Say it again, p.3
Say It Again, page 3
Aaron swallowed and forced his smile wider. “I’m all yours tonight.”
“Mm-hmm, I’ll give you five minutes with him, and the clock is ticking, so better hurry.” Corey winked back on his stroll toward the door. “Then you are all mine.”
“YOU ARE an ass cork,” Daniel whispered to himself as he furiously prodded at his curls in the bathroom mirror. “Even if Aaron was interested—which he’s not—where’s it gonna go? You have a boyfriend. Ass cork.”
He rolled his sleeves and picked lint off his pants in a huff. His mom, that earth angel, had always said in her charming Midwestern way that wearing black made him look terribly underfed, sweetie. Are you sure you’re eating? But in black’s defense, everything made him look terribly underfed. Everything also made him look too pale. He had that bright-light-at-the-end-of-a-tunnel kind of skin tone that didn’t work with a lot of outfit color choices.
“So I’m near-death pale. Does it look like I care?” he asked in an aggressive, mock-British accent. “Yellow Jacket—ha! At least I’m not an asshole. Well.” He cut his eyes to the side. “At least I’m not always an asshole. God, what’s he doing with that guy? He could do so much better. Like me. Me who is not always an asshole—”
“Can I come in?” a voice asked from outside the door.
Daniel froze.
“I just need a second of your time.”
He recognized that voice. It was Aaron’s.
“I wanted to ask you something,” Aaron continued. “Can you let me in, please?”
Daniel stood motionless, stuck in a game of Simon Says where a sadistic Simon had told him to freeze and not let the fetching matador into the bathroom.
“Pleazzz?” There it was again—a soft, sensual, coaxing way of saying that word that cradled around his earlobe like a warm little hug.
Daniel defrosted, checked his hair once more, and opened the door.
Aaron peeked around the hallway, then stepped inside. His lips curled into a smirk as he leaned back against the door. “Hi.”
Dear heavens alive. Icy blue, dark chocolate, and amber honey—it was all so… appetizing. “Hi.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have much time,” Aaron said.
“Oh, are you dying? Or do you just have to get back to the future?”
“I have to leave the party, smart-ass,” Aaron chuckled as he dug his phone from his pocket. “Can I have your number? I’d like to take you out on a date.”
Daniel gasped as he slapped his hands to his heart. “You want to take me out?”
Aaron nodded down at his phone, swiping it open. “Here, put your number in.”
“You want my number?” Daniel’s voice had gotten ridiculously high-pitched. He bounced on his heels a bit. “To take me out on a date?”
The way Aaron stared, it was as if that answer were obvious. “Yes.”
“Yes! Or, no.” Sorrow instantly washed over him. “God, I would love to. I would genuinely love to go on a date with you, what with you looking like a literal matador and all.”
Confusion twitched Aaron’s features, but he recovered with a soft smile. “Thank you?”
“But I have a boyfriend.” It came out sounding way more disappointed than it probably should have. It was, in part, that term. They probably shouldn’t have had that “boyfriend” discussion while Daniel was high on wisdom-tooth premedication, but live and let live. “And you. You clearly have a—” He struggled to summon the right word. “—spirited British person.”
Aaron grinned, the sexy one from earlier when he shared a kiss with his spirited British person. “Fuck your boyfriend. Or is that part not very enjoyable?”
Daniel erupted in an accidental laugh, then slapped a hand over his mouth. Is it that obvious? “That information is confidential.”
“What’s his name?” Aaron asked. “Chester?”
“You’re going with Chester as your first guess?”
“Give me your number. Chester will get over it. He’s seen this coming for a long time.”
Daniel couldn’t help his belly flipping like a two-timing floozy. He chewed his thumbnail. “Chest—er, Nate would, well, yes. He’d get over it. But it would make him sad.”
“Aw, sad ol’ Nort.”
“Nate.”
Aaron prowled nearer. “One date is all I’m asking.”
