She pulls her hand free and drops it to her lap. “Sorry. It’s not really as deep and dark at it sounds.”
“Explain it to me.” I may come off like a guy who has no worries, but I know a thing or two about deep, dark thoughts.
“I’d rather—”
“Don’t say ‘not’ because I’m not letting you off the hook,” I interrupt. Somehow we took a left turn into a minefield. This conversation stresses her out, but I want to fix it. I pick up her hand, interlock our fingers again, and hope that simple gesture of support removes some of the pressure. The house lights dim a notch, as if to help me out. No such thing as fate, huh?
“I wanted to be here instead of home for the summer before I start law school,” she says, devoid of emotion.
Ahh. It’s a parental thing. I get that, too. “Say no more.” I squeeze her hand. “And good call. Spending the summer in the city of dreams is the perfect way to blow off steam before buckling down for three years of cutthroat paper-chase.”
She looks at me for a long time, and my gut tenses. I don’t know why, but before I can figure it out her gaze shifts. The server appears with our drinks. Matt’s close behind. When she sets them on the table he drops a twenty on her tray as a tip and slides into his seat. “Where’s our host?”
I glance back to where Dylan stood a couple minutes ago, but the girls are gone and so is he. “Duty called.”
“Duty done,” Dylan says, and bounces up the steps. “Scoot in, bitch. Where’s Amber?”
Matt scoots a couple stingy inches and takes a s
ip of his beer. “I left her at the head of the line for the ladies’ room.”
“Well, damn. Hopefully she’s back soon. Dixie’s up.”
Sure enough, a smattering of applause breaks out as the spotlight follows a solitary figure to the center of the stage. She sits on the single stool, settles her guitar in her lap, and adjusts the microphone. Then she dips her chin and looks out at the crowd. The light catches her blue eyes. “Oh fuck,” she says with a smile. “Not another girl with a guitar.” The room quiets fractionally and a few people laugh. So far she’s funnier than the comedian.
Dylan whistles loudly and yells, “Go Dix!”
She glances right and then left. “At this moment we’re all tortured by the same questions. Can she sing? Can she play?” The observation earns her a few more laughs. “Let’s put those to bed right now.”
She props the guitar a little higher in her lap and launches into the opening chords of something rhythmic and bluesy. Two quick strums followed by the reverberation of a longer, lower chord, and then a repeat. It’s nice. She can play. A hum of conversation resumes as people comment or try to name the tune. Then a voice ambushes the guitar, and six simple strings can’t contain the rage of longing, lust, and despair Dixie unleashes as she laments the love on her brain. Conversation—hell, everything in the room—stops. All eyes fix on the stage. Her voice is amazing, the kind that raises the tiny hairs on my arms. The kind that could win America Rocks. Her gaze moves downward as she adds quiet, subtle notes from the guitar and proves she’s got talent there, too. Beside me, Kendall whispers, “She’s even better than I remember.”
“She’s great,” I whisper back. Dixie owns the shit out of the song and the room. A few people break the quiet of a pause with whistles and claps, but quickly quiet so we can hear everything she’s got. Her fingers dance over the guitar strings and motivate some couples to do the same.
Kendall gently sways in her seat. My mouth finds her ear. “Dance with me.”
She shakes her head before she stammers. “That’s okay.”
“Okay?” I gesture to myself. “Five years of dance lessons, Kendall. Hip-hop, ballroom, and for reasons I’ll never understand, tap. Trust me, it’s way better than okay.”
Her teeth press into her bottom lip, a second passes, then another, before she nods. She’s still reluctant, but I’ll do my best to take care of her. I pull us to our feet, lead her down the stairs, and wrap my arms around her waist. With no good alternative, she props her arms on my shoulders and clasps her hands at the back of my neck. She’s a little stiff at first, but I find the beat and move us to the slow tempo. She falls into rhythm with me after a few seconds, and her body relaxes against mine. The heels put her at an ideal height. Our hips line up. Her breasts rest against my chest. I press her a little closer, because I can’t resist, and she doesn’t resist, either. She stares at my throat for a while but finally tips her head back and looks at me.
The song flows around us, and the room disappears.
“Hey,” I whisper as I run my hand over the bare expanse of her shoulders.
She shivers. “Hi.”
“Want to know a secret?”
“Sure.”
“Last year I helped set the record for the longest Conga line. I was in Miami for a shoot and nearly 12,000 people Conga-ed.”
Her eyes sparkle with amusement. “How fun, but not very secretive.”
“It’s a secret from Dylan and Matt. If they found out, they’d give me shit forever.”
She chuckles. “I’ve never been in a Conga line, but I am pretty good at the moonwalk.”