Fanfare (13 page)

We kissed for a solid ten minutes. His hands never strayed, and I never felt for a moment as though he was trying to test my limits. The fervor died down as he reverted back to kissing me tenderly and cautiously. He smiled through a final kiss. “I’d rather not push my luck,” he whispered as he pulled away.

I pouted in jest at him as relief flooded through my tingling form.

“Don’t even look at me like that. You have no idea how hard it is for me to actually stop, and when you stick out your lower lip at me . . . you drive me mad,” he said in a low voice as he pulled me into his arms and held me.

“Thank you for caring,” I whispered as I hugged him back.

“Of course. Andante sostenuto,” he murmured with a grin. Slow and sustained.

I sighed contentedly.

Chapter Ten

“So, where are we going exactly?” I demanded for the fourth time.

“I didn’t tell you the first thousand times you asked me, so what makes you think I would tell you now?”

“What if I opened the window and stuck my head out to tell the whole world who was driving this car? Would you tell me then?” I teased.

“I seriously doubt the whole world waits to hear what you have to say.” The grin on his face caused the corner of his eyes to crinkle in an absurdly cute way.

“You’re right. I think I’ll leave the gigantic ego to the movie star,” I jeered.

“I guess I deserved that.”

The combination of our laughter mixed in with the sounds emitting from the old CD player in Tom’s car. His beat-up copy of Metallica’s Black Album was definitely worse for the wear. Many of the songs skipped intermittently, and the damage to one track in particular was so severe that it refused to be heard at all. This was clearly a loved CD.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” Tom said as he glanced over at me appreciatively.

I couldn’t stop my girlish smile of response.

Earlier this afternoon, he had announced that he was taking me out tonight. When I asked where we were going, he merely told me that I should dress festively. I donned a sleeveless, fuchsia-colored jersey dress with a skirt that flared at the knee. Copper heels and accessories completed the ensemble, and my unmanageable hair fell in torturously coaxed curls to my shoulders.

Tom looked quite sexy in his slate grey button-down shirt and dark blue jeans. Both were a bit wrinkled, but I didn’t think we were at the point where I could force him to iron his clothes (hah!). It was funny to me that I found him so attractive now; when I first met him, I had not been that impressed. He was good-looking for sure, but not drop-dead gorgeous. His personality and charm made him look far more appealing than his mere physical attributes, which already gave him a decidedly unfair advantage to begin with. Damn, I was hooked.

I bit my lower lip as I studied his face in a scouting attempt to glean our destination from him one last time.

“No,” he stated firmly when he noticed my expression and added, “You’re truly incapable of relinquishing control, aren’t you?”

“It’s not one of my stronger character points.”

“Relax. Let go of the reins. It might not be as awful as you think.”

“Ugh. We’ll see.”

Nothing could have prepared me for the sight I was about to behold. My jaw dropped to the floorboard of the white Mercedes at the music pounding from the two-story tan building he pulled up to. The bright neon lights and rolling sounds of Spanish dialogue filling my ears only enhanced the effect. I sat in the car completely speechless.

Tom the Movie Star . . . had taken me to a Latin dance club in LA—a real Latin dance club.

“Wha—how . . . are you freakin’ serious?” I whispered.

He laughed heartily. “Hana told me you loved to dance.”

“But, you’re a white guy . . . a British white guy!”

The laughter continued. “Yes, I’m white. Yes, I’m British. Sometimes, British people like to dance.”

“Whether they can dance remains to be seen,” I muttered skeptically as I glanced over at his impish expression of triumph at being able to render me momentarily at a loss of words.

“You can teach me. I’m sure you’d love to have that control anyway.”

He pulled on dark sunglasses and placed a black-knit cap hastily onto his head. The overall effect reminded me of a cross between Boho and Euro chic.

“Are you sure this won’t be a problem?” I asked as I glanced around at all of the smiling faces raucously laughing and carrying on in the queue forming by the entrance of the club.

“No. But I don’t intend to let it rule all our decisions.”

I took a deep breath, swung myself out of the car, and marched over to the end of the line. Tom followed swiftly behind me. His hand held lightly onto my elbow as we took our place in front of the club and waited patiently to gain admittance.

