1986: Why Can't This Be Love (Love in the 80s #7)

1
986
: Why Can't This Be Love

Copyright © 2016 by R.K. Ryals

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

C
over Design by Regina Wamba of
Mae I Design

Edited by Crystal Rae Bryant of
Plot Ninja

Book Design by
Indie Formatting Services

Published in the United States of America by
WaWa Productions

A
portion
of all profits go to
Direct Relief

Direct Relief is a humanitarian aid organization, active in all 50 states and 70 countries, with a mission to improve the health and lives of people affected by poverty or emergencies.

Nongovernmental, nonsectarian, and not-for-profit, Direct Relief provides assistance to people and communities without regard to politics, religious beliefs, or ethnic identities.

Direct Relief’s assistance programs focus on maternal and child health, the prevention and treatment of disease, and emergency preparedness and response, and are tailored to the particular circumstances and needs of the world’s most vulnerable and at-risk populations.

Direct Relief’s work earns wide recognition from independent charity evaluators, including a 100% fundraising efficiency rating from Forbes, the No. 1 spot on Charity Navigator’s list of the “10 Best Charities Everyone’s Heard Of,” and inclusion in Fast Company’s list of “the world’s most innovative nonprofits.”

F
or those who
dance to their own tune, to their own internal movie soundtrack. May you never stop dreaming, never stop dancing, and never stop believing.

A
note fell
on my desk, neatly folded, the paper pulling me out of my thoughts, and I knew immediately by the scent—mandarin and citrus—who it was from. The strains of internal music playing incessantly in my head—Janet Jackson totally understood me—faded, relegated to the land of daydreams.

Glancing up, I caught Lisa Erickson’s eye. She was leaning over, her teased, curly blonde hair falling over her shoulder, her lemon-colored dress flaring with the movement, the yellow bangles on her wrist clanking together.

I sniffed the note.
“Really?”
I mouthed.

She shrugged, grinning. Lisa was a Liz Claiborne kind of girl, every neon-embossed inch of her. She even sprayed perfume on her underwear … you know, just in case.

The note read: “The Cube tonight?”

It was the last day of school before spring break, the knowledge infecting the room with excitement. Feet shifted anxiously on the floor, colorful fingernails tapped the desktops, and soft chatter infiltrated the space. Our history teacher, Mrs. Miller, gave up shushing us. Honestly, she was as antsy as we were.

It had been a bleak new year, the NASA Challenger disaster in January casting a somber shadow over the entire nation. Everyone had tuned into the televised launch, too many eyes on the spacecraft when it exploded, killing all seven crew members aboard including a teacher, Christa McAuliffe. It didn’t matter that most of us didn’t know the astronauts personally. The sick feeling was there lurking in our hearts.

The memory of Ronald Reagan’s speech, done in place of the scheduled State of the Union address, rang like an echo through the halls, especially the part where he addressed the students.

His speech had stuck with me, firing up my blood. I wanted to do something significant after high school, to find a way to alter the world somehow. I wanted to make the world stronger, even if it meant getting hurt in the process.

The tragedy taught me that.

Hell, my mother taught me that. In her time, she’d been an activist, protesting anything she thought was wrong. She hadn’t just followed in the footsteps of revolutionaries, she’d started revolutions. In comparison, I felt weak. Like I was trying to squeeze my foot into a giant’s footprint.

This spring break, coming on the heels of the disaster, felt bigger than past spring breaks. We all needed to feel alive.
I
needed to feel alive.

Not bothering to write a reply, I leaned forward, a smile stealing my lips. “Tonight, Corey Sanders is totally mine,” I hissed.

I mean, change has to start somewhere, right? Tiny feet and all.

Corey Sanders, a college boy with a bodacious bod, was the bouncer at The Cube, an eighteen and under club next to the bowling alley in town. I’d been crushing on him all year but had been too afraid to approach him. Not anymore.
Tonight, everything changes.

“Let’s try and keep it down!” Mrs. Miller admonished, no bite to her words.

The clock in the room ticked, each second slower than the last. We watched it, fingers and feet tapping.

“This sucks,” Judd Ferris murmured behind me, his long legs kicking the back of my chair.

Across the room, Farrah Garret dropped her head, throwing a curtain of hair over her face before unleashing a can of hairspray on the strands.

“God, Farrah!” Duke Nelson growled, fanning his face.

