Dancing Shoes and Honky-Tonk Blues (15 page)

“Threw up. Blaaah.” I demonstrate with a hand motion from my mouth toward the floor and then rest my hand on my sequined stomach. “In fact I think I might have to do it again.”

“You don’t have to pee or . . .
barf.
”

“Oh yes, I do. I have to do both. Maybe at the same time.”

“You
don’t
,” he quietly assures me and takes my shaky, cold hand in his firm, warm grasp. I hang on for dear life, hoping that we won’t need a visit to the hospital for crushed fingers. “You don’t have long to wait. After this dance there’s one more and then us.” He nods toward the monitor. “Take your mind off your nerves and watch.”

I inhale a deep breath in an effort to calm myself, but the stench of stale beer and cigarettes hovering in the storage room, excuse me, the greenroom, makes me cringe. “ ’Kay,” I say weakly. “Sorry for bein’ so crude.”

“How so?”

“Sayin’ pee and barf and everything. I’m just not thinkin’ straight. I’ve been raised better than that.” I smooth my hand over my hair to make sure that it’s still in place, but there’s so much hair spray holding it back into the tight bun at the nape of my neck that there is really no need. A couple of snappy little no-nonsense wardrobe women are flitting around touching up makeup and checking our costumes. I tug at the top of mine, thinking that it reveals a little too much cleavage, but it’s double-taped in place to avoid any wardrobe malfunctions. Other than that it’s amazing. The teal sequins glitter beneath the lights and silver fringe swishes when I spin and turn. It’s tight like a swimsuit but stretchy and surprisingly comfortable except for where the tape is stuck to my boobies and my butt.

Rio gently squeezes my hand. “Don’t worry. You look gorgeous. Those long legs of yours will impress the judges. You have the look of a champion, Abby.”

“So do you,” I reply and he sure does. His tight black pants have a teal satin stripe down the leg that matches my costume. And Lord have
mercy
, you could bounce quarters off his very nice ass. His snowy-white shirt has full-sleeved arms but fits close to his torso and is unbuttoned halfway, revealing a generous portion of his tanned chest. A teal sash adds a bit of flash and with his hair slicked back into a short ponytail he has that Antonio Banderas pirate look that’s going to drive the ladies wild.

Turning my attention back to the television, I have to be a bit impressed with big trucker Mac Murphy’s twinkle-toed quickstep that’s both powerful and light on his feet. He looks a bit like a gangster in a dark blue pin-striped suit, and the crowd is eating it up with a spoon. I guess his instructor whipped him into shape, because he hardly misses a beat.

“He could be the dark horse in this competition,” Rio comments while rubbing his chin.

“You mean like the underdog?”

Rio nods.

“I thought I was the underdog.”

Rio chuckles. “I think it applies to just about everyone in this competition.”

“We can’t
all
be underdogs.”

“I didn’t think so until now. I’m seeing a lot of fight in all of you.” He gives me a grin. “I have to admit that I’m impressed.”

“So you’re eatin’ your hat, huh?”

“I’m not sure what that means but I’m guessing,
yes.
”

I give him a warm smile and think to myself just how much I’m coming to like Rio. He’s a lot more down-to-earth than what I had originally thought. Maybe he grew up a regular Joe in Mexico City so he gets where we’re coming from. I make a mental note to ask about his childhood.

“Wow, that was a cool move,” I comment after Mac and his partner do some springy, fancy footwork, ending their dance with a flashy flourish that brings the crowd to their feet. Sure, it was far from perfect but who would have thought that Mac could move like that? In fact, except for Mary Lou Laker, whose dance ended in another disastrous out-of-control spin all the way off the dance floor and into the crowd, and burly Jimmy Joe Porter the plumber, who slipped during a turn and ended up on the floor twirling on his back like an upside-down turtle, the dances have been surprisingly well executed. I feel a measure of pride over this and it settles my stomach a tiny bit.

