“I didn’t catch what you tried to say,” he growled.
Her eyes sparkled with laughter. “Yeah, well, I said, and I’ll say this slowly so you can follow. Angel is a professional dancer for the LA Dancers who gets up and shakes it every time their NBA team is home. Not only is she one of them, she’s been their choreographer for over a year now. So, yeah, I think they know she shakes her thang.” She paused for effect, and then continued, “For crowds of onlookers on a weekly basis.”
“Dammit, Gia, it’s not the same thing, and you know it. You’ve got to get her out of here.” He went to the bar in the corner, intending to pour himself a drink.
“And, again, I ask why? Could it be because she makes you hot and hard, and you feel guilty because she’s like a sister to you?” she asked, coming to stand next to him.
“No. Yes. Shit, this is so fucked up.” He ran his hand around his neck, squeezing the tight muscles, and tilted his head back. So desperate, he was staring at the damn ceiling for answers.
“You need to chill, okay? This is only for one or two nights, and then you won’t have to see her much more.” Patting his shoulders she turned to walk away.
“What do you mean?” he asked grabbing her hand.
“Oh, you haven’t heard? Well I think it’s only a matter of time before the news is out. Her boyfriend, you know, the owner of the ball team’s son? Well, he asked her to marry him. Angel decided to come home and think about it, but I’m sure she’ll accept. Hell, I’m willing to step up if she says no. The guy is mega-rich.”
“So is she,” he spat.
“Semantics, brother. That’s her parents’ money, not hers.”
He balled his hands at his sides to keep from punching the wall. “Bullshit! She has a trust fund that probably matches his.”
Gia’s eyes zeroed in on Lorenzo, a knowing glint in their depths. “Why are you so upset? You don’t want her, do you? Because, if you did, then I’d tell you to get your ass out there and claim her.”
With those words, his sister stormed back through the door, slamming it on her way out. She’d told him to claim her best friend. Like it was a normal, everyday occurrence that he was to walk out and throw her over his shoulder, and then what? Lorenzo wasn’t sure if he was ready to settle down, but could he stand back and watch Angel marry another man? Watch her have another’s baby? Hell to the no would be the answer.
Inside his soundproof office, he was blissfully unaware of what was happening down below, until he opened his door. His sister had just announced it was salsa time. The sound was almost deafening; the chanting of the patrons seemed to swell, reminding him of a bullfight he’d seen while on vacation in Spain years ago. The crowd went wild, but no music was playing. Curious, he leaned over the balcony to get a better view and nearly leapt over the edge.
His Angel was holding what appeared to be auditions for her dance partner. Each man who stepped forward was better than the last.
“What the hell am I gonna do about her?” he asked no one in particular.
He didn’t so much as run as walked briskly toward the excitement below, taking the steps two at a time, only slowing to keep from knocking over an inebriated woman.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
Pretty sure she made a noise like a tiger, he shuddered.
“Is there anyone else who wants to step up as my partner? Going once, going twice, and sold to the—” Angel stopped.
“Sorry, boys, this one’s mine,” Lorenzo said, speaking into the microphone and wrapping his arm around her waist as he tossed the mic back.
The DJ immediately began playing a Latin number. His mother always said he’d danced in the womb for nine months, and came out ready to go. Lorenzo could believe it, too. He loved music, the way the beat pounded through the room making people move with it. To him, dancing was like making love to a beautiful woman. All you had to do was listen to the music, whether it was a fast song with instruments, or a sweet woman’s voice. You only had to move your body and guide them with a strong hand.
Angelina danced her body close to his as soon as the song started, and then moved away. Her breasts scorched him through the thin material of his designer shirt. Her hand fit inside his larger one; her head barely reached his shoulders even in her extremely tall, fuck-me heels. There were no other words for the things on her feet. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, just stared over his shoulder, giving him a blank smile while pretending to get into the right position.
He yanked her body flush with his, feeling all her soft parts fit his harder planes, making him even more aware of their differences.