She threw him a look, swapping the hairspray for lipstick. “I’ve got places to go once we get out of here.”

“Planning on riding my joystick, sweetheart?” he teased, winking.

“As if.” She pretended to gag.

Judd kicked the back of my chair again. I scooted my desk forward and he stretched his long legs, his perfectly pegged jeans peering up at me from the floor. I won’t lie, I envied him his tight-rolled hem. Mine never looked right.

Maps covered the back wall, colorful parts of the world taped to tan cinder blocks. A Hands Across America poster drooped next to a large picture of Europe. The clock on the wall ticked.

At the back of the room, someone flipped through a magazine, the sound amplified by the students’ tension.

Flip, flip … tick, tick, tick …

The bell rang, shrill and loud.

Judd shot to his feet, fist pumping the air. “Let’s bounce!”

Lisa caught my arm. “Your house. You need to wear something hot and dangerous tonight.”

I chuckled. “Because that’s exactly what a bouncer wants. Someone dangerous.”

“Don’t laugh at me,” she chided. “A bouncer wants excitement. Why else would he want a job like that?”

“Be safe this spring break!” Mrs. Miller called after us.

No one listened. None of us wanted safe. We wanted the time of our lives. We wanted to feel young and reckless, to forget about the headlines.

I needed more Janet Jackson. I needed music to drown out the world, music to serenade me into a new year, a new phase in my life, so that I could take the music-drowned world and transform it.

It was this feeling, this need to be and feel everything all at once that catapulted me into the wildest weekend of my life thus far.

A
neon sign flashed
. Music spilled onto damp concrete, onto puddles left behind by afternoon showers. The water, lit up by the flashing sign, looked like lime green slime.

Heels, Keds, and ankle boots splashed through and around the puddles, the bodies they belonged to full of blown out hair, denim, bright colors, and jangling jewelry. A man in black slacks and a tight black T-shirt with
The Cube
in slash-like, neon green writing across the front manned the door, watching and waiting, arms crossed.

Lisa pulled me along, her black miniskirt and fishnet stockings offset by a bright purple sweater, her painted face framed by a cloud of spectacular blonde hair.

“I don’t want to be late!” she panted, tugging.

“You could have told me you had a date,” I muttered.

Next to her, I looked a lot less flashy in a denim skirt, cropped pink tights, a white off-the-shoulder tee, and a pink tank top. My shoulder-length brown hair was so curly naturally, I didn’t have to do much teasing. I had on the most ‘dangerous’ outfit in my closet, which wasn’t saying much. Anything riskier, and my parents would have locked me in my bedroom.

“Johnny won’t bite,” she promised. “I met him at a party my sister was invited to.”

Lisa’s sister was three years older than her and in her second year of college.

“But not you, right?”

She scrunched her nose. “No one likes the minor details, Tori.”

I did. Which is probably why I’d chosen a future career in economics.

The guy at the door glanced at us, his gaze lingering on Lisa as we skirted past. Inside, dazzling bright lights glared, the dance floor full of teenagers, Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name” blaring from the sound system. The song didn’t work for me … at all. It was a great song, don’t get me wrong, but I heard something different, the tune to “When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Get Going” by Billy Ocean on permanent repeat in my mind. I needed the whole “I’m gonna put this dream in motion, never let nothing stand in my way” mentality right now. I was on a mission.

A bar and a group of tables sat off to the side, cloaked in shadows. A couple kissed in the corner, the boy’s hands gripping the girl’s backside, the movement pressing her against him. The overwhelming smell of cologne, perfume, hairspray, nicotine-infused clothes, and fruity drinks slapped us in the face.

“That’s the kind of kiss I’m looking for tonight,” Lisa said, voice raised to be heard over the crowd, her eyes trained on the couple. “That’s the kind of kiss you feel all over.”

The couple undulated, his hands sliding into her hair to tug on the strands. Just watching it made my toes tingle.

“Maybe,” I murmured, breathless.

Who was I kidding? That was the type of kiss I wanted, too, even though the idea also intimidated the devil out of me. If someone kissed me like that, I’d want more than just a kiss, I’d want commitment, too, and that wasn’t likely.

“Hey, it’s Johnny!” Lisa cried. She waved wildly.

We weaved through the crowd, past conversing friends, dancers showing off on the dance floor, and couples slow dancing, hands roaming, despite the fast beat.

