Dance With Me (6 page)

He started them off with the rumba.

“Slow, quick, quick,” he called, over and over and over again. “Mr. Gerisher—slow, quick, quick. You turn her on slow. Not quick.”

It was the turning box that was throwing them. They could organize their legs well enough to move backward and forward, and they could do the turns when they did them on their own, but if he made them face each other, they did nothing but stumble. Laurie had tried it with music and without music, and he'd tried counting down so slowly turtles would have looked dapper attempting the maneuvers. He stood beside them, ghosting the steps they should take. He guided them one by one, gentling his tone until he was so calm and quiet they had to be straining to hear him. No matter what he did, they still couldn't get it.

This was just the
rumba.

And all the while he taught them, as usual, the past kept creeping up on him. He thought about Paul, thought about the last time he'd done ballroom, thought about that ridiculous horrible night, reliving it as if it were his own personal foxhole, which in a way it was. The panic filled him, and as had become his custom, now he was fighting not just their bad skill but his own ghosts—

—and then, out of nowhere, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Ed was standing there, looking expectant.

“What do you want?” Laurie snapped.

“As your assistant, I thought I should offer to assist.” Ed looked Laurie up and down. “Anyway, you looked kind of pale. I was worried you'd fall over.”

Finding out he looked as unhinged as he felt did nothing to help Laurie. He shoved a hand through his hair and pursed his lips. “I don't think—”

Ed stepped in front of him and held up his arms, inviting Laurie into his space. Then he lifted an eyebrow and switched, holding his right up instead of his left. “Unless you wanted to lead?” When Laurie tried again to protest, Ed grinned again. “Come on. You seriously gave up your sound system to have me stand at the back of the room and watch you be overtired and frustrated?”

“Who is this?” Mrs. Anderson asked, looking at Ed with suspicion.

“The assistant,” Ed answered her and gave her a winsome grin. Mrs. Anderson blushed and smiled back, and Ed turned to Laurie once again. “So, boss? You ready?”

God, no
! But Laurie felt so unsteady now he didn't know how to protest. He raised his right hand but stopped short of putting it in Ed's left, and his left hand hesitated over his partner's bicep. “Do you have any idea what you're doing?”

“Slow, quick, quick.” Ed winked and captured Laurie's raised hand, settling his other along Laurie's shoulder. “Piece of cake.”

“Oh God,” Laurie murmured.

But to his surprise, he found himself confidently steered across the floor, perfectly executing the turning box that his students had utterly failed to so much as grasp, let alone master.

Ed, clearly enjoying Laurie's shock, winked, then said, “Underarm turn?”

And then, before Laurie could recover from the box turn, he found himself being spun expertly beneath Ed's arm and out.

Memory, always ready with daggers on these nights, sent him briefly five years into the past to that fateful night in Toronto, and for a moment, he saw the crowd, the lights, the judges, felt the strong, steady grip of Paul's hand—

—and then he was coming back, finishing the turn not in his former lover's embrace, but Ed Maurer's. He stumbled briefly, and then with a deep breath and iron will, he brought himself back to the beat.

“So,” Laurie said when he was recovered enough to speak. “You know how to dance.”

“Nope,” Ed said cheerfully, leading them into the box again. “I was recently told by someone with authority that I don't. Sorry.”

Ed turned Laurie again, and Laurie had no flashback, but when he came back into Ed's arms, he blushed furiously. “Is this some sort of game?”

Ed just grinned. “It's awfully fun to get a rise out of you. Easy too.”

Ed didn't miss a single beat. He was a little clompy, but he wasn't bad. Just rough around the edges. Laurie lifted his chin and tried to recover his dignity as they continued to dance.

“So,” Laurie asked, “do you know more than just the rumba?”

“Yep. We did a lot of rumba, and they showed us some others, but I forget the names. And probably the steps.” He turned Laurie again and led them into another box. “Somebody suggested dance classes might be good rehab after my neck, so I took my mom ballroom dancing. I mean, I know I'm only okay. But I remember most of the basics.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Still want me to go hold up the wall?”

