Rock Bottom (Tristan & Danika #2)(23)

Addiction was hereditary, and it was in my blood, so I knew that I had to be more careful than most to avoid its trappings.

We were at a college bar across the street from campus, and it had a dance floor. There were eight of us, all dancers, and so of course we danced.

I had fun. It was nice to go out with new people, with fresh faces and carefree smiles.

I found myself texting Frankie, telling her to come out and join us.

Frankie: To a college bar? Do you have any idea how old I am?

I thought about it. No, I did not.

Danika: No, I don’t. How old are you?

Frankie: I am twenty-seven.

Danika: That’s not even old.

Frankie: It’s too f**kin old for a college bar.

Danika: It’s fun. Come on.

Frankie: How long are you going to be there?

Danika: I don’t know. Depends on if you come hang out with us.

Frankie: Fine. I’ll be there in thirty, but if I spot any sorority girls, I’m outta there.

I was dancing with Preston when I caught sight of Frankie in the crowd near the bar.

I squealed, rushing to her.

She smiled when she saw me. We hugged, but she kept looking over my shoulder. At Preston, I thought.

She reaffirmed my suspicion in short order. “Who is, uh, that guy?” she asked, pointing.

I knew whom she was referring to, since I’d just been dancing with him, but I followed her finger to look.

“That’s Preston. He’s my ballroom dance partner at the studio. Super nice guy.”

“And you’re, like, out with him?”

My eyes narrowed at her chastising tone. “I’m out with seven other dancers. There’s a whole group of us.”

“But you were dancing with him.”

“He’s my dance partner. It seemed like a pretty normal thing to do.” I found myself getting defensive.

“How do you think Tristan will feel about that?” she asked, her tone bland, the pointed arch to her eyebrow, not so much.

“Tristan is crazy when it comes to me and other guys. Do you think I should cater to crazy?”

She gave me a look that should have been reserved for disapproving mothers. “How would you feel if you found out that Tristan was going out to clubs with the band and dancing with other woman while he’s in L.A.? That’d be fine with you?”

I mulled it over, and finally got her point. I’d hate that. Really hate it. Yes, I was dating crazy, but I had apparently fallen from the same crazy tree.

“But he’s my dance partner. We have to practice. I can’t give up dancing for Tristan. That wouldn’t be healthy.”

“Agreed, but how ‘bout you keep it to the studio? That’s seems to me to be a far cry from dirty dancing in the club.”

“How do I know Tristan isn’t going out and dancing with other girls? He could be doing that or worse every night. I’d have no clue if he was or wasn’t.”

“You know because I’m telling you. He’s a good boyfriend to you, and he wouldn’t do that. He’s very, very careful not to step out of line. Show him the same respect.”

She had a point, and I suddenly felt like shit. “I wasn’t dirty dancing, and this isn’t a club,” I pointed out.

She gave me a head to toe once over, giving my exposed stomach a pointed look. “Shaking your hips in that outfit is dirty dancing, period.”

I pointed to her half-shirt. “Don’t you dare knock my outfit. You’re baring more skin than you’re covering.”

“Well, I am single. World of difference.”

“You’re a fun killer tonight, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know. Now tell me I’m wrong.”

I curled my lip at her, looking around for some of the dancers. There was one in particular that I thought she’d like to meet.

“Speaking of you being single…” I began.

“Oh hell no, girl. You wouldn’t know how to set me up.”

“She’s a dancer. She’s hot, and I heard her say she’s a lesbian.”

“You think that’s how things work? She’s a lesbian, I’m a lesbian, so of course you should set us up?”

I rolled my eyes, then grinned because she was grinning. She loved to mess with me. “More like, you’re hot, she’s hot, you’re both lesbians. That would be closer.”

“You’re forgetting one very important detail. I don’t mess with vanilla girls.”

I’d forgotten that little fact. “Well, who knows, maybe she’s not so vanilla.”

“Trust me, girl, I know every lesbian submissive in town. If she wasn’t vanilla, we’d have crossed paths before.”

“Well, dammit. She’s really cute.”

“So are you, and you and I are about as compatible as me and vanilla.”

“Fair enough,” I conceded, effectively giving up.

I was a failure of a matchmaker.

Frankie met the girl we’d been talking about, Estella, less than ten minutes later. The irony about the whole thing was that Estella was noticeably into Frankie, blatantly flirting with her right from the start.

Estella was a shapely little Brazilian, with long, thick, wavy brown hair. She was maybe an inch shorter than Frankie and had an outgoing, fiery personality. She also liked to wear very little in terms of clothing, which gave her yet another thing in common with Frankie.