AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You’re right.” Dorian downs the rest of his bad-luck water, grabs my hand, and pulls me out to the dance floor before I have a chance to object. “I do.”
Oh, shit.
Thinking fast, I step out of my heels and kick them to the side. The floor is sticky against my bare feet, but I’m too distracted by his hands circling my waist to give it more thought. My heart hammers as he pulls me in. I’m pressed against him for a fleeting moment, barely long enough to inhale the intoxicating spice of his faded cologne and to learn that my head fits perfectly beneath his chin.
Dorian towers over me, reeling me in and sending me out, never once taking his eyes off mine, which is a relief because the last thing I need him focusing on is my lack of coordination.
It’s rare to meet a man who can actually dance, but this man has rhythm. Most guys flap their arms like chicken wings or lift their drinks in the air while nodding their heads to whatever song is playing and call it dancing.
But not Dorian.
It all seems to come naturally to him, and there’s nothing cringe about it.
Since he manages a band, I can only assume he comes from a musical background.
“Hey, I think we’re leaving after this song,” Vivi yells when she trots over to us. Her eyes are glassy, and her face is flushed, and she’s having the time of her life. “Get back on the bus after this, okay?”
I nod, and Dorian pulls me against him once more, his arm pressed against my lower back. For a sliver of a second, a euphoric warmth flashes through me, followed by an electric flicker that radiates to my fingertips. Everything’s happening too fast for me to process what it means or if I’m imagining it. It can’t be the mojito—I’m a lightweight when it comes to drinking but not that lightweight.
The three-minute song ends after what feels like thirty breathless seconds.
“You ready to go, Pick-Me Girl?” he asks with a teasing glimmer in his eye.
A second later, his eyes turn glassy. He blinks as if he’s blinking away tears.
I’m confused . . .
I thought we were having a good time.
Rubbing his eyes, he sniffs.
“Are you okay?” I place my hand on his forearm.
“Think I got something in my eye,” he says.
I resist the urge to reply with a sarcastic “Yeah, mm-hmm, okay” when I realize that his hands are covered in glitter—from my dress.
He must have somehow touched his left eye, which is now growing redder and more irritated by the second.
“Oh my god—I think you got glitter in your eye from my dress,” I say. “You have to flush it out so you don’t scratch your cornea.”
Without another word, I take him by the hand and lead him to the single-stall ladies’ room, locking the door behind us so no one barges in. Twisting the cold-faucet handle, I point to the sink.
“Tip your head and get your eye under that stream,” I say, guiding him with my hand on his back as the scent of cheap air freshener and women’s perfume floods the space.
He rises, blinking and taking a break from the steady stream of H2O. His eye is still watering like crazy, making his nose run in the process, and to top it off, he’s yet to say a single word.
Dorian dunks his head under the faucet again.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, watching and wishing there was more I could do. “This stupid dress—I found it on a clearance rack and thought it would be perfect for tonight . . .”
Dorian finishes rinsing a minute later. I yank a few paper towels from the dispenser and hand them over.
“I’m sure we can stop for eye drops before the next bar,” I say as he dabs the wetness away.
“I’ll be fine.” He straightens his posture, sniffing, before tossing the crumpled paper towels into the overflowing trash can in the corner.
It’s then that I catch my reflection in the mirror; my sparkling ice-blue dress looks garish under the unflattering fluorescent light. I should’ve worn the flowy skirt and white crop top I’d originally picked out. Lord knows they would’ve been more comfortable.
“Hey, hurry it up in there.” Someone pounds on the restroom door.
“You ready?” he asks, his hand on the lock.
The woman on the other side of the door gives us a dirty look when we emerge. Dorian doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t care. She shoves past us, shoulder checking me.
This time Dorian notices.
He turns back to say something to her, but she slams the door in his face.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, resting my hand on his arm.
We need to get going anyway.
“I need to find my heels,” I yell over the Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg song blaring from the speakers as we return to the main area. The dance floor is emptier than it was a few minutes ago, making them easier to locate despite the fact that one appears to have been kicked a few yards away from its mate.