Daniel leaned away and braced the sink. “Well, I would, but I have a—”
“A boyfriend? Yeah, you mentioned that.” Aaron eased nearer. “But what happens when you’re with him later tonight, staring into space like you guys do? Eating leftover clam chowder, you know, like you do.”
“Why would we be eating…?” He squinted. “What—?”
“And you can’t help but think about me?” Aaron stepped closer still, grinning like a man confident Daniel would be thinking about him. “What then?”
Daniel gulped as he tangoed backward. As Aaron followed. “I don’t know.”
“Hadn’t thought that far?”
“Hadn’t had time.”
His back hit the wall, and Aaron leaned into him, his hands framing either side of his head. Without a hint of modesty, he said, “Break up with him.”
Daniel would’ve stumbled backward if he had anywhere to go. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I did. But.” Well. He didn’t have a very good response, did he?
“I’d like to take you out. You have a boyfriend. So break up with him.”
Then, there they stood. Chests nearly grazing. Breath sizzling. Daniel’s back against the wall. Physically and metaphorically.
“Well,” Aaron sighed after a moment. He shrugged and pushed himself backward, swiping his hands together. “I tried. I have to go.”
Daniel blinked rapidly. Oh. Oh no. No, no, no. He grabbed Aaron’s arm as he started to twist away. “Wait—”
Slam. Daniel’s body hit the wall. Thunk. A painting of a sunflower hit the floor. Aaron cupped his face and crushed their lips together.
His eyes widened, then rolled shut, then widened again as he palmed Aaron’s chest, but any protesting nonsense for the sake of playing it a lot cooler than this got buried somewhere deep, somewhere beautiful inside Aaron’s expert mouth, in a casket right next to the wherewithal to change a single detail about the moment.
Dearly beloved, what a moment it was.
Aaron demanded as much as he gave, and he ventured a calculated risk as a firm hand gripped Daniel’s jaw and another pinned his wrist against the tile. He couldn’t move. He didn’t want to move. Could he not live here for a night or two? Pooled into this near-stranger’s arms, letting this near-stranger’s tongue transgress his boundaries, which were either asleep at the wheel or drunk in the cheap seats and rooting them on.
Aaron’s hands on Daniel’s ass, his mouth on his lips—it was all too feral to be happening in the first place. Too fucking wet to lend a passing worry. And despite being nailed against a wall like a secret lover Aaron was running out of time to consume, Daniel somehow felt… treasured? Yes, he would go on that date. Yes, he would gladly give it up before the appetizers arrived. If ever there’d been a time when he’d been handled with such vehemence, with such shocking intuition, whoever it was just got demoted to second place.
The cold tile behind his back began to contrast against the boiling point of magma below his waist, and Aaron chose that moment to sink his teeth into Daniel’s neck, steamrolling right over the question How far do I let this go? Insisting the only answer was Someone lock the goddamn door.
Then, as wild as it started, it slowed just as gradually when Aaron transitioned into these measured, fairy-tale kisses that softly peppered Daniel’s temple, across his chin, and down to his chest. He smoothed Daniel’s collar, locked their gazes, and said in a husky whisper, “Thank you. That was fun.”
Daniel blinked.
Fun. Said matter-of-factly. Said like the last few minutes had simply been on Aaron’s to-do list. His fun quota for the night.
“You’ll break up with him now?” Aaron asked.
He nodded.
“Cool.” Aaron offered his phone and repeated, sans the question mark, “Your number.”
“My phone—my telephone. Number. Yes.” Daniel cleared his throat and tried to will his face less frazzled. He nearly dropped the phone, he was shaking so much.
“Go ahead and put the name in as Hard to Get,” Aaron said, peering over his shoulder. “So I know how to find you.”
“Seriously?” Daniel gazed up at him hopelessly. “That was hard to get?”
Aaron tipped his head side to side. “Somewhat.”
“Jesus, what’s easy? You: Nice to meet you. Divorce your husband. Him: Done.”
“Once or twice.”
Daniel slapped his arm and typed the name as:
hARd TO gET OvEr (poor chester)
The way Aaron grinned down at his phone, it was as if he’d just scored a new baseball card. “What’s your real name, sweetheart?”
