Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
The drinks go down way too easily, and another round is ordered as my colleagues (friends?) gossip and throw verbal shit at each other. I try to keep up, though my heart isn’t in it. But I can fake happy. Carefree. And it’s even easier when Paloma number three makes me comfortably numb. When one of the girls suggests we dance, I’m the first on my feet.
I’ll dance his coldness out of my body, I think, reaching for my glass and draining the what’s left. I give in to an alcohol-induced shudder. I’ll dance until my feet ache as much as my chest. And if nice but boring Al puts his hands on my waist, I might just let him. Not that it’ll mean anything, other than it might feel nice to be wanted by someone who isn’t afraid of saying so.
Zoe leads, and I follow the sway of her hips to the crush of bodies dancing beneath pulsing violet lights. The bass beats inside my rib cage as heat and perfume, damp skin and sweat rises all around me.
“This place slaps!” Zoe yells, throwing up her hands. “And I am so buzzed.”
I force a laugh as, above us, lights scatter shards of silver across the ceiling. The music begins to weave its magic. I throw my head back and lose myself to it, my thoughts utterly irrelevant as it makes slaves of us all. On the dance floor, there is only the beat and the press of strangers, and the promise that, if I dance hard enough, I might forget.
Hips moving, a prickle of awareness caresses my skin. Wishful thinking maybe, as I remind myself he isn’t here. But if he was… My hands slide up my body as I imagine them as his. A sway of my hips, my movements commanded by a flicker of memory. The way he pulled my hands above my head a few hours ago. I mirror the motion, body undulating, dress rising higher and teasing my thighs. Maybe it isn’t the music that possesses me at all. He’s not even here, and I’m still obsessing.
My body stiffens as someone grabs my hips from behind. I find myself thinking, No, Al, not now. Not when I’m thinking about him. I put my hands over the larger, rougher ones, and turn my head over my shoulder, a polite smile in place. Worse than Al, it’s a stranger. He says something in Spanish but I’m already shaking my head and moving away to words of disappointment I don’t understand.
“No?” Zoe yells. “But he was a snack.”
And I want the whole meal, idiot that I am.
One tune segues to another, and another, and then into something a little angrier. Zoe’s eyes fly wide as the dark, pulsing beat of Britney Spears’ “Gimme More” fades in. Catchy enough, dance-y enough, but the remix transposes Alanis Morissette over the chorus as she belts out the furious anthem of “You Oughta Know”. The tune is an absolute banger. Sultry, defiant and dance floor perfect. I lose my body the music, and almost my voice as I join in with the words.
All around me, women go wild, dancing like they’re in a mosh pit. With a little less violence. I’d guess that most of us have lived somewhere inside one or both of these songs. The dizzy, reckless craving of a love that turns addictive, and the white-hot fury of discovering it wasn’t reciprocated. Desire and betrayal, hunger and rage. Every beat is something to surrender to, every lyric something to scream, until we’re not dancing as much as we are exorcising every man-made regret.
Sweaty and unrepentant, Zoe flings her arms around me. “Oh my God. I fucking love this night!”
“Same,” I yell back. And I’m not lying. For the first time tonight, I’m happy. I didn’t need Al’s or any man’s hands because I am woman. Hear me—
“Fuck.” Zoe’s expression instantly changes, her arms retracting from my damp shoulders.
“What is it?” My gaze follows hers to the edge of the dance floor. A strobe light passes over an impossibly white shirt, obscuring the man’s face but only for a beat. A beat where my heart goes a little haywire as I convince myself it’s him. Luc. But I’m only kidding myself. “Is that Jacques?”
I look back at her, and maybe she reads my confusion.
“Long story,” she yells in my ear. “We hooked up a little while back. Was good. Pity he’s an asshole.”
I think back to the flight to Mallorca. Makes sense, I suppose.
“Come on, let’s see what the fucker wants.” Her arm tightens on mine as we approach.
“A word,” he says. Shouts.
“Regrettable,” she answers as quick as a flash, planting her hand on her hip. “That one work for ya?”
“I’d prefer repeatable.” His eyes flick over her, and I find myself turning my head almost expecting her to be naked because, good grief! That was a look and a half.