Laurie caught a glimpse of the wide eyes of his students in his peripheral vision, and for the first time in a long, long time, Laurie stumbled in a step beyond what he could recover. He drew back from the dance entirely, trying to collect himself. Dear God. He hadn't just forgotten Paul. He'd forgotten he even had a class.

Laurie cleared his throat and put his hands on his hips. “So. That was the rumba. A football player just did it. I think the rest of you can probably manage it too.”

Mr. Gerisher turned his wide eyes to Ed. “You play football?” he asked eagerly.

“Used to play,” Ed corrected him, but he smiled while he did it. “Minnesota Lumberjacks. You play, Mr.—?”

“Bob Gerisher,” Mr. Gerisher said, his grin widening. “Yeah. I was wide receiver back in college. For Concordia.”

“Well, all right, then!” Ed reached over and patted Mr. Gerisher on the back. “A Golden Bear shouldn't have any trouble with a box step.”

Ed nodded to the other men, who were now all beaming and looking at him as if he were some sort of god. Then Ed turned back around to Laurie, who was just barely managing to keep the glare from his face. Inside, though, he was still reeling by how easy it had been to dance with Ed.

“What?” Ed asked, holding out his arms and looking around, as if what had displeased Laurie might be lying on the floor.

“Nothing.” Laurie turned back to his class, ignoring the fact that they were all looking at Ed now. “Try it again: one, two, three, four. Slow, quick, quick. Slow, quick, slow.
Turn
.”

The students never did get it. But they were a lot happier about their failure, and a few of them had come pretty close to managing at least part of the dance. And when Laurie gave them a little break at seven thirty before they switched over to the fox-trot, they were high fiving each other and doing “quick, quick, slow” all the way to the drinking fountain in the hall.

Ed stayed behind with Laurie.

“You're pissed at me,” Ed said when they were alone. “I know the look well. But damn, boss, what'd I do?”

Laurie gritted his teeth at the “boss” comment and gave in and just rubbed his temple with his fingers. “Nothing. I'm just tired.” He pursed his lips, then shook his head and reached for his water bottle. “I'm irritated that
you
and your bumbling football gig got to them when my teaching couldn't.”

Ed rolled his eyes. “Oh,
that
. God, it's just because they're a bunch of stuck-up jerks. You're right; they're all worried you have the gay germs.” His eyes danced wickedly. “God, I'd love to go out there and chat them up, casually mentioning ‘my boyfriend’ just to see them have a coronary. Gay football player would really mess with their worldview.”

Laurie choked on his water. Hard.

Ed took the bottle from him and pounded on his back. “Sorry, boss. Didn't mean to kill you.”

When Ed started massaging his back, Laurie stepped away. He coughed a few more times before turning to Ed, his heart still hammering in his ears from his exertions. “Is that"—he coughed one more time—"some kind of joke?”

“What?” Ed glowered. “No, damn it, I wouldn't really want to kill you.”

“No,” Laurie snapped, and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “The gay football player line.”

Ed's expression turned mischievous again. “Not a line. No boyfriend, so that is a line, but gay? Yeah. I am.” When Laurie just stared at him, he snorted. “Oh, are
you
going to have a coronary too?”

“What? No! I—” Laurie sputtered, then crossed his arms over his chest, then glared at Ed. “No. Absolutely not, of course.”

He tried hard to leave it at that, but his heart was still hammering. He didn't know what to do with gay Ed. Gay, I-like-dancing Ed. Gay, charming Ed.

You didn't think about Toronto or Paul at all, not after that first turn.

Laurie felt jumbled and confused, and it was the only reason he could think of that he said, “I am too.” Then, of course, he blushed again.

Ed's eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Really! Well. I would never have guessed that you played football.”

Laurie pursed his lips and locked his arms tighter over his chest.

Ed laughed. “Sorry. You just make it too damn easy, boss.”

“
Laurie
,” Laurie corrected.

Ed made a mock bow of apology. “You make it too damn easy, Laurie. But yeah. I kinda figured. Actually, to be honest, Vic told me.”

And why the hell had she done that? Laurie wondered.