Against the wall, a lanky young man leaned, his hands in his pockets, a white suit jacket open over a collared light blue linen shirt. On his feet were espadrilles with no socks. A total preppy.

Shimmying up to him, Lisa ran her hands up his chest, fiddling with the fabric of his top before tracing the bare skin of his neck. It was an intimate, unnerving touch that spoke volumes about their past acquaintance.

“Hey, beautiful,” Johnny rumbled, his hand cupping her hip.

Lisa ogled his face, her eyes glazing over.

I tapped her shoulder.

“Oh, right!” She broke eye contact, glancing at me. “This is my friend, Tori Allen.” Her fingers wrote possessive designs on his flesh. “Tori, this is Johnny.”

We nodded in greeting, and then promptly dismissed each other. They returned to staring and touching.

I faced the room, my gaze sweeping the club and the dancers, my feet tapping to the music.

An hour passed with Lisa and Johnny pawing each other against the wall while I sipped on fruity, non-alcoholic drinks, dancing in place awkwardly. Each time a song played, I wrinkled my nose, a silent music critic. Apparently, the club owners didn’t understand life … or mine anyway.

I was glad Lisa had someone, a guy who could give her the type of kisses she’d wanted, but deep down, I was also irritated, lonely, and out of place. It had taken a lot to get my parents to agree to let me come. They were uber strict.

Hour two was well under way when a broad man in a black T-shirt, the telltale lime green writing on front, shoved through the crowd, smiling and chatting.

I froze, heart fluttering. “Lisa ...” I began, but it was pointless. She was lost in a haze of promised love, murmuring sweet nothings to a guy she knew God knew how.

My tongue darted out, wetting lips that were suddenly dry. My palms grew clammy, and I slid them down the sides of my denim skirt.

The guy in the black T-shirt looked up, his gaze seizing mine.

My breath caught. Corey Sanders was beautiful, an absolutely wicked to the max specimen of a man. All muscle, blue eyes, and blonde hair that curled against the collar of his T-shirt.

I sighed, which had to have looked completely ridiculous.

He smiled, winking.

“Oh my God ... Lisa, I think he’s flirting with …” My words trailed off, heart slamming my rib cage. He was smiling at me.
Me!

I fanned myself in an attempt to cool my heated cheeks.

Pushing through the crowd, Corey came straight for me. Inside, I was hyperventilating. There was no way!

I glanced behind me, but the wall at my back was empty. Lisa and Johnny had vanished, the twosome entwined on the dance floor.

“You looking for me, darling?” a deep voice asked.

My tongue grew three sizes too big, and something that sounded mysteriously like
guh
popped out of my mouth.

That was so incredibly smooth, Tori!

Corey Sanders stood in front of me, his broad build blocking the rest of the room, his smiling eyes on my face.

“I've seen you in here before,” he continued, attempting to draw me into a conversation. “You look at me a lot.”

Horror struck me hard. Had I been that obvious? All of these months, and he
knew
I was watching him?

My cheeks blazed so hot I swear they caught on fire. “Well ... you know—”

“I know interest when I see it.” He flashed his teeth at me, ignoring my pathetic, stumbling words. “My shift just ended. Dance with me,” he insisted. His hand found mine.

Corey tugged me toward the dance floor, all self-assured male. My flesh tingled where he touched me. Deep down, beyond the haze of obsessive lust, his arrogance bothered me. But in this moment, when my ever-constant daydream—the one where Corey Sanders took me into his arms despite being surrounded by a crowd of beautiful people—was coming to life out of nowhere, I couldn’t make myself care.

This was wild! Seriously, this was a fantasy come true. I mean, I’d had this vision over and over again. In my desk at school, in bed, and while at the club watching him. The dream was always the same. Corey looked at me, I looked at him, literal sparks flew, he dropped everything and everyone to come to me, pulled me into his embrace, and kissed me until my toes curled.

Only things like that just didn’t happen.

Except, I guess, maybe they did.

Pulling me into his arms, Corey began to move, our bodies flush.

I felt everything. Everywhere.

Leaning down, his lips grazed my ear. “You’re cute, darlin’.”

I shivered. “I’m V-Victoria,” I stuttered, giving him my full name because it sounded more sophisticated.

“Victoria,” he repeated. “Do you like to dance?”

My heart was going to fall out of my chest, it was beating so hard.

Corey thrust his hips into mine in time with the music. “Because
I
like to dance.”

