Perspiration glistens in his tight curly hair, which he keeps cropped close to his skull and bleached blond. Half-Irish, half-Afro-Caribbean, he was born and raised in Trinidad. His accent sounds like he likes to sing when he talks, and his pale eyes and dark skin give him a head-turning exotic look.
“I’d rather focus on the routine.” I place a foot on his chest and lift his chin with the toe of my high-heeled dance shoe. “Let’s take it from the top with the traveling lock.”
He curls a hand around my calf, and his gaze journeys up my bare legs to my spandex shorts and sports bra. “You need to release some of that tension, girl.” He winks. “I can help with that.”
Nikolai is one of the best dancers in the Midwest. He also models, and recently finished an ad campaign for United Colors of Benetton. But his natural-born skill is flirtation. Coming on to women is as involuntary for him as breathing.
We had sex on and off through college, and over the past few months, I’ve considered taking him up on his advances again. But I know I’d regret it. One, he’s the closest thing I have to a best friend. Two, monogamy is a language he doesn’t speak. And three, he’s really not that great in bed.
“How about I dump all my problems on you,” I say, stepping toward the sound system, “after we run through the routine again.”
“All right.” He jumps to his feet, brushes off his loose pants, and rolls his neck. “Let’s do it.”
As the song begins, we take our positions and slide through the small light footwork. Swaying right and left, always turning, bending, and straightening, we create a unified twirling motion, two bodies swinging forward and back like a pendulum.
I concentrate on adding little lifts at the end of each beat, the subtle kicks that bounce in my pelvis and sex-up the movements. My feet ache in the heels, my soles covered in callouses. But I muscle through it, pushing against the floor to roll up on my toes and absorb that lift in my core. Soon, I’m oiling my hips and slipping into the zone.
“There’s my girl.” Nikolai beams, rolling me in a full turn out and back.
A knock sounds on the exterior door of the dance studio.
He pulls me into a closed position, bending me backward as I shout with my head hanging upside-down, “Come in! It’s open!”
It’s a Friday afternoon. The visitor could be any one of my students. Or my sister stopping by after school. Though she never knocks.
I sidestep through a circular volta, spinning to wrap my legs around Nikolai’s waist with my back to the door. He gyrates against me, hands spanned across my backside and bare chest flexing beneath my fingers. Then he stops abruptly and drops my feet to the floor, staring at whoever walked in.
Chest heaving, I turn and come face to face with Trace Savoy.
Hands on his hips and expression stormy, he aims his crankiness at the other man.
Oh, now this is interesting. Cole hated Nikolai, but that was a jealousy problem. Who knows what crawled up Trace’s ass?
“What are you doing here?” I adjust the spandex shorts where they gather uncomfortably around my upper thighs.
“Checking in.” Trace shifts his testy gaze to me.
Nikolai turns off the music and joins my side. “Who’s the stiff upper-lip?”
“The reason my evenings are no longer available. Nik, meet Trace. Trace, this is Nikolai.”
They don’t shake hands or exchange customary greetings. Nikolai crosses his arms over his nude chest. Trace maintains his wide stance, hands behind his back, spine straight.
He’s wearing a black suit today, the shirt stiff and blue like his eyes. No tie. The top few buttons are open, offering a tempting view of his strong neck.
“I’m gonna go.” Nikolai slips around me, pulls on his shirt, and changes into his street shoes.
“No, wait. We need to—”
“I’ve been here before.” He moves toward the door, gesturing between Trace and me. “Once was enough.”
Trace raises a brow in question. I’m sure he’d love to hear all about the night Nikolai met the bloody end of Cole’s fist, but it’s none of his business.
“There’s nothing going on here.” I give Nikolai my angry look, which works on exactly no one.
“Right.” He laughs and shakes his head. “Call me, padna. We’ll have that talk you promised.”
I fist my hands at my sides as he gives Trace a chin lift and steps outside, vanishing beyond the door.
“What happened to the mirror?” Trace nods at the splintering hole that’s been there for two years.
“Self-pity happened.” I leave the broken mirror as a reminder of what I used to look like, so that I never let myself reach that level of numb, grieving drunkenness again.