As we wait for the judges to hold up their points I go over the previous dances in my head, wondering where Rio and I will stack up. Ex-cheerleader Julia Mayer was very good as Jesse had predicted, but Rio had whispered to me that she was too mechanical and lacking in emotional appeal. Travis the farmer was clunky and comical but charming. Gangly Betty Cook, looking more like Olive Oyl than ever, brought the house down with her serious attempt at the tango. With pursed lips and one eyebrow cocked she gave it all she had and actually looked kinda pretty without that hair net on her head and a ladle in her hand. If I had been watching instead of participating I would have enjoyed the entire show.

“Oh my goodness!” I clamp my hand over my mouth when Ben Sebastian, the cocky Ryan Seacrest wannabee, announces Danny Becker, the Misty Creek mechanic, and his champion dance partner, Anna Fandango, who will perform the jive. Danny is dressed in black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a thin black belt. His hair is slicked back 1950s style, making him look like John Travolta in
Grease.
His blond partner looks like Sandy in her poodle skirt and letter sweater, and sure enough they begin dancing to the energetic song “Greased Lightnin’.” They begin with the hand-pointing, knee-popping part and the audience loves it.

I giggle as Danny hams it up for the crowd and the camera. The dance is fast-paced with lots of kicks and spins, but being a natural athlete, Danny can handle it. “Wow, he’s good.”

Rio shrugs and flicks me a glance. “He’s okay. A little rough around the edges.”

“Well, yeah. After all, he’s a mechanic. He’s an athlete, though. Always was a good dancer.”

“Let me guess . . . high school football?” Rio says this a little smugly and I have to wonder who suddenly put a bug up his butt.

“Yes,” I admit a little defensively but I have to wonder about Rio’s attitude. Could he be jealous? My heart thumps at the thought.

“Was he your boyfriend?”

Is his question a little too casual or am I desperately trying to read something in this? “Ha, only in my dreams. I was a geek, remember? I didn’t date much.” Okay, at
all
really, but I don’t feel the need to share that part.

“I still have a hard time believing that, Abby,” he says but keeps his eyes on the dance.

“Remind me to show you my yearbook.” I’m about to elaborate a bit more on my high school geekness when Ben Sebastian announces our names.

Rio gives my hand a squeeze. “Well, Abby Harper, you’re not a geek
now.
You ready to kick some serious butt?”

I have to chuckle at his attempt at American slang. It just doesn’t sound badass with his delicious accent. “You know it.” I extend my fists for the double knuckle bump that I’ve taught him and give him a quick, confident nod of my hair-sprayed head while I’m actually wondering if my legs will function.

Thankfully, they do in a wet noodle kind of way, and a moment later we’re standing in the wings while Danny and Anna are getting their scores from the three judges. Carson Sage, the silver-haired, resident snarky judge, gives them a snooty seven, saying that they had showmanship but lacked proper technique. Ha, I’d like to see him change the brake pads on a car as effortlessly as Danny. Bet his technique would
suck
. I’d give him a two! Of course I realize that he is giving an over-the-top spoof on mean judges but it still rankles.

Myra Jones is a really hip black chick with big hair and a warm smile. A bit more forgiving, she gushingly gives Danny and Anna a solid eight, earning loud approval from the hometown crowd.

Peter Kelly, the third judge, is flamboyantly gay and outrageously funny and holds up another eight, putting Danny one point behind Mac and his partner, who scored three eights.

Great.
We get to follow the best performance of the evening.

“We can do better,” Rio whispers in my ear.

I muster up a nod and a smile but I have my doubts.

