My reluctance is clear. I’ve had a few glasses of champagne and I feel okay, but that shouldn’t be a green light to start throwing shots down my neck. ‘Greg . . .’
‘Come on. I won’t let anything happen, Livy,’ he assures me, and stupidly or not, I take the glass and knock it with his before tipping the contents down my throat. The burn is instant and so is the reminder of all the times I’ve drunk before.
I gasp and slam my shot glass down before taking the flute and downing the more pleasant champagne. ‘That was nasty.’
‘That was tequila, but you forgot the salt and lemon.’ He holds up a salt shaker and a wedge of fresh lemon before carrying out the practice the right way, licking the back of his hand, sprinkling the salt, licking again, downing the liquid, and sinking his teeth into the wedge. ‘It’s much better this way.’
‘You should’ve stopped me,’ I complain, struggling to rid my mouth of the rancid taste.
‘You didn’t give me a chance,’ he laughs. ‘Let’s do another.’ He orders another and this time I see through the sequence correctly, following Greg’s lead.
I shudder at the lingering flavour, but then I’m shuddering for a whole other reason when a familiar beat takes over the current track. I instantly look to see Gregory’s wide, delighted eyes.
‘Carte Blanche,’ I whisper, my mind bombarded with memories of Gregory creating a disco in my bedroom all of the times I refused to go to an actual club.
‘How apt,’ Gregory confirms, a grin spreading across his face. ‘“Veracocha”! Our tune, baby girl!’ We both down another champagne before my hand is grasped and I’m being dragged to the floor. I don’t object. I wouldn’t. Gregory’s smiling, and after what has just transpired, this is a good thing.
He pushes us through the crowd until we’re joining the flurry of other dancers who all appreciate the classic anthem as much as we do. Strobe lighting darts around us, flitting across the faces of people and intensifying my feel-good mood. We both slip into the groove, hands in the air, bodies swaying, twisting and twirling each other around the floor, laughing as we do. It’s a novelty and a good one. I’m having fun.
Gregory pulls me into his chest and puts his mouth to my ear so I can hear him over the music and cheering. ‘I’m giving it three minutes for a bloke to move in on you.’
‘I’m dancing with a man,’ I laugh. ‘He’d have to be pretty cocksure.’
‘Give me a break,’ he scoffs. ‘We’re clearly not dating.’
I’m about to disagree, but I see Ben approaching behind Gregory, smiling and greeting people as he passes through the dance-floor crowd. I want to drag my friend away, but I’m also curious how this will play out. Ben doesn’t know that we saw him, and I’m wondering how Gregory will handle it. Breaking away from him, I move back, ensuring I keep my smile and Gregory’s attention.
As Ben nears, I watch him studying Gregory’s body discreetly, still greeting people, still smiling. There’s no mistaking the intended body contact as he passes my friend, his arm sliding around his waist in a subtle gesture made to look like he’s trying to pass without bumping into him, but the look on Ben’s face is screaming desire and the sudden shift in Gregory from easy, fluid movements to stiff awkwardness is obvious. Will he push him away or give him a dirty look?
No. He loosens up immediately when he sees Ben and falls right back into his previous ease as the tracks slows momentarily before dramatically cranking up ten gears and blasting the clubbers into complete elation. We’re in a triangle, both Ben and Gregory smiling and dancing, but the sexual sparks flying off each man is tangible. They’re not touching, nor are they looking at each other all lusty, but it’s there and it’s obvious. Ben is playing it risky.
Gregory moves towards me, smiling. ‘There’s a man about to take hold of you.’
‘Is there?’ I go to turn, but I’m stopped when Gregory grabs my shoulders.
‘Trust me on this. Let him.’ He fans his face and releases me, and I tense from top to toe, bracing myself. Gregory has great taste in men, but shouldn’t I at least get a say in who takes hold of me? Or should I just let this happen – stay in control, but let it happen?
It’s his hips I feel first, pushing into my lower back. Then there’s his hand sliding around my stomach. My moves fall straight into his set pace without thought, and my hand rests over his on my navel. Gregory is smiling brightly, but I have no compulsion to turn and get a glimpse of my dance partner because – probably due to the alcohol – he feels good . . . comfortable . . . right.