Page 45 of Serving Bunt

He laughed, bright and warm. “That’s okay. I’ll dress slutty enough for the both of us.”

Diaz

There was almost nothing better after a long day than kicking back with a cold beer and one of my favorite comfort movies. Jon Favreau’s Chef, the criminally underrated Gwyneth Paltrow classic View from the Top, and Hayao Miyazaki’s My Neighbor Totoro to name a few.

In fact, I wasn’t ashamed to admit that the titular, gray spirit had made it onto my “hear me out cake” during a social media trend last fall.

Sometimes, though, drinks with Totoro didn’t cut it.

Sometimes, a guy needed to throw a little ass.

“You’re a natural,” I told Mila, twirling her out before yanking her back into me. “Where’d you learn to move like this, mami?”

“Emiliano.”

“Dance teacher?”

She shook her head and grinned. “A soccer player I met during my semester abroad in Colombia. He was really good with his hips.”

Oh, I just bet he was.

As it turned out, the Velvet Kitty was less honky-tonk and more glitter-drenched fever dream.

Neon signs with sayings like “wear the hat, ride the cowboy” and “saddle up & beg” flickered across the Barbie pink walls in swirling cursive. Pastel-colored animal stuffies had been mounted behind the bar like taxidermy pets. And at the center of it all, a massive disco ball spun lazily from the ceiling, casting the entire dance floor in rainbow sparkles.

It was cowgirls and camp with a hint of the Care Bears, an aesthetic that should’ve been all wrong for salsa dancing, and yet we had been twisting up the dance floor for the past two hours.

In our sluttiest fits, per Mila’s request.

I had put on my tightest pair of charcoal slacks, the kind that were only meant for standing up in, and my designer, burgundy button-down that had been opened just enough to show a decent slice of chest.

Mila’s black satin romper rode up every time she lifted her arms, showing off her long, well-toned legs. Seriously, we were going to have to trade leg day routines. She had thighs made for squashing watermelons.

Unlike Mila, Nora had opted to show off her top assets. Her tight corset top pushed everything up and paired perfectly with dark denim pants and knee-high laced boots, making her look like she’d walked straight out of an early- ‘90s music video. Colt, on the other hand, was stumbling around like a baby giraffe fresh out of the womb.

“No, your other left!” Nora shouted above the music. She had been trying to teach him some basic footwork for at least three songs now.

“I only have one of those!” Colt yelled back.

Who would’ve guessed that the Grammy-nominated rock star would have zero rhythm on the dance floor?

I grinned. “Does your brother always dance like—”

“A haunted scarecrow?” Mila’s smile was all kinds of wicked. “It’s tragic, but true. The dancing gene skipped him entirely.”

“Such a shame. At least he’s hot.”

I spun her again, catching her to me as the song shifted into something slower and sultrier. Mila’s eyes scanned the room before landing somewhere over my shoulder. A mischievous grin spread across her face.

“Speaking of hot, the burly blond at two o’clock has been staring at your ass for the last three songs.”

“Can you blame him?”

She rolled her eyes. “Dude looks like he wants to bench-press a small truck. Or a smartass baseball player.”

I risked a quick glance. Sure enough, a thick blond guy built like John Cena was watching us with open interest. He was attractive in a musclehead himbo kind of way. Definitely someone that in another time and place, I would totally let bench-press me, up and down his cock.

But tonight? Nothing.