“No. You being up on that stage, everyone watching you, listening, you’ve got to show them that you are more than a voice. You’ve got to let them know what you keep inside.” She kept staring, but her eyebrows weren’t as high and that frown didn’t get harder. Finally, when she continued to lean away from me, I took my hands from her shoulders, deciding that another tactic might work. “Tell me how you feel when you dance.”
“When I dance? You mean on the stage?”
Aly was a smart girl and had a hell of a lot of ambition. But God was she literal, too literal sometimes. I could sense the frustration from her when I sighed, but kept myself in check. “I mean whenever it was that you felt the freest dancing. When it was so good, so real that you thought you could fly.”
Her face took on an intense expression while her mind obviously whirled with memories. Watching her focus, I tried like hell to remember where I’d met her before and why those lips, those eyes seemed so familiar to me—then the sharp line of her frown disappeared.
This time, her dimple was deeper than I’d ever seen it and she came damned close to smiling. But then Aly closed her eyes, like the memory she’d chosen was too remarkable and too personal to do anything but focus directly on it.
When she spoke, her voice, at first, came out as a whisper, then lifted as she recalled the exact feeling the memory had given her. “Modi, dancing, it…it feels like time is standing still.” A second dimple joined its sister. “You get lost in the music and find yourself in movements. A simple wave of your arm or fan of a leg can melt your heart.” She opened her eyes, blinking twice to focus again on my face. “It makes you believe everything—your work, your struggles, all the hurdles that life slams in front of you to stop you from your passion—will be okay. Like those hurdles are nothing and you are boundless.” Another blink and Aly looked down again, ran her thumbnail along the seam of her capris. “It’s therapy that no doctor or psychiatrist can come close to.”
“It’s joy?” I asked, shocked by her honesty, by that same slip of truth I saw painted on her face. It was the most authentic thing anyone had said to me in years.
She brought up one side of her mouth so that I could almost make out her top teeth. “Wi. That’s exactly what it is. Kontantman. Joy.”
Nodding, I slid in closer to her, ignoring her skittishness as I moved one hand to her back, the other around her stomach, over her diaphragm. “Then you should sing joy, Aly.” Against my nose I caught the subtle whiff of jasmine, that warm, sweet scent of very ripe fruit as she brushed her braid over her shoulder.
“When I push on your stomach, shove my hand off with your stomach muscles and bring some air into your lungs as full as you can get them. Then, sing.” She took to biting her lip, working her top teeth over her bottom lip like she needed something automatic to do while my hands were on her. It wasn’t me, I didn’t think. Likely it was being held so closely by anyone she didn’t know, and me barking orders at her under the guise of trying to help. I had to admit that my heart quickened just holding her between my hands. “Um…you get that?”
“Wi,” Aly said, nodding once before she turned away from me. Her ribs moved against my hands as she inhaled and the briefest swell of her breast rubbed above my thumb. She followed instruction perfectly, moving the song from her mouth in a slow release instead of the wobbled rush I’d heard from her earlier. The melody was so slow and sensual that I didn’t want to take my hands from her, worried that not having my touch would give her any excuse to stop singing.
But, that voice begged for accompaniment and I leaned back, grabbing the Hummingbird, and I played for her.
I could make out her profile. She’d closed her eyes, feeling the music, and it was joy that came through the slow, beautiful crawl of her words. It left me a little punch drunk, hearing the low hum of the guitar and the sound of Aly’s warm, mezzo-soprano voice. The sound reminded me of something I might have dreamt, like some erotic fairy from my dreams had taken over Aly. Then, when I didn’t think she could dip any deeper into my head, Aly shocked the hell out of me and reached the chorus, her notes higher than the verse, and the sound soared, shot right to my chest and I realized, without warning, that Aly was damn remarkable. Aly was criminally beautiful. And I was in trouble.
8
Things happen. It’s what I’d been telling myself since that night at Summerland’s. It’s not like I hadn’t been neck deep in guilt for a while. I had. What was one more dose? But damn if this made zero sense to me.
You want her.
“No, I don’t.”
That’s what I kept telling myself, telling the voice since that Sunday at the lake house. Aly was very sweet. She had a pretty face, luscious lips and eyes that were haunted, but beautiful. I liked her. But no, I didn’t want her. That’s why what happened today made so little sense to me.
I blame my father.
Team meetings generally didn’t last long and this one hadn’t, so maybe if there hadn’t been a locker room full of my teammates all in one place then Aly showing up with Koa on her hip might not have been such a big deal. But she did show up, looking like she normally did, but this time she wasn’t wearing a baggy, sleeveless tank or frayed dance pants. She still wore her hair in that severe bun at the back of her head, but she sported just a touch of make-up and a pair of modest length shorts with a thin, green lace shirt that accented the swell of her chest and her small waist.
Amazingly, the guys on the team hadn’t noticed her knocking on my father’s office door. Not until Dad answered it and did that dumbass baby talk to Koa. It was that stupid accent coming from my mammoth father that had my teammates turning around to look at them. That’s when they spotted Aly.
“Who the hell is that?” Trent said, stepping onto a bench to see over the heads of players around us in various stages of dress. We were prepping for practice, taking our time getting dressed because the team meeting had gone short.
“Don’t know, but I call dibs.” Mike Richard’s slow Mississippi drawl was funny, but then what he said registered and I immediately thought he was a stupid redneck.
“The hell you do,” Trent told Richard. “Can’t call dibs on a girl until you find out if she’s taken.”
“She’s not taken.” Why the hell had I offered up that information? Those pricks didn’t need to be calling dibs, especially not on Aly. Wait. Not especially. Just on Aly. Dammit.
“You know her?” Trent nudged my arm and I shrugged, not bothering to clarify shit for that idiot. She wasn’t his type. She actually used her brain. Besides, there was no way Aly would be down for a guy like Trent.
We’d spent the better part of two weeks working on her audition and practicing Kizomba at the studio. She had become a friend, I guessed, or at least the closest to that as I’d had in a long time. She’d talked to me about her nerves over the audition and her worry that the pregnancy was taking more out of my mother than she wanted to admit.
She was a chill girl, funny and didn’t take attitude from Koa or anyone else. I liked her and I knew damn well Trent wouldn’t have a shot.
“Yeah,” I finally told him when he nudged me again. “I know her.”
And when he stepped down off the bench and walked straight toward the office, I made damn sure Trent knew that shot he wanted would be pointless.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I asked him, pushing against his chest before he made it to the office door.
“I needed to ask Coach Hale about…”