Player(21)

“All right,” she said quietly. “Well, I’m ready to learn.”

“Pop quiz. Try it on me.”

She blinked. “All of it?”

“Not all at once. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Val laughed, the tension lifting. “Okay. Give me a minute though. Can we just dance?”

I pulled her into me and turned us in quick, bouncing circles, her hand clutched in mine, resting on my chest. “We can dance all night if you want.” The ring of truth in the words echoed in my rib cage.

And for a while, that was all we did. We danced.

She was already improving, learning my cues, picking up moves by observation.

Val was a natural.

I didn’t know exactly when she turned it on, but after a little while, I found myself watching her lips as she pulled the bottom one into her mouth, her lashes as she fanned them, her hand on my shoulder or in mine, lingering, squeezing.

“Dancing with you is too easy,” she said. “You know exactly what to do with me.”

That was when it hit me. My smile was broad and proud. “Valentina Bolivar, are you flirting with me?”

Her cheeks flushed with her little smile, lips together. “Maybe a little.”

“Practice makes perfect,” I said. “Just like dancing. You just keep getting better and better at both.”

She swatted at my arm. “Samhir Haddad, are you flirting with me?”

I laughed and pulled her close. “Maybe a little.”

“So what’s our next lesson?”

“Practical application. How about after the show tomorrow night, we go to Smalls? We can have a drink, dance a little, and have you pick up a guy.”

Her throat worked as she swallowed. “I mean, it’s a little soon for that, don’t you think?”

“Like I said, practice makes perfect. I can tell you all day long what to do, but until you do it on your own, it’ll never stick.”

“Okay,” she said, though she looked unsure of herself.

“You trust me, right, Val?” I asked, watching her.

She drew a long breath. “I do. It’ll be fun. And if I bomb, you can dance with me to make me feel better.”

All I could do was laugh as I brought my lips to her ear. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”





9





Beasts and Brutes





Val

My hangover the next day was nonexistent, thanks to the bag of chips I’d polished off with Amelia when I came home. I’d been relieved to find her up reading. She was on a deadline and couldn’t come to the club, and Katherine was still catching up on her sleep from the first night. Rin and Court had to work early too, and so I’d been blissfully alone with Sam.

Blissfully, longingly alone.

Sam had walked me home, leaving me with a hug I felt the ghost of an hour later. When I’d walked through the door, I was so wound up, I needed a distraction. Not that I’d really told Amelia much of anything that was happening inside my brain or heart. Instead, I’d entertained her with stories from the night.

If my lessons with Sam were going to continue, I’d have to maintain my solid stance in the friendzone. And there was no way to do that without also remaining solidly in denial.

Admitting how I really felt would have been pointless and self-destructive. Plus, I was having too much fun to ruin things with the truth, not when I knew exactly where the boundaries were.

By the time I reached my parents’ place on the Upper West, I was practically skipping. In a few hours, I’d see Sam at work. I’d spent all day cataloging the things I wanted to talk to him about, thought of a few things he’d think were funny. I wanted to hear him laugh, wanted to see him smile.

God, what a sucker I was for him. I’d never had so much fun with a man as I had with Sam—it was almost too much. I wondered if I really would be ruined for all other guys.

My standards were all kinds of fucked up, thanks to him.

I unlocked the door and followed the noise into the kitchen, which was stuffed to the gills with the Bolivar clan.

The commotion comforted me—tiny Abuelita at the stove in front of a massive, simmering pan of paella, her silver hair with a scarf the color of absinthe tied in a little bow on the top, and Abuelo in the breakfast nook with his straw fedora cocked on his head. His skin was as dark as a saddle, and his glittering eyes rested on his worn, old copy of Pablo Neruda poems. Mama manned a stockpot with a lid, her curly hair loose and thick, her smile bright and easy as she took direction from Abuela. Dad sat across from Abuelo with a spread of cards in his hand, tall and smirking, his skin fair and hair black as midnight.

And then there were my brothers.

The four brutes were scattered around the room—Alex sitting on the counter next to Abuelita, earning occasional pops on the back of his hand for sneaking a shrimp out of the pan; Dante and Max flanking Dad, hiding behind masks of apathy, which meant they both had shitty hands; Franco, who I only saw the ass end of, as the rest of him was in the fridge.

I bumped him hard with my hip as I passed. “Don’t fall in.”

He tried to stand up in surprise and thumped his head on the shelf with a yelp. “Dammit, Val,” he said, rubbing his head.

I stuck my tongue out at him, and he sprang into motion so fast, I squeaked, pivoting to try to get away from him.