio? That’s seems to me to be a far cry from dirty dancing in the club.”

“How do I know Tristan isn’t going out and dancing with other girls? He could be doing that or worse every night. I’d have no clue if he was or wasn’t.”

“You know because I’m telling you. He’s a good boyfriend to you, and he wouldn’t do that. He’s very, very careful not to step out of line. Show him the same respect.”

She had a point, and I suddenly felt like shit. “I wasn’t dirty dancing, and this isn’t a club,” I pointed out.

She gave me a head to toe once over, giving my exposed stomach a pointed look. “Shaking your hips in that outfit is dirty dancing, period.”

I pointed to her half-shirt. “Don’t you dare knock my outfit. You’re baring more skin than you’re covering.”

“Well, I am single. World of difference.”

“You’re a fun killer tonight, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know. Now tell me I’m wrong.”

I curled my lip at her, looking around for some of the dancers. There was one in particular that I thought she’d like to meet.

“Speaking of you being single…” I began.

“Oh hell no, girl. You wouldn’t know how to set me up.”

“She’s a dancer. She’s hot, and I heard her say she’s a lesbian.”

“You think that’s how things work? She’s a lesbian, I’m a lesbian, so of course you should set us up?”

I rolled my eyes, then grinned because she was grinning. She loved to mess with me. “More like, you’re hot, she’s hot, you’re both lesbians. That would be closer.”

“You’re forgetting one very important detail. I don’t mess with vanilla girls.”

I’d forgotten that little fact. “Well, who knows, maybe she’s not so vanilla.”

“Trust me, girl, I know every lesbian submissive in town. If she wasn’t vanilla, we’d have crossed paths before.”

“Well, dammit. She’s really cute.”

“So are you, and you and I are about as compatible as me and vanilla.”

“Fair enough,” I conceded, effectively giving up.

I was a failure of a matchmaker.

Frankie met the girl we’d been talking about, Estella, less than ten minutes later. The irony about the whole thing was that Estella was noticeably into Frankie, blatantly flirting with her right from the start.

Estella was a shapely little Brazilian, with long, thick, wavy brown hair. She was maybe an inch shorter than Frankie and had an outgoing, fiery personality. She also liked to wear very little in terms of clothing, which gave her yet another thing in common with Frankie.