My fingers gripped his arms, worshipping his biceps while holding on for dear life. Everything felt so good, and yet uncomfortably weird.

You’ve got this, Tori. You’ve totally got this.

The pep talk I gave myself wasn’t doing much for me. Neither were the strains of ‘Small Town’ by John Mellencamp the club was playing on the stereo system. No one should dance to the lyrics ‘Used to daydream in this small town, another boring romantic that’s me’. Great song, bad timing.

Corey’s lips brushed my cheek, and I didn’t stop him, my breath coming fast.

“It’s a little hot in here,” Corey gasped. Pulling away, he led me off of the dance floor. “Let’s get some air.”

We slipped through a door at the back of the club. A cool breeze kissed my face, our feet thudding on cracked cement in the alley between the club and the bowling alley next door. Steam rose into the night. Puddles gleamed, all green and red, reflecting the neon lights glowing from the two businesses.

My nose wrinkled, my nostrils assaulted by greasy food mixed with man and stagnant water. Nothing like the dream I’d had. In the dream, everything smelled like roses. Because that’s what romance smelled like, right? The smell of roses with Marvin Gaye crooning in the background. Specifically, the “You’re a Special Part of me” duet he sang with Diana Ross. My mother played it on our record player anytime she wanted something from my father.

“Much better,” Corey mumbled, embracing me. His lips found my neck, the kiss he dragged across my skin way too wet.

The tingles and flutters I’d felt in the club returned with a vengeance, but this time, they felt different. Uneasy.

Struggling, I pushed against his hold.

His grip tightened, sweat building between us. “For weeks I’ve watched you watch me.” He breathed the words into my skin, kissing a trail down my collarbone.

This wasn’t how my dream went. This moment was supposed to be romantic and sweet, not slobbery and sweaty.

“I think maybe we should go back inside,” I offered, squirming.

Yeah, this didn’t feel romantic at all. It was grody and overbearing.

“Inside?” Corey asked, perturbed, as if he hadn’t heard me right. “After all of the signals you’ve thrown my way? The way you’ve stared at me?”

He made it sound like I was a seductress with siren-like eyes, able to spell a man to his doom.

My stomach churned, heart breaking, my fantasy shattered. He was
that
kind of guy, the kind no girl wanted to find herself alone with. It seemed wrong. Corey was a bouncer, for God’s sake. In a club for teens. In small town Ohio. And yet this god I’d been salivating over was a devil.

“I want to go back inside now,” I repeated firmly.

“You don’t mean that.” He nuzzled my neck, his tongue flicking against my skin. “We’re just having a little fun,” he assured me.

Nausea overtook me.

I shoved him hard. “No!”

He fell back, but not enough. His gaze darkened, and I suddenly wondered what I ever saw in him, how I missed the dangerous glint in his eyes, the over-arrogant self-absorption that made him untrustworthy.

He came for me in the alley, and instinctively, I lifted my knee, slamming it into his groin. Just the way my father taught me when I hit puberty. It was my dad’s version of ‘the talk’ since Mom’s version consisted of illustrations she drew of bees and flowers, along with a confusing lecture about men and their stingers.

Little did she know, I’d learned everything I’d needed to know about sex when I was twelve while reading one of her historical romance novels.

Dad took over, saying, “I’ll make this simple, if a man ever comes at you with his
stinger
, make sure you remove it.”

Knee to groin.

Corey doubled over, his hand slapping the club’s exterior brick wall. “You bitch!”

I didn’t give him time to recover. I ran, my scrunch ankle boots splashing through puddles. His feet thudded after me, coming fast.

My heart, which had thundered in excitement before, now thundered in fear. The entrance to the club was too far.

I rushed to the bowling alley, yanking open the door. The smell of greasy food slammed me in the face. Bowling balls thundered down lanes, knocking over pins. People yelled, some cheering and others groaning.

No one manned the counter.

Just my luck!

My panic grew. Ducking against a wall, I peered into a rec room across the hall. A little boy playing a Q*Bert arcade game glanced at me, his eyes wide.

Resting a finger against my lips, I hissed, “Shh.”

Corey Sanders shot through the door, anger marring his features, the emotion transforming him into a red-faced monster.

The little boy paled.

I shook my head frantically. He was totally going to give me up.

Inching sideways, I felt my way along the corridor before tucking myself between the wall and a photo booth.