Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,34

Eight

PRESENT

I didn’t see Trace at the casino when I met with HR the morning after our confrontation. In fact, I haven’t seen him or heard from him for the past three weeks. I’ve spent that time shuffling my schedule, moving evening dance lessons to days, and merging classes together.

So I can belly dance five nights a week.

At The Regal Arch Casino.

For three-hundred-thousand dollars a year.

Holy.

Fuckamoly.

“Waz up with you, hoss?” Nikolai O’Shay releases my hand midway through a left-and-right Samba whisk, his Caribbean accent thickening with exertion. “You need to grease dat waistline.”

In other words, I’m not moving my hips like they’re oiled. I hoped he wouldn’t notice. But of course, he did. We’ve been dance partners since college and entertain at ballroom functions a couple of times a year, like the mayor’s Christmas party. We landed a gig at Anheuser-Busch’s upcoming Fourth of July celebration, and we only have six weeks to nail this routine.

One More Night by Maroon 5 thumps through the speakers in my dance studio. The choreography is tricky, but the beats per measure work for the Samba. If I find my groove, we’ll be golden.

“I have a lot on my mind.” I bend at the waist and rest my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath.

“Tell your boy all about it.” Nikolai shuts off the music, takes a running leap, and slides across the dance floor, ending flat on his back with his legs between my feet and his silver eyes staring up at me.

Perspiration glistens in his tight curly hair, which he keeps cropped close to his skull and bleached blond. Half-Irish, half-Afro-Caribbean, he was born and raised in Trinidad. His accent sounds like he likes to sing when he talks, and his pale eyes and dark skin give him a head-turning exotic look.

“I’d rather focus on the routine.” I place a foot on his chest and lift his chin with the toe of my high-heeled dance shoe. “Let’s take it from the top with the traveling lock.”

He curls a hand around my calf, and his gaze journeys up my bare legs to my spandex shorts and sports bra. “You need to release some of that tension, girl.” He winks. “I can help with that.”

Nikolai is one of the best dancers in the Midwest. He also models, and recently finished an ad campaign for United Colors of Benetton. But his natural-born skill is flirtation. Coming on to women is as involuntary for him as breathing.

We had sex on and off through college, and over the past few months, I’ve considered taking him up on his advances again. But I know I’d regret it. One, he’s the closest thing I have to a best friend. Two, monogamy is a language he doesn’t speak. And three, he’s really not that great in bed.

“How about I dump all my problems on you,” I say, stepping toward the sound system, “after we run through the routine again.”

“All right.” He jumps to his feet, brushes off his loose pants, and rolls his neck. “Let’s do it.”

As the song begins, we take our positions and slide through the small light footwork. Swaying right and left, always turning, bending, and straightening, we create a unified twirling motion, two bodies swinging forward and back like a pendulum.

I concentrate on adding little lifts at the end of each beat, the subtle kicks that bounce in my pelvis and sex-up the movements. My feet ache in the heels, my soles covered in callouses. But I muscle through it, pushing against the floor to roll up on my toes and absorb that lift in my core. Soon, I’m oiling my hips and slipping into the zone.

“There’s my girl.” Nikolai beams, rolling me in a full turn out and back.

A knock sounds on the exterior door of the dance studio.

He pulls me into a closed position, bending me backward as I shout with my head hanging upside-down, “Come in! It’s open!”

It’s a Friday afternoon. The visitor could be any one of my students. Or my sister stopping by after school. Though she never knocks.

I sidestep through a circular volta, spinning to wrap my legs around Nikolai’s waist with my back to the door. He gyrates against me, hands spanned across my backside and bare chest flexing beneath my fingers. Then he stops abruptly and drops my feet to the floor, staring at whoever walked in.

Chest heaving, I turn and come face to face with Trace Savoy.

Hands on his hips and expression stormy, he aims his