As we stepped into the pulsing nightclub, the stress that had induced the rapid beat of my heart began to subside. It was dark, and many of the people were slightly inebriated. I kept hoping we would escape any undue notice. Thankfully, this would be one of the last places anyone would expect Tom to be on a Saturday night. No one around us paid a great deal of attention to the tiny Puerto Rican girl and the tall Inglés trying to make their way through the throng of mulling people.

A particularly bass-laden tune thudded from the speakers, and a resonating cheer arose from the masses. I listened carefully to the lyrics of the reggaeton song . . . invariably, the artist was sure to pompously announce himself. I smiled as the name echoed off the walls. Pitbull—a Cuban, like my father.

“Do you want to dance?” Tom shouted above the music and into my ear.

I grinned humorously. “I always want to dance . . . but it’s okay if you want to wait.” I stood on my tiptoes to speak by his ear.

He tugged playfully on my elbow to pull me even closer. “Stop thinking I’d rather slit my wrists than dance. Who knows, I may dance better than you do.” He wagged his eyebrows and pursed his lips with a smug certainty that begged to be soundly trounced.

“Riiiight.” I snatched his hand and pulled him onto the dance floor.

The music thumped all around us as though it had taken possession of the walls and the floors down to the very studs of the building. I could feel the reverberations jostle my nerve-endings. The beat rose from the ground into my frame, and soon my feet and hips developed minds of their own. Tom watched approvingly as I shook what God and country had given me.

In my past, I had been granted numerous opportunities to witness the horror of an uncoordinated white man trying to dance to music not of the “Cotton-Eyed Joe” or “Journey” persuasion. There were several styles I had stored in my psyche for reference. The first was undoubtedly the most horrific: “The Pelvic Thrust of No.” In essence, aforementioned white boy would pantomime the act of intercourse in full view of the public and wonder indubitably why he wound up going home alone that night. The second was “The Stupor Shuffle.” In this more pitiable routine, the feet would drag listlessly across the dance floor from side to side while the hands remained at chest level desperately trying to ascertain the beat. The eyes would dart around in a panicked fashion wondering what moron thought going to the club was a good idea. The final one was the most fun, but still not praiseworthy: “The I Can’t Dance and Who the Hell Cares.” In this scenario, body parts were all over the place, and the joyful semi-awareness of the individual almost overrode the visual onslaught of gracelessness. Essentially . . . it was a disaster of gleeful proportions.

Men like Justin Timberlake were genetic aberrations. Mutants . . . like the X-Men. It was just that simple.

You can imagine my shock and dismay when I discovered that Tom might actually necessitate a fourth category: “The I Can Dance . . . Sorta.”

Seriously, he moved better than I ever would have imagined possible given my preconceived notions. No awkwardness, just a reasonably on-target demonstration of semi-prowess. He tried to imitate my motions, and soon we were laughing uproariously at his slightly modified take on my dancing. The unabashed smile on his face as he turned my hand in mid-air to spin me in place made me feel a joyful abandon I had almost forgotten existed.

A couple nearby proceeded to get down on the dance floor as the girl leaned her backside into the guy and slowly rotated to the ground with their hips gyrating in synchronization.

Momentarily distracted by the pseudo-sex act occurring to our right, I hadn’t noticed the girl behind me moving towards me in an attempt to create more space for herself. A sharp elbow poked at my lower back with clear intent to usurp my position. I exhaled and tried to ignore it as I took a step to stand even closer to Tom.

One could imagine my growing irritation when the errant elbow steamed full ahead once more with even more force behind it. I turned to glare momentarily at its conductor before I planted my feet on the dance floor in a silent protest that refused to cede any further ground. Tom chuckled at the look on my face.

“I swear,” I muttered in his ear with a warning note to my voice.

As if she heard my hidden threat and wanted to call my bluff, she pushed her elbow jaggedly into my shoulder for the third and final time. I nearly lost balance as I was pitched forward into Tom’s waiting embrace. I spun around and tried to maintain a jovial attitude in spite of the impending flare of my temper hovering behind my smile. I decided to opt for a teasing comment that would hopefully impress upon the girl that I was neither amused nor willing to take any more of her shit.

With a forced grin, I turned and stated loudly, “¿Oye, corazon, es que te estas secando las uñas? ¡Porque ya mismo me quedo sin costillas!” I rubbed my left ribcage to illustrate my words. Tom hovered nearby with a grim look on his face.