“Daniel.”
“Daniel what?”
“Greene.”
Aaron lifted Daniel’s hand to his lips in the old-fashioned gesture of a gentleman and kissed it. “I’ll see you soon, Daniel Greene Hard-to-Get-Over-Poor-Chester.”
“The Third.”
“Just so you know, that was the worst drink I’ve ever tasted.” He swirled a thumb over Daniel’s palm, stretching their arms long on his way toward the door. “I’d order ten if it meant I got to watch you make them.”
Without another word, the matador was gone.
Chapter Three
“PLACES!” DANIEL clapped from where he stood in the front of the room, holding eye contact with each of his students in the mirror. He attempted to keep his face straight, but these grown adults in leotards, taking their once-a-week modern dance class seriously, were too cute for their own good, and he loved each of them. Percy, with his racquetball goggle glasses, knee brace, and fifty-two-year-old crisis ponytail. Brenda, with her high blood pressure, side boob sweat, and use of the phrase “Lord Jesus” when Daniel made them do primitive squats. He even loved Nadja, a German dog groomer who took smoke breaks during the hour-long dance class.
The music started.
“Five, six, seven, eight!”
Daniel breezed through the choreography, shooting a reassuring smile at the students who struggled, because who cared if they landed the double turn? With respect to the principles of any dance—first position, fifth—technique could never hold a candle to spirit. Technique could never translate language of the soul. It was what he strived to unearth in his students: transient freedom from their lives. Without judgment. Without concern for how they looked. Equipped with only their movement. Only their soul.
The song dwindled to a finish, and his students, puffing and panting, bowed their heads.
“Beautiful,” he said, emotional with gratitude, probably nearing the misty-eyed look he so frequently had. “I love you all more today than I did yesterday. I’ll see you next week.”
Each of his students praised and hugged him—the icing on the whole heartwarming, misty-eyed cake—and meandered out the door, happily exhausted.
Olivia took a different approach with her students. More utilitarian. She didn’t necessarily arrive on time to her class, which started ten minutes after his, and she didn’t piddle around with pleasantries so much as she firmly patted backs, and occasionally butts depending on if she was sleeping with the student.
“So?” She flopped her duffel bag onto the back counter and hopped on top of it, batting her eyelashes down at him as he tried to answer an email from a student on the studio’s computer. “You haven’t thanked me for leaving you at that party.”
His lips twitched. “Thank you, Olivia, for leaving me and creating a stressful environment that I happened to make the best of.”
She rolled her hands. “And?”
“And?”
“You need to thank Puddles.”
He scrunched his face. “Hmm, do I?”
“Yes. If he wasn’t under the weather, there’s a chance you never would’ve met Bathroom Make-Out Attorney Man.”
His breath caught a little as his smile split his face. Each time he relived their kiss—every twelve to thirteen seconds—the air around his head suddenly seemed balmier. Like dark chocolate, blue ice, and amber honey. “Okay. Dear Puddles, thank you for refusing to leave this earthly plane. You obviously know something we don’t. I hope whatever awaits you on the other side involves whole rotisserie chickens. How’s that?”
Olivia held a hand to her heart. “Actually, quite moving. I think this man has changed you for the better. Have we heard from him today?”
“We have.” Daniel squealed as he scrambled for his phone under the counter and swiped open his texts. “Get this, you’ll never believe it. He said, Good morning, Daniel.”
“God,” Olivia moaned, fanning herself. “That’s so hot. I’m so glad you finally ended it with What’s-His-Nuts.”
“Nate.”
“Doesn’t matter. So when are you seeing him next?”
“I don’t know yet,” Daniel said, chewing a nail. “But I’ll tell you this—”
“You’re nervous.”
“I’m nervous.”
“Shocking.”
“He’s just so foxy. He’s the foxiest person I’ve ever touched in real life and also in the life I fantasize about having. The one where I’m surrounded by, like, twenty men—all named Alejandro—and they’re saying things like You know, I think it’s kind of cute that you steal your neighbor’s internet because you can’t afford your own. And Emotional maturity is less important than being able to make really good Netflix recommendations—where was I going with this?”