When Ben Sebastian announces our names my heart starts doing a pretty good version of the quickstep against my rib cage. When I refuse to walk out onto the dance floor, Rio gently tugs on my hand and without knowing how I got there I’m suddenly standing beneath the hot lights before the crowd. I’m seriously thinking of bolting when I spot Jesse and Mama standing on their feet clapping wildly. Their faces are glowing and Mama, who never does anything remotely unladylike, puts her thumb and pinkie in her mouth and lets out a shrill whistle. Jesse shoots her a wide-eyed
who knew you could do that?
look but she gives him a shrug and a huge smile, making Jesse tip his head back and laugh. They are positively glowing.

It hits me again that they’re proud of me.
Of me.
Closing my eyes I swallow hard, thinking,
I can do this.

Taking a deep breath, I lift my chin and
will
my knees to stop their damned knocking but they just won’t. I can’t do this no matter how much I want to. My hand trembles in Rio’s grasp and he gives me a reassuring squeeze that
should
but doesn’t help.

I’m trembling like a stop sign in a hurricane and cold sweat is rolling down my back and I do believe that I’m about to hurl in front of God and everybody. I’m gonna be the laughingstock
and
the film clip on Comedy Corner that will run longer than Mary Lou Laker’s crazy out-of-control spin into the crowd. They’ll show it on
Good Morning America
and I’ll be the talk around the watercooler. But worst of all I’ll be the very first one voted off and totally disappoint Mama and Jesse.

And lose a shot at the money!

Oh God, this sucks! How in blue blazes did I get my sorry self talked into doing this? Fear and anger roll around in my stomach and start to bubble up in my throat in the form of hysteria.

But then I hear this gruff voice in my head saying, “Abby girl, you can do this. I know you can, sugarplum.”

My daddy.
He always called me sugarplumb.

All of a sudden I can feel his presence like he’s looking down and smilin’, proud of me too, and here I am about to choke.

So I dig down deep. Really deep. There’s gotta be courage in there somewhere, doggone it! After inhaling a cleansing breath I lift my chin a notch higher and give Rio a crisp nod that I’m ready.

“That’s my girl,” the voice of my daddy whispers and a sudden feeling of calm washes over me, warming my freezing hands and steadying my trembling legs.

When the sultry beat of the music begins, I dance without thinking, feeling the rhythm, the emotion. Step, rock, cha, cha,
cha.
On the balls of my feet with my movements crisp and sure, I let Rio lead me, chase me. Rocking my hips, I give new meaning to the Cuban motion, teasing, flirting, and then pushing him away. When we do the open break and underarm turn I give it all I’ve got. In the background I can hear the roar of approval from the crowd and I play it up with a sassy, cheeky attitude.

Rio is sexy, dashing . . . pursuing me with a tenacity that leaves me breathless. When he dances closer our bodies brush and his touch is firm, lingering, with the hint of a promise. He leads me into an underarm turn and I do a teasing walk-around to face him. Release and open, cha, cha,
cha
. . . He lures me back with heat in his dark eyes and pulls me in close for a near kiss and then moves to a side basic, rock, step, side to side, opens the position up right next to the judges while I do a teasing walk-around to face him. We ham for the camera and play up to the crowd and I can feel it working. Suddenly I feel confident . . . yeah, me,
confident.
Sexy. I purse my lips, arch an eyebrow, and let Rio come in close before dancing away.

As the song ends, Rio spins me in, finally catching me flush against his body with another near kiss, and then bends me backward over his arm in a dramatic finish that brings the audience to its feet. Wow, no one has ever clapped for me before unless you include when I’d drop a trayful of food in the diner and I don’t think that counts.

Rio tilts me back up, spins me next to his body, and I fling my arm skyward just like we rehearsed. We bow, milking the moment until breathless and panting we wait for our scores.

Ben Sebastian hurries over to us sporting his toothy trademark smile. “That was
hot.
” He thrusts the microphone at me and says, “You were smokin’, Abby Harper. Any thoughts for the crowd?”

I blink at the microphone for a second while my heart hammers in my chest but I suddenly know what I need to say. “I owe it all to Rio Martin,” I tell Ben while trying to control my breathing. “My awesome instructor.” I