Liz Talley - Under the Autumn Sky

Ten steps later, he gathered her in his arms, leading her with a smooth glide around the worn boards. For a moment, Lou forgot to breathe. It was that wonderful.

“I don’t remember the last time I danced,” Abram murmured, meeting her gaze with a shadowed one of his own.

“I do,” she said. “April 16, 2003.”

He stiffened. “Seriously? You haven’t danced in almost ten years?”

“Well, I’ve danced around my kitchen. Does that count?”

He shook his head. “I’m feeling the pressure. We’ve got to make this count.”

He spun her away from him then reeled her back in, tugging her closer to his body, before sliding left then right. Her hair fanned out behind her as they whirled around the floor. She felt his hardness against the soft parts of her body, and all her good intentions for getting home early enough to watch the Iron Chef episode she’d DVR’d earlier in the week flew right out the front door of Rendezvous.

Then and there whirling around the dance floor in the arms of a mysterious stranger, Louise Kay Boyd thought about getting a little bit of what she’d not gotten the chance to do after her daddy crashed his plane into the Ouachita National Forest, leaving her and her siblings without parents. Her days of irresponsible, selfish, wanton behavior had disappeared before she’d had the chance to use even one of them. Gone was her freshman year at Ole Miss—cramming for tests, trying pot, drinking too much and going all the way with a Kappa Sig she’d met at a kegger. Gone were the days of little responsibility and lots of spare time. They’d vanished in a whirl of funeral preparation, a looming mortgage payment, and the tear-streaked faces of her six- and seven-year-old brother and sister.

So would it be wrong to grab a little bit back?

The drinks and this sexy stranger had unwittingly unleashed pinings no one could possibly know anything about.

She didn’t know him.

He didn’t know her.

So what would it hurt to pretend to be someone other than who she was?

She was already halfway there, looking like some honky-tonk angel. No, he’d called her Cinderella. A honky-tonk Cinderella. What would it hurt to pretend herself into a fantasy for a few hours? Maybe this was her time to cut loose. Maybe this was her time to lose the monkey riding on her back.

The song ended and the band launched into a rendition of an old Kenny Chesney song mixed with something that sounded like reggae. Abram stopped and looked down at her. “You wanna go again?”

She shook her head. “Let’s get another drink.”

He nodded and curved an arm around her waist, making her feel gooey inside. Like melting caramel. She sank a little bit into him And he tightened his hand on her hip, an almost caress. Her mind said Don’t. Do. This.

But her bratty, whiny, life’s-not-fair voice said, Get jiggy with it, sister. You’ve missed out on too much. You need this.

Abram slid a hand under her elbow as she dropped onto the scarred wooden stool. Definitely a caress. Definitely revving something in her blood she’d locked away ever since her last boyfriend had unhooked her bra and slid one hand down her panties the night before he told her he was seeing someone else. She decided to give whiny, not-fair inner voice some headway.

She smiled at him and felt his reaction. He didn’t flare his nostrils or anything like some of the heroes did in those novels she kept stacked by the bed, but he got the message in her smile.

Abram beckoned the bartender again. And again the man flew to do his bidding. A rum and Coke sat before her not two minutes later joined by an ice water for Abram. “He’s bustin’ his hump for you.”

“I’m tipping him more than twenty percent. I learned long ago to treat bartenders well.” He watched her as she raised the glass to her lips. She returned his measure. He really was too good-looking. Sweet temptation swirled around her and she wondered about what it would be like to taste him. Was he good at kissing? She stared at his lips as he lifted the glass of water and drank. Was drinking supposed to be sexy?

“Hey, how’s the date going?” Mary Belle poked at her back.

“Huh?”

“The date with my cousin here,” Mary Belle said, a devilish twinkle in her eye. Lou swung around. Brenda and Brit stood behind her.

“He’s not your cousin,” Lou said, sipping the cool drink, keeping one eye on her pretend date. “And our date is going fine.”

“Yeah, we saw you dancin’,” Mary Belle said, taking the drink from Lou’s hand and taking a sip. “Brenda thinks she has food poisoning or something, so she needs to go home.”

Lou looked at Brenda who bit her lip. She did look a little pale and sweaty. “Oh, no. Sure. Let’s go.”

Mary Belle pressed her back onto the stool. “No, you stay. I’ll come back for you in an hour or so.”

“You can’t. You’ve been drinking. A lot. So I’m going with Brit.”

“I’m good, I tell ya,” Mary Belle slurred.

“Uh, no. I don’t have a death wish.” Lou slid from the stool.

“I’ll be glad to give her a ride home. I’m fine to drive,” Abram said, winking at her friends. “I am, after all, her date.”

“Perfect!” Mary Belle said, glowing in a liquor-haze.

“That’s not necessary,” Lou said, giving Brenda a concerned look. “You think it was the fajita meat, Brenda? We all had that.”

Brenda made a face. “I don’t know, but I can’t stay. I’m so sorry, baby, ruining your birthday like this. I was going to teach you that new line dance.”

“We’ll live,” Brit said, giving Brenda a smile before looking hard at Abram. “How do we know we can trust you with our friend? You could be a serial killer for all we know.”

“I’m not a serial killer.”

“Like a serial killer would admit to being one.” Brit crossed her arms and studied him. “You’re good-looking, but one of those guys was good-looking, too. Which one? Um, Gacy?”

“Ted Bundy,” Abram said, taking another sip of water. He looked so cool, like nothing would faze him. Like he dealt with all kinds of crazy all day long. Maybe he was a psychiatrist. Or a postal worker.

“See? He knows his serial killers,” Brit said.

“I’m going with y’all,” Lou said, sliding from the stool. Time to end this charade. The dance was fun. The flirting even better. But reality always intruded, no matter what Lou wished. She’d left fairy tales behind long ago. “No worries.”

Mary Belle frowned. “You’re having fun, though. Just because Bear is a shit and Brenda’s faking, shouldn’t affect you. Stay with Abram. He looks like a stand-up guy. Dance. Drink. And don’t think about anything else.”

“I’m not faking,” Brenda huffed, but Lou wasn’t paying attention to any of her friends. Abram’s finger stroked her inner wrist. It caused loopy loops in her stomach.

“Stay with me, Cinderella. I’ll make sure you get home from the ball.” He gave her a Prince Charming grin, kind of lopsided like the one a small boy gives when he’s got a frog behind his back. The one where a girl knows she should run, but can’t possibly pick up her feet. That exact grin.

“Okay, as long as you don’t turn into a pumpkin at midnight.”

And that settled it.

For a few more hours, Lou was going to play the part of maid-turned-princess. And she wasn’t going to have regrets.

She looked back at her friends. “Thanks, friends, for making my birthday so much fun.”

She gave hugs all around and the ladies she worked with at the construction company took their leave. She spun toward her prince for the night. “So, what shall we do first?”

Abram didn’t say anything. Just looked at her for a few moments, his eyes bright but guarded. Then his eyes slid down to the red stilettos she’d hooked on the bottom of the stool. “Those don’t look like glass slippers.”