“So you’re really doing the Thriller dance?” I laughed.
“Why?”
“Seems cliché.”
I missed Mandy’s frantic arm motions warning me to avoid the confrontation at all costs. Lindsey screeched. The girls’ flirty pouts turned to legit irritation.
Great. Seven pissed off, underfed, hungover women sneered at me.
I cleared my throat. “But I’m sure your dance will bring something new and innovative.”
“Damn right.” Lindsey turned to her girls. “Okay, we’re going to work on the flash mob portion. Mandy, this is all you. When you hear The Funky Chicken, you’re the first onto the dance floor.”
Mandy looked ready to puke. “Are you serious?”
“Do you have a problem with that?”
“Yes! Twelve hours ago you banished me from the wedding! Now I’m starting a flash mob to The Funky Chicken?”
“Serves you right for leaving the wedding party.”
“Lindsey, can’t anyone else do it?”
“It has to be you. Once the party sees you start to dance, they’ll know something special is about to happen.”
“Or something super embarrassing.”
“Which is why they’ll all watch!” Lindsey slapped Mandy’s hand down as she scratched her elbow. “Stand up straight. You’ll do The Funky Chicken, all the bridesmaids will migrate onto the floor in a circle, and then we’ll transition into the Cha Cha Slide.”
The girls giggled. Lindsey singled out Amy. “What are you laughing at? Your Cha Cha makes me want to Gag Gag. We need to be identical out there, but we only have two days to learn a seven minute, fourteen song medley.”
Mandy groaned. “Seven minutes? Why don’t we just learn one three minute song and do it well?”
“Damn it, Mandy!” Lindsey stomped her foot. “That would completely overshadow the bride and groom doing the final number from Dirty Dancing.”
Even if I didn’t have any more sex, this little information was worth the trip. “The what now?”
Lindsey stuck her finger in my face. “It’s a surprise. Tell anyone and I’ll gut you, Nate.”
“Does Bryce know about this dance?”
“He’ll be fine with it.”
I laughed. It wasn’t the reaction Lindsey wanted, but I couldn’t imagine the former linebacker channeling his inner Patrick Swayze.
Lindsey shushed me and positioned her girls “off-stage” while she tapped play on her iPhone. The speakers echoed The Funky Chicken over the cabin. She pushed Mandy forward.
“And I want to see real flapping!”
Mandy got as far as the second clap before running from the room, citing a bathroom break. Lindsey groaned, nearly tossing her into the fireplace when she returned.
“Flap, Mandy, before I peck you myself!”
Mandy weakly fluttered her elbows and bobbed. The girls cackled.
I had no idea I could be so entertained by a girl if I wasn’t fucking her.
Sure, I had a girl naked, writhing, coming at my command all last night, but I’d never spent time with any afterwards. Usually it was me, Sportscenter, and a dry bowl of cereal.
This? The awkward flapping, off-beat clapping, and hilariously overcompensated booty shake? This was fantastic.
I could get used to hanging with Mandy like this.
But she didn’t see the fun in it. Mandy refused to look me in the eyes, like I’d think she was any less beautiful because she couldn’t figure out her right from her left. She was sexy in her own way. She might have been a danger to herself and others on the dance floor, but when I had held her in my arms and led her through the music during the string quartet auditions, she had melted. Surrendered.
Would have done anything for me.
I shifted. This was the single most uncomfortable hard-on I ever had, and the most dangerous. The last thing I wanted was a boner surrounded by a room full of banshees, bitches, bimbos, and Mandy. Six out of the seven I had slept with. Great.
I hoped Lindsey would take pity on us all. I just needed ten minutes with Mandy. Thirty and I’d go twice. That little Funky Chicken had been up all night for me, and she’d love it.
We weren’t that lucky.
Two hours and four bathroom breaks later, a butchered rendition of Single Ladies made it abundantly clear why no one had put a ring on the girls yet. Lindsey flipped shit.
“For Christ’s sake, Mandy, where in my choreography does it say to stop and scratch your leg?”
Mandy was one pirouette from a nervous breakdown. She didn’t stop scratching. “Linds, I’m sorry! I can’t whip or nae nae anymore!”
“What’s wrong?”
“I have no idea! I’m so itchy!”