And away is the dance floor.
The karaoke melts into a remix, “Golden Years” and “Let’s Dance” spliced together in a new and interesting way. Arthur’s hands are on my shoulders. “What’s going on?” he whisper-yells.
“Max. Sarah,” I whisper-yell back. “She knows, and she still came with him.”
His hands slide down my arms. Then he wraps his fingers around me, one hand on either side, and it’s like being coated in apocalyptic-social-situation armor. Arthur is here, and he knows how to deal with people, and I have him on my side. He’s mine. “You’re okay. You’re good. Fuck them.”
“But she didn’t—it’s, it’s not really her fault—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does. I need to go apologize.”
Arthur takes my chin in his hand. “No. You are not apologizing to them.”
My heart isn’t beating. His fingers are so much warmer against my face than they’ve been anywhere else. “Watch me, Graywood,” he says. “Don’t look anywhere else. Just at me.”
In the dark, I only get a glint of light back from his hazel eyes, then the disco-ball gods bless me with a full swing. Arthur’s face is lit from chin to pushed-back hair, dazzling and concentrated only on me, and that residual need to make myself small enough to plug up any holes in Max’s sorry life vanishes into thin air. Because Arthur is right. I’m okay. I’m good. Tonight, I’m Arthur Bianco’s girlfriend, andthat’spower.
I have my hands around his shoulders when I think to ask, “Can you show me how to dance?”
Momentarily, Arthur has the wherewithal to look conflicted. Perhaps he’s able to read my tea leaves and knows in his toned gut that I’m not going to gracefully handle whatever happens next, after tonight, when I’m back to thinking instead of talking. I probably owe him an explanation, too, seeing as I’ve gone from tipsy-bad-childhood rant to please-let-me-rub-you-in-my-ex’s-face at the speed of light.
His hesitation makes my fingers curl. I like that he’s worried about where this is going, a little on the fence.
“Yeah,” he says, almost too quiet to hear over the music.
Then we’re falling off the fence together, and I like this much better.
In my limited experience, there’s a get-to-know-you stage of physicality, awkward and adorably giggly, fingers brushing and elbows bumping. Arthur sails right past that requisite clumsiness. He takes my hips in his hands and pulls me close, drawing me into synchronicity with his body, and I must make a sound, a whimper or something. He chases the noise with his eyes, moving me back and forth as he inspects my lips, and I didn’t know thatthiswas what dancing felt like, like he’s touched me a thousand times and knows how to push the curve of my hips to command my legs, my hands, my spine.
It doesn’t matter that our relationship is fake. It hardly matters that half this club is finally, officially, undeniably staring at us. I wind my fingers into the front of his shirt, let him take the lead, and ignore the rest. In the dark, being held by him is just like diving underwater. Deep, where the waves move you. I take a breath, brace my lungs for impact, and let myself get caught up in him.
When Arthur leans toward my ear and says, “He’s watching,” I’m shocked to remember that I’m not swimming. There was a purpose to this.
Then excitement trills up my sternum. “Don’t look at him.”
“Where should I look, then?”
“Me.”
It’s a gross demand. Needy. Arthur rumbles beneath my palms and clicks his tongue, his only chastisement. Then he slides his hands up my sides until his long fingers are curved around my rib cage, thumbs just short of the bottom swell of my breasts, and tips me back. It’s like I’m falling, my body weight swaying to the balls of my feet, only he keeps me upright. And he looks. His face is moments from mine, nose tonose, breath to breath, and I’m officially not sure what my sexuality is—if I like comfort, if I like safety, if I need a deep connection—because hello, yes, this. I want… whatever this is.
Then he’s closer, Arthur’s annoying, rude, pretty mouth finding where my ear meets my neck. “You know about slipstream?”
“You,” I say, “talk so much.”
“Just trying to educate you,” he replies smoothly. “When I’m behind another car, it creates a space with lower pressure, pulling me ahead.” He rolls my hips into his, my heels lifting off the ground, and is he… is he trying to—“Because that’s how you win a race sometimes. When you really want something, you’re okay with being in second place for a while. Play your cards right, and second place helps you get into first.”
The air pressure between us feels ready to burst, and then there’s Max, and it does.
“What the hell is this?” he snaps, adequately loud over the music.
I spring back from Arthur, mostly. I don’t think he tries to stop me. He’s just really strong, and he also goes to step in front of me, so we kind of end up with his hand around my back and me against his side, and it looks like we’re a united front, so I don’t move any more.
“Hello, mate, what’s up?” Arthur says, as if he wasn’t just five seconds from explaining Formula 1 aerodynamics by way of non-Kentucky sex education.
“What’s up withme?” Max shoots back. He’s all ninety-degree angles: crossed arms, locked legs, flabbergasted and furious. “What the fuck are you doing to her?”
