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If you can dance, you can fuck.
And West? West could dance.
From my experience, most men refused to dance these days.
Out of my brother's group of guys, Che was the only one who would. And often did. I had figured it maybe had something to do with coming from a different country, different culture.
But West's hand settled on my hip, the other went around my waist, holding my body to his as he moved with the music.
It was just a dance.
A fucking dance.
But I could feel my sex clenching, my panties getting wet as his hand dipped a bit, moving down my thigh then back up, dipping in just slightly, teasing.
The song ended too soon, replaced with some decidedly not sexy pop song, making us break apart, and make our way back toward the table.
Where West reached into his pocket, digging out money, tossing it on the table. And I knew that he was going to walk away, put distance between us again.
This time, I won't lie, the rejection started to sting a bit.
With a sigh that deflated the balloon of hope in my chest, I turned and walked away first, going back outside, feeling the heat slap me in the face. I swear my hair was frizzing out by the second.
The door slammed behind me, and I knew it was him without turning.
"It's not personal, pretty girl," he said, voice remorseful.
"So you've said."
"No, don't go all icy on me," he demanded, reaching out, grabbing my wrist, pulling me to a stop, forcing me to turn to face him.
"Don't fucking waste your time, man," another voice joined our conversation, making us both turn to find a guy making his way toward the bar we'd just exited. He was vaguely familiar with his very forgettable average build, average height, brown hair, brown eyes, and somewhat weak chin.
"Are you talking to me?" West asked, releasing my wrist, brow furrowing.
"Yeah. She's not worth it," he added, making me try to place him. Clearly, he had a strong memory of me. Meanwhile, I couldn't put a name or situation to his face.
"Walk away," West demanded, voice a little rough, but mostly just impatient. Like he wanted the guy to fuck off, so he could finish what he was about to say to me.
"I'm just trying to help you," the guy said, coming closer, just a couple feet away from me. "She just toys with you, then pretends she never met you."
"I really don't remember meeting you, so I couldn't have toyed with you that much, bud."
"Maybe if you weren't such a fucking slut—" the guy went on, hand raising.
He was just trying to point at me.
I'd been pointed at enough in my life to know that judgy-old-lady finger move. It was not threatening. I didn't even stiffen or back away.
But West?
West didn't seem to like the motion.
His arm shot out so fast that it blurred across my vision, hand grasping the guy's hand from above, snagging his thumb, twisting then yanking violently down.
I heard the snap just a second before the scream.
"You don't fucking raise your hand at women," he told the guy, something like Remy's level of rage in his voice.
"You broke my fucking hand!"
"Finger," West corrected.
"Thumb," I corrected automatically, unable to help myself. "A thumb isn't a finger."
"Right. Thumb. I broke your thumb. Not your hand. Stop being such a pussy. If you didn't get in her face, I wouldn't have needed to break your fin... thumb. Now take your fucking ass out of here before I remember that I'm not supposed to be adding to my rap sheet while I am down here."
As soon as West released him, he ran to do just that.
"He was just going to point at me, not hit me."
"I don't give a fuck if he was going to brush an eyelash off your cheek. You don't get in a woman's face like that. And you don't call them names and shit either."
'I've been called worse than a slut before," I said, shrugging it away. "It's impressive what little men can come up with when you hurt their pride by not sleeping with them. It's not a big deal."
"Pretty girl?" he started, brow raising.
"Yeah?" I asked.
"I believe what you meant to say is 'Thank you.'"
"I don't need you to protect me," I objected.
"I didn't say you did."
My lips pressed together, looking over at the car peeling out of the lot. "I don't think anyone has ever stood up for me like that before," I admitted.
"That's a fucking shame, Auggie," he told me, chucking me under the chin before moving off to his bike, turning it over and riding away before I could pull my wits back together again.
Auggie.
No one called me Auggie.
Even my superiors at work called me Gus.
I always liked it when I was younger. It made me feel like one of the guys, one of my brother's crew. Like I was cool enough to get a neat nickname from all of them.