As soon as she opened her mouth, I knew I should have known better than to attempt to disarm a drunk Latina with a few smartass comments. Coño. She was Dominican. “¡Oh, oh! ¡Ere› tu que estas tomando to› este espacio con tu blanquito!” she spat.

Now, why did she have to go and play the race card? Poor Tom stood next to me completely unaware of this girl’s vocal disdain for the presence of a blanquito—even one as good-looking as he. If she only knew what she was saying . . . what an idiot. Sure enough, the flare lying dormant in my throat rose to barrel out of my mouth with uncontrolled vigor. A dragon spitting fire . . . ya gotta love a pissed off Puerto Rican.

“¡Mejor blanquito que borracho!” There! Take that! I’ll take my blanquito over your drunk-ass anyday!

I heard a muted groan emit from Tom’s throat as the Dominican girl’s well-muscled boyfriend stepped forward to glare down at me threateningly.

“¿Quien esta borracho? ¡E› que a la carajito esta le gusta hablai›!” he slurred.

The fool called me a bitch! Oh, hell no! I advanced towards him and raised my index finger to his face while trying to harness my wrath behind eyes squinted in fury. Before I could utter a word, Tom had stepped between the inebriated mammoth and me.

“Oy, you two . . .” he began in a calming tone. He placed his palm against the guy’s huge chest warningly. Ugh. This was not good.

At the unwanted presence of Tom’s hand on his chest, a roar emitted from the mammoth’s lips. “¡Mira, flaco ‹e mierda!”

Before I could yank Tom to safety, the mammoth’s hand reared back and shot forward to connect with Tom’s nose in a resounding crack. He landed on the floor into a jumble of legs.

“BLOODY HELL!” Tom screeched as he clutched his nose between his hands. Blood spurted from underneath his chin. My sight flashed red with rage.

Before I had a chance to pounce on the mammoth and begin beating the ever-loving crap out of him, the security guards yanked him towards the door with his loudly protesting girlfriend in tow. I crouched down and tried to pry Tom’s hands away from his face to ascertain the damage.

“Fuck!” he shouted as I unwittingly jarred his nose once more.

“I’m so sorry!” I cried. “I think it might be broken. We need to go.”

I grabbed his elbow in an attempt to hoist all six feet of him back into a standing position. A guy watching on the periphery came forward to mercifully assist. Before anyone realized whom the broken nose belonged to, I yanked Tom towards the exit in a fluster.

His eyes were blurry and squeezed shut in the pain that accompanies a nose thrashing, so I dug into his pockets to retrieve the keys to his car. I took a deep breath after shoving him into the passenger seat. God, please help me drive this thing! I pushed the key into the ignition and listened to it turn over with a roar.

A muffled groan of pain echoed from behind his hands. “He broke my bloody nose,” he muttered acerbically.

“Tilt your head back! Do you have any tissues?” I said with extreme concern. My brow was creased with worry as I scrounged around the car for some Kleenex. After finding a handful in the glove compartment, I pressed them to Tom’s face.

When he removed his hands, I saw that his nose had begun to swell grotesquely. Stifling a gasp, I bit my lower lip in horrified awareness. “Uh . . . I think we need to go to a hospital.”

“You think?” He cocked his left eyebrow at me humorlessly and grimaced at the effect the motion had on his nose. The tissues stuffed onto his face became spotted with blood.

I put the car into Drive. “Where do I go?”

“iPhone.” He leaned forward so I could pry his phone from his back pocket.

“I don’t know how to use this thing!”

“You’d better sort it out! I certainly can’t do it!” he groaned once more.

“There’s no need to be snippy!”

“I’m sorry. I must have been mistaking myself for someone with a broken nose!” he shouted. I could see a spark of annoyed humor flash in his eyes.

“Pansy.” I fumbled once more until I was able to reach the Menu part of the phone.

“There’s a mapping function in the Apps.” His tone was muffled under his hands and many layers of tissues.

“Why the hell are there so many things on this phone?” I demanded as I flipped through what appeared to be hundreds of Applications.

“Christ, I’m bleeding to death with each passing second!” he moaned exaggeratedly.