I run my hand through my short-cropped hair just to give myself something to do. Then I go to the kitchen to get a drink for my suddenly dry mouth. I grab a kettle for tea. Nah. That won’t do the trick. Juice? Water?
Wine. When in doubt, always go with wine. I hold up the bottle and she nods, so I grab two glasses, filling them with rich, velvety liquid. Ally meets me halfway to take hers.
“So like I was saying…” she begins before taking a large gulp. “I need help.”
“I gathered that. Care to tell me with what? Because I’m pretty sure I could make a short list of things you need help with. Professional help.”
“Hey now!” she shrieks with mock offense. “It took a lot of practice to be this magnificently awkward. Dude, I was awkward before awkward was cool. I’m a pioneer for the movement.”
I chuckle before taking a slug of my wine. “Awkward was never cool. Only uncool people believe that.”
Once again, we fall into that easiness. No expectations. No games. Just real, genuine companionship. I laugh at her corny jokes. She shakes her head at mine. Whenever I look at her, she smiles. And in turn, I smile too.
How could I have ever thought that there was room for more?
“So anyway. For real this time, I need help.”
“With what?” I down the last of my wine and go to top off both our glasses.
“I have a confession to make: I’m a horrible dancer. I know what you’re thinking—how can someone so graceful and elegant be a bad dancer? But it’s true. Sad, but true. And ever since Candi and Jewel came, I’ve been really self-conscious. So I was wondering if you would help me, ol’ buddy ol’ pal.”
“Help you?”
She twirls a crimson curl around her finger. “Teach me to dance?”
I set my glass down on the nearest flat surface and throw my hands up so there’s no misinterpreting my answer. “No!”
“Aw, come on! You said you were always here for whatever we need. And I need to learn how to drop it like it’s hot. To shake what my mama gave me. To work my groove thang.” Ally sets down her glass to clutch her hands together in front of her chest. Then she walks towards me with an impish grin. “Please, oh please, Justice Drake. Teach me how to Dougie?”
I can’t even pretend to be put out by her. She’s just too damn adorable, looking up at me, those eyes shining with innocent mischief. I smile and shake my head, knowing that I don’t stand a chance against her ridiculous super power.
“Fine,” I exhale, rolling my eyes.
“Fine?” Those animated eyes dance with delight.
“Fine. I’ll help you.”
She makes that dying pig-cat crossbreed sound and jumps up and down. Then she’s grasping my shoulders. And it happens. Her lips are touching me—kissing me. It’s half a millisecond and she turns away just as swiftly, as if she doesn’t even register what she’s done to me. To her, it’s just an innocent peck on the cheek. To me, it’s enough to make my dick try to manually unzip my slacks, in hopes that it’ll get a kiss too.
Ally makes her way to the Bose sound system situated on my entertainment stand and hooks up a little pink iPod she’s retrieved from the pocket of her cardigan. “I have to be honest with you—I have no rhythm and have been blessed with the cruel gift of two left feet. So be gentle with me.”
I raise a brow at her choice of words, but she’s too busy scrolling through her playlist to notice. “How do you even know I can dance?”
She gives me the side eye momentarily before turning a knob to adjust the volume. “I saw you with those strippers. I’m sure you know exactly what kind of dancing guys like.”
Booming bass lines puncture the room, coupled by digitized drumbeats. It initially startles the shit out of me, before I’m nearly in stitches at her ironic song choice. Ally whips off her cardigan and swings it around over her head, laughing hysterically.
“Come on, Magic Mike! Show me how to ride that pony!”
And she’s right—the girl cannot dance. Not to save her life.
She breaks into some remixed version of the funky chicken on crack before trying to twerk. And while that dance should not be performed by anyone – man, woman, or child—Ally most definitely should never, ever try it. At first I think she’s got butt cramps. Or her ass fell asleep and she’s trying to wake it up. I can’t even begin to ask, too overcome with hilarity to form coherent words. Shit, even I’m snorting a little.
“Oh…God, stop! Stop! You’re…killing…me!”
“What?” she asks innocently, still bent over and convulsing. She furrows her brow in concentration. “Am I doing it? Is it moving? I’ve been practicing for weeks!”