Dance for Me(8)

With that little spark of hope simmering inside my head, I put the car in park and open the door. Professor Scott eyes me as I step out of the car as if it’s the first time he’s ever looked at me. That’s absurd, since he’s been watching me strip bare on a stage for months, and stripping me bare in private for nearly as long.

His is a slow perusal that starts at my face and works its way down to my feet and back up again. When he lingers on my chest longer than necessary, I glimpse that telltale spark that lets me know he likes what he sees.

I can’t really fault him for it. I witness that same look in the men at the club every day. It’s classic visceral attraction. The man likes what he sees, but he doesn’t really know me, so that’s where it ends.

Unless one of us decides otherwise.

Perhaps this newness is due to the change of scenery. Outside the walls of the club and the hotel, I’m a real person. Not some fantasy that he can fuck and set aside for later, like some kind of porcelain doll.

I stand a little taller feeling that infusion of power that usually only comes when I’m working the stage. “You said it clicks when you try to start it?”

“Yeah, it just clicks.”

Brushing past him, I walk around to the driver’s side and slide into the buttery black leather seat. This car is a luxury in both price and style, and I take a moment to commit the elaborate dashboard, hand stitched leather and chrome details to memory. Hell, even the little tree, that smells of men's cologne and hangs from his mirror, holds a special place in my head. Through the windshield, I see the professor blink hard and collect himself.

Right, time to teach him a little about who I am.

Although the car won’t start, I try turning the ignition anyway so I can hear it for myself. It clicks once, and I watch for any signs of life from the dashboard. “Did it try to turn over the first time you attempted it?”

Crossing his arms over his chest, I can’t help noticing how the material of his shirt pulls at the shoulders and around his biceps. I had my hands on those last night, I think, smiling to myself.

“The stereo lit up for a second, but it stopped working. Everything stopped working.” His eyes narrow as he watches me get out. He tracks my movements, pivoting out of the way as I brush by him again to get a look under the hood. I know what he’s thinking. What does this girl think she knows about fixing cars? The answer: more than him.

My ’92 Toyota, a car that should last forever, is a lemon. The constant cost of repairs was eating up money as fast as I could make it, so I’d taught myself a few things. For instance, I know exactly what is happening to the professor’s overpriced hunk of metal.

“Your starter is bound up,” I say, looking over my shoulder at him.

His eyes widen in surprise, but then narrow into suspicion. “Let me guess, your dad or brother taught you a few things growing up.”

Again, he’d know the answer to that if he’d ever taken the time to get to know me. I can see this is about to turn into a crash course for him.

“My dad’s dead and I’m an only child,” I say casually, though I can see, by the way he drops his arms down to his sides and takes a step back, that he is shocked and regretting that last statement. “What I know about cars, I taught myself. Your starter,” I say, pointing at the car, “is shot. It’s a relatively cheap fix, especially if you can do it yourself.” I scan his fancy clothes critically. “But something tells me you’re not up for the challenge.”

He glances down at his clothes, as though trying to find something wrong with them. When he looks back at me, I see that my words have sparked something in him. Professor Scott reaches up to grip the top of the open hood. “And you are?” He treats me to the same look I gave him, eying my black tank top, white skinny jeans, and peep-toe pumps with contempt.

Smirking I say, “I don’t mind getting a little dirt under my nails. Unfortunately, I just put a new coat of lacquer on them this week and I don’t have time to redo them. What I can do, though, is drop you off if there’s someplace you need to be.”

I have to say, I am enjoying this. Turning the tables on someone who is always in control has got to sting. Payback for the sting I experienced when he so callously booted me from his hotel room.

I watch him closely, waiting patiently for his answer, but the clock is ticking. I can’t afford to be late for work.

Professor Scott doesn’t look very happy with his options, but thankfully, he doesn’t take long to think them over. With a rough sigh, he slams the hood shut and retrieves his keys from the ignition. With very purposeful strides, he heads toward the passenger side of my car. “I’m meeting someone at the River Front Plaza. Do you know it?”