#scenebreak
My life settled into a routine of rest, rehabilitation and recreation. My new three Rs. I spent a lot of time watching YouTube videos on Argentine tango. Once I turned off the sound, stopped trying to memorize all the Spanish names and focused on the way the leading and following worked, it made sense to me. It even reminded me of one of my favorite fun dances, west coast swing. When I discovered this sweet hybrid called swango, all the pieces fell into place. I even found a great, club remix of an old-school tango I knew Tango would love.
Her eighteenth birthday fell that week, but with everything that’d happened, she insisted she didn’t want a party or anything.
There’d been no sign of the Sick Little Twist, so we all breathed easier on that front. Maybe after paying for the car, he’d decided to leave well enough alone. Maybe we’d never know who it was. Maybe that was all right, if it meant she never heard from him again. Just in case, a host of friends and family members stayed with her at all times.
But why did Woody have those cameras, anyway?
Whatever. Might as well let it go. The first string was out on bail pending trial, but Corey seemed to have that situation under control. One or two guys made some noise in support of the first stringers, and he kicked them off the team. He made it clear that if anyone came near me, they’d never play football again. In that town, it was a pretty major deterrent. He promoted the entire second string, who immediately adopted me as their mascot.
Dad broadcast the fact that if any of those guys came near me, they’d have to be carried home in a plastic bag, and my friends banded together to make sure I was never left alone in the house.
Now that Tango’s birthday gift was my concern, I had to admit I didn’t have the money to get her more than a couple MP3’s of the swango music I knew she’d love. Hopefully, Farmer-C had nailed what she really wanted, anyway.
When she showed up after school for our daily stretch and make-out session, I met her in the garage and started up some traditional tango before I could chicken out. I hadn’t been lying when I told Farmer-C it’d be difficult to impress Tango in her element. Hopefully, she’d cut me some slack and realize I was trying really hard.
When she noticed the violins, bandoneón and guitar in the music, she cocked her head with a furrowed brow. “Qué es esto?”
I offered her my left hand. “I was hoping you’d let me try some stuff I found on YouTube. See if you can help me make it work.”
Her genuine smile told me she was happy I was trying. Sweet.
“Any chance I can lead this time?” I asked.
She grinned and took my outstretched hand with a simple nod, allowing me to bring her into dance position.
I adjusted my arms. “Is this okay?”
She kissed my cheek. “Just dance, papi.”
So I danced. I started easy, sort of leading her around and throwing in a few swivels that had some cute name in Spanish, but using my own words made them easier to remember. She responded smoothly and followed easily.
I tossed in a couple of other moves that I called a “grapevine” and a “sit-break” with a “flick.” She smiled more and more as we danced and the violins soared. I used the basic structure of the Argentine, but threw in stuff I already knew from other dances, and Tango followed so well she could dance things she’d never done before as long as I kept it in Argentine tango mode.
The bandoneón played faster and faster and we danced closer and closer. . . and then everything but the violins cut out. The music turned soft and intimate. I stepped back and brought her close to me in something I called a “corté.” We stood nose to nose and she slowly wrapped one leg around mine. Not really sure how she managed that without falling down.
We kissed as the song ended, and my sweat dripped onto her cheek. Laughing, I moved away and picked at my damp shirt. “Sorry.”
She smiled again, but this time with more in her eyes than mere happiness. “You don’t need to apologize for a little sweat.” She ran her hands across my chest. “Too hot in here?” She kissed me lightly and ran her fingers across my stomach.
I shivered as she pulled my shirt off over my head.
“Better.” She ran her hands on my chest again, sending ripples across my abs.
I held her close and kissed her hard for a moment, until the music changed and the club beat consumed the tango rhythm. She left me standing in mid-pucker as her face lit up at the bandoneón in the midst of the dub step rhythm. “This is awesome!” She nabbed my MP3 player. “You found this for me?”
“Happy birthday.”
She smiled. “Thank you.” Her face told me I’d landed the perfect gift.
Okay, stoked she liked it but feeling the tragedy of the fact that she’d stopped kissing me. I cocked my head to one side. “I was hoping you’d try an experiment with me. . . Game?”
She raised an eyebrow and stepped into dance position.
Wow. Every time I held her my whole body vibrated.
I led the traditional tango moves but adjusted to the club music.
She laughed like a delighted little girl.
I changed the rhythm.
She felt it. “Triple steps?”
Stellar. I nodded. Hadn’t known what she knew besides Argentine.
“Kinda swingy?”
Über stellar. I nodded again and led her in a turn that was all swing, no tango. She followed perfectly. I switched to Argentine for a few measures, letting us get the rhythm settled, then threw in another swing turn. She nailed it.
I repeated the move, but spun her six times.
She hit it flawlessly and dropped easily into a dip that only worked because she had perfect control of her body. Pain sliced through my hip, reminding me I was messed up, and I’d have dropped her if she hadn’t caught herself in time.
Without missing a beat, we returned to the dance, moving easily between tango and swing, matching the music in this perfect way I’d never really felt before, as if the music danced us, not the other way around. The song fell into a slow violin chord progression, and I rolled Tango out, then in and held her facing away from me. I raised her arms while our hips kept beat, glued together. I nuzzled her neck and kissed it. Salty.
“Sorry about the sweat,” she murmured.
“No worries.”
She pulled our hands down to her waist and attached mine to the edge of her t-shirt in a way that meant only one thing. She raised her hands as I slid the t-shirt up.
She wore the infamous purple bra.
I had to chuckle. “Did you wear that just for me?”
She leaned against me, her back slick against my chest. “If you don’t like it, I can always take it off.”
Holy crap! “Well, you know I’ve always hated the darn thing.”
She lifted her hair up, exposing the strap and clasp for me to undo. Which I did. . . er, undid. So. . . purple bra? So two weeks ago.
Tango has the softest skin on the planet.
I’m too much of a gentleman to say more.
But don’t let your imagination go too crazy. We didn’t get naked or anything.