“I think what you’re trying to say is his foxiness out-foxes your own, but that’s where you’re wrong. You’re the foxiest person a lot of people have ever seen in real life and in their Alejandro fantasy lives. I’m sure there’s a ton of folks who probably picture you when their partners are going down on them.”
“Aw, Olivia.” He pinched his lips together. “That’s the sweetest shit you’ve ever said to me.”
“And so true. Case in point, how can you have, like, negative 12 percent body fat and still have an ass like that?”
He shrugged. “Genes?”
“Jeans?”
“Yeah, genes.”
She studied his lower half. “But you’re not wearing any.”
He squinted. “What?”
“Daniel, can I see you for a second?” asked the studio owner, Madeline, emerging from her OR.
That’s what they all called her office. The Operating Room: a germaphobe’s wet dream, an environment as sterile as the aftermath of a vasectomy. And it wasn’t like she cleaned it. It was that she never soiled it in the first place. Causing messes wasn’t Madeline’s bailiwick. One couldn’t smudge surfaces or collect dust if all they did was float on air. The woman floated on air. She might have been angled bones, hollowed cheeks, and thin lips coated in matte burgundy lipstick, but the way she moved gripped the attention of every person in the room. She was as timeless as the pearl pin that held her bun in place, and Daniel secretly wished to be her when he grew up.
She draped herself in a willowy black scarf and gazed out her office window at the dance floor where Olivia’s class commenced. All she needed was a jade cigarette holder and the hazy exposure of a spotlight to illuminate her green eyes and complete her silent film look.
“Your classes are doing so well,” she said, her eyes following the pirouetting students. “In fact, they do the best. But you know that.”
He burrowed into the validation of her words, all warm and fuzzy. “If they do the best, it’s because I learned from the best.”
He’d met Madeline when he was eighteen, just starting college, and in desperate need of a part-time job. He’d been dancing his entire life, but until her, he’d never had an opportunity to teach. It felt like she’d taken a chance on him by assigning him one of their most popular time slots, directing him how to control a room, but she’d always insisted she could “see something” in him. It must’ve been why she supported him in unimaginable ways—surprising him with new dance shoes when his got holes, stocking his refrigerator with pastas and soups she cooked from scratch. She’d ask if he liked lemongrass and then say, “Oh, it’s nothing,” as she stuffed homemade egg rolls and cans of sparkling water inside his backpack. “I made extra by accident.”
She turned to him. “How old are you now?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five.” She nodded. “Peculiar age, isn’t it? Try your best you may, but you just don’t know what you don’t know.” She always spoke like that. Part riddling cat and part sexy shaman. “Come to think of it, I was not much older than you when I started this place.”
“Yeah, you were twenty-six.” Daniel twisted to locate his favorite picture of her where it hung on the wall—she and her husband mid kiss in front of a much newer St. Louis School of Dance sign before years of harsh weather faded its zest.
“Do you like working here?” she asked.
“Is that a real question?” He raised his eyebrows. “I love it. Of course I love it.”
“But you’ve got to be thinking of your future, no? And what you wish to do with it?”
If by thinking of his future she meant worried until he ground his teeth about how he was going to afford his humble lifestyle once he had to start paying back his student loans, then yes. He’d thought about it. What he’d learned in his bachelor of arts in dance had been invaluable, but what he’d spent to learn it didn’t come without loss.
The whole endeavor had cost him in more ways than one, putting him in debt and driving a deeper wedge between him and his dad. His dad, who insisted he “get a real hobby” when he’d started dancing competitively, then “get a real degree” when he’d pursued dance in college. At least Robert Greene was consistent as the current mantra was: “For the love of God, get a real job.”
He plunked into a chair and exhaled. “I’m glad you asked, because, yes, I have been thinking a lot about my student loans, and what if I sell a kidney? People live perfectly healthy lives with one kidney—”