The couples came back into the room then, and Laurie took the escape they gave him. He called the class back to order and reviewed the steps again, and when they stumbled, he called Ed forward and demonstrated with him once more. This time he called the steps out as he danced, thinking this would center him somehow. He waited for the memories to hit him, but they didn't. He was, though, completely distracted by the revelation that Ed was gay, and it felt different now when he danced with him. Everything felt different now. He'd assumed Ed had agreed to this to jerk Laurie around some more, and somehow Laurie had been willing to accept that from a straight man. But Ed wasn't straight.

Unless he was lying after all.

“You're pissed at me again,” Ed said after the students had waved cheerily at him as they grabbed their coats and headed for the door. “What'd I do now?”

“Nothing.” Laurie grabbed his towel and dabbed it at his hairline. “You don't have to come again, though.”

“Hey!”

Laurie stiffened as Ed grabbed his shoulder and turned him around, but Ed didn't back down. He was seriously pissed off.

“
Hey
,” Ed said again and poked Laurie in the center of his chest. “What is your problem?”

Panic attacks and PTSD over a catastrophic, career-ending performance
. “My
problem
,” Laurie snapped, “is you. You've done nothing but make me insane for a month solid, and now suddenly you're my big buddy? And you're gay too. Am I supposed to fall for you and go to bed with you? Is that it?”

“What?” Ed said, rage falling away as he blinked in confusion.

Laurie could feel his cheeks burn crimson.
Oh God, why the hell did I say that
? He lifted his chin and steeled his countenance as he flailed for recovery. “I was tired on Thursday when you asked me what I wanted, and I was worried about this class. But it was a dumb idea. You're off the hook. Just go home and leave me alone.”

Ed blinked at him a few more times, still lost. He opened his mouth, very abruptly closed it, and glowered.

“Fine,” he said, all his teasing gone. He sounded pissed again. Reaching for his coat, he tossed Laurie a salute. “See you around.”

Laurie tried to let him go; he really did.

But as the former semipro football player headed for the door, Laurie saw his hips move, remembered the way he'd felt in his arms, remembered what it felt like to dance with a partner without panicking, and he called out, “Wait.”

Ed stopped and turned around, still angry. “What now?”

Laurie kept his arms folded over his chest, but he gentled his tone as he asked, “Did they teach you about Cuban motion in your dance class?”

Ed frowned. “Cuban what?”

Just one more. Just one more, because there's no way two dances with him cured me, and if I don't dance again with him now, I may never dance again.

Laurie unfolded his arms and motioned to Ed as he cleared his throat. “Get back here. There's something I need to fix.”

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Chapter Three

salida: exit, or start. In Argentine tango, the word for the basic step to start a dance is also the same word as the step which leads the dancer out of a figure.

It was kind of nice to see Ed uncertain for a change, to see
him
thrown off his game.
See how it isn't fun
? Laurie thought this but didn't say it out loud. He had some teaching to do.

“You're a little clumsy when you rumba,” he told Ed, “because you're keeping your center body too high.”

Ed pointed to his shoes. “I thought you said—”

Laurie held up a hand to cut him off and shook his head. “It's not your shoes. It's your body. Your motion.” He motioned to Ed to come closer, then held up his arms in the follower's position. “Dance with me again, and I'll show you what I mean.”

Still wary, Ed took Laurie into his arms and led them back into the box—quick-quick, slow, quick-quick, slow—and Laurie held his gaze as he spoke.

“Watch my shoulders, Ed. Watch how I don't rise. And watch my hips. See how I'm swaying, moving them in a figure-eight? I don't let my body get any taller when I take a step. The rumba is a sensual dance. Let your body roll with it. Feel round and sexy. No—no, don't overdo it, or you'll stumble like you just did. Easy does it. Like you're sliding up against a pretty girl.” He remembered Ed's confession, and he missed a step.

“Pretty boy. I got it, boss.” When Laurie glared at him, Ed laughed. “God,
that's
what's got you in a knot? That I'm gay?”

“You aren't gay,” Laurie snapped.

“Okay. I'm a straight, dumb-ass football player who can't dance. Gotcha. You want to tell me my underwear size too?”

Laurie glared at him. “You don't act gay. You're just saying this to mess me up. You'll come in to the gym on Thursday with your goddamn football team and a herd of cheerleaders, and you'll laugh your head off at me.”

Ed winced. “Shit. Vic's right, I really
did
ride you too hard.”