“Just one,” I said. “I don’t want you taking advantage of me later.”
Jackson ordered Darlene’s soda, and two Moscow mules for him and me. Big Bad Voodoo Daddy blared overhead, and dozens of dancers were swinging on the dance floor, ringed by onlookers. Old-fashioned lamps on the walls cast a golden light.
The bartender set down Darlene’s soda and two copper mugs, brimming with vodka, ginger beer, and ice—each with a lime perched on the rim.
Jackson tossed down a twenty, and then lifted his drink in a toast. “To interventions.”
“To interventions,” Darlene echoed, her voice low.
We clinked classes and I watched, mesmerized as Darlene plucked a cherry from her drink and put it to her lips that were painted just as red. She held the cherry with her teeth to pull it free from the ste
m, and then it vanished into her mouth.
“My God,” Jackson murmured to me under his breath. “Did you see that?”
“Hell yes, I did.”
“She’s the hottest woman in this joint.”
“I know,” I said, watching as Darlene struck up a conversation with Penny, one of our friends from Hastings. “And she has no idea.”
That’s part of what makes her so damn beautiful.
Jackson nudged my arm. “What the hell are you waiting for? Ask her to dance.”
“I can’t fucking dance,” I said. “You know that.”
Jackson heaved a sigh. “You leave me no choice. Hold this for me?”
I gritted my teeth as Jackson handed me his cocktail like I was a freshman at a hazing, compelled to do his bidding. Jackson took Darlene’s hand and gave an exaggerated bow.
“Care to dance?”
She shot me a glance and a smile, then nodded her head. “I’d love to.”
He led her to the dance floor with a parting glance at me. Jackson, that smooth bastard, had taken a ballroom dance class as an undergrad. I watched him spin Darlene expertly across the floor, and goddamn, watching her dance...
Her dress whirled over legs that seemed to go on forever, and her body moved through complex steps effortlessly. She was better than Jackson, but they looked good together. Watching them, I suddenly felt ravenously hungry. I took a long pull of my cocktail.
It had been ages since I’d drunk anything—the vodka went straight to my head. I started to order another and drank Jackson’s instead. By the time the second copper mug was drained, the room’s muted light had taken on a pleasantly fuzzy glow, and I watched my best friend dance with Darlene with a small smile over my lips.
He met my eye several times, eyebrows raised to his hairline, and inclined his head at his dance partner as if to say, What are you waiting for?
I only grinned back. I was content now to wait. I’d been off my game, true, but I realized with Darlene I didn’t need one.
The song ended and Jackson bent Darlene over his knee in a deep dip. Her back arched as if she had no bones, and when he hauled her up, her face was radiant.
A slow song began, “Cheek to Cheek” sung by Ella Fitzgerald, and I pushed myself off the bar, through the crowds.
“May I?” I asked, cutting in before Jackson could answer.
“It’s about damn time,” he muttered under his breath.
“You’re going to need a new drink,” I told him as he slipped away, and then I was holding Darlene.
I slipped an arm around her slender waist, and held her other against my chest. Her body radiated soft warmth through the silky material of her dress, and I imagined her lean muscles moving under my hands. Her face was flushed from the dancing, and her eyes were crystalline blue over her red lips.
“I wondered if you were ever going to come over here,” she said.