"Well, now you'll just have to multitask." Taking my hand, he led me across the street.
I tried to protest but couldn't really explain my reasoning to him, and so, like the margaritas, I gave in fairly easily.
The club was warm and packed with bodies, and the music was to die for. My feet immediately began counting out beats as Roman paid our entrance fee and led me to the dance floor. Just like with swing, he turned out to be an expert at salsa, and I found myself easily catching on after a few practices. I might not have demonstrated much talent for standing my ground against margaritas, but I had been dancing for centuries. The skill was fused into me.
Salsa turned out to be a lot sexier than swing. Not that swing wasn't sexy, mind you, but salsa had a dark, sinuous edge about it. One couldn't help but focus on the closeness of the other person's body, the way hips moved together. I now knew what Roman had meant about steamy.
After about a half hour, we took a break, and he led us to the bar. " Mojitosnow," he told me, holding up two fingers for the bartender. "In keeping with our Latin theme tonight."
"I can't..."
But the mojitos appeared without my counsel and turned out to be pretty damned good. We finished them faster than we should have, so we could get back out on the floor.
By the time we had to leave for Doug's concert, post-grunge, punk rock, ska -type music didn't sound so good anymore. I was exhilarated from dancing, hot and sweaty, and I'd gone through another mojito and a tequila chaser. I knew I'd found a new passion in salsa and silently cursed Roman for what would probably become a dancing addiction, even though I had exalted in the movement. His body had moved with a seductive grace, brushing against mine in a way that left me quivering and aching.
We stumbled out into the street, holding hands, breathless and laughing. The world spun around me slightly, and I decided it was probably just as well we'd left when we did. My motor controls had stopped operating at normal levels.
"Okay, where'd we park?"
"You've got to be kidding," I told him, jerking him around the corner where I could see the soft glow of a yellow taxi. "We have to take a cab."
"Come on, I'm not that bad."
But he had the wisdom to protest no further, and we caught the taxi up to the brewery in Greenlake. People milled in and out of the building; there had been two other performances before Doug's. As I had feared, our posh dancing clothing looked hopelessly out of place among the rough and tumble ware of the college-aged, but it no longer seemed the big deal it had when Roman picked me up.
"Don't get caught up in fashion games," he advised as we squeezed our way inside the packed brewery. "These kids probably think we're old, nark conformists or something, but really, they're just conforming in their own ways. They're conforming to nonconformity."
I scanned for the bookstore crew, hoping they'd secured a table. "Oh no. You don't wax political when you're drunk, do you?"
"No, no. I just get tired of people always trying to fit a mold, trying to toe some line, regardless if it's right or left. I'm proud to be the best-dressed person in this room. Make your own rules, that's what I say."
I spotted Beth and dragged Roman over to a table on the other side of the room. Other bookstore natives sat with her: Casey, Andy, Bruce—and Seth. My stomach sank.
"Nice dress," said Bruce.
"We saved you a seat." Casey indicated a chair. "I didn't realize you'd have a... friend."
The chair situation held little concern for me. All I could feel were Seth's eyes on me, his face thoughtful but neutral. Flushing, I felt like a complete idiot and wished I could just turn around and leave. After refusing him with my stupid tirade about not dating, here I was, hand in hand, drunk off my ass with Roman. I couldn't even imagine what Seth must think of me now.
"Not a problem," Roman declared, oblivious to my churning emotions and unfazed by my colleagues' bemused attention. He sat down in the chair, pulling me onto his lap. "We'll share."
Andy made a bar run, bringing back beers for all of us except Seth who, just like with caffeine, chose to abstain. Roman and I explained where we'd been, lauding salsa as the world's new greatest pastime, thus earning demands from the others that I start up a second wave of dance lessons.
Doug's group soon came on stage, and we all cheered appropriately at the sight of Doug-the-assistant-manager turned Doug-the-lead-singer of Nocturnal Admission. Beer kept coming, and while continuing to drink was probably the stupidest thing I could have done, I was beyond the point where I could reasonably stop. Besides, I had too many other things to worry about. Like avoiding eye contact with a thus-far-silent Seth. And savoring the feel of being on top of Roman, his chest against my back and arms around my waist. His chin rested on my shoulder, giving him easy access to whisper in my ear and occasionally run his lips by my neck. The hardness I felt underneath my thighs suggested I wasn't the only one getting something out of this seating arrangement.
Doug came to talk to us during a break, covered in sweat but thoroughly ecstatic. He took in the sight of me plastered on Roman. "You're a little overdressed, aren't you, Kin- caid?" He reconsidered. "Or under. Hard to say."
"You're one to talk," I shot back, finishing my... second... or was it third... beer.
Doug wore tight, red vinyl pants; combat boots; and a long, purple velvet jacket left open to expose his chest. A ragged top hat perched jauntily on his head.
"I'm part of the entertainment, babe."
"So am I, babe."
Some of the others chuckled. Doug's expression turned disapproving, but he said nothing to me, instead making some comment to Beth about the number of people who had turned out for the show.
I entered that weird sort of tunnel vision that occurs sometimes with alcohol, where I became so consumed with my own buzzing, swirling perceptions that the conversation and noise around me blurred to an indistinct drone, and faces and colors faded out to an irrelevant background separate from my existence. Indeed, all I really felt was Roman. Every nerve in me was screaming, and I wished the hands he rested on my stomach would slide up to touch my breasts. I could already feel my nipples hardening under the thin fabric and wondered what it'd be like to turn around and ride him like I had Warren...
"Restroom," I suddenly exclaimed, clambering ungracefully off Roman. It was weird how one's bladder could turn from tolerable to unbearable so quickly. "Where's the restroom here?"
The others looked at me strangely, or so it seemed to me. "Back there," pointed Casey, her voice sounding far away despite her close proximity. "You okay?"
"Yeah." I pushed a slipping strap up. "I just need to use the restroom." And get away from Roman, I silently added, so I can think about things clearly. Not that that last feat would probably be possible in my current state.
Roman started to rise, as drunk and fumbling as me. "I'll go with you—"
"I will," offered Doug hastily. "I need to get back there anyway before the next set."
Taking my arm, he wound us through the people toward a less-populated back hallway. I staggered slightly as we went, and he slowed his pace to help.
"How much have you had to drink?"
"Before or after I got here?"
"Holy shit. You are trashed."
"You got a problem with it?"
"Hardly. How do you think I spend most of my nights off?"
We paused outside the ladies' restroom. "I bet Seth thinks I'm a lush."
"Why would he think that?"
"You don't see him drinking. He's such a fucking purist. Him and his stupid no caffeine and no alcohol shit."
Doug's dark eyes flickered in surprise at my language. "Not all nondrinkers despise drinkers, you know. Besides, Seth's not the one I'm worried about. I'm more concerned about Mr. Happy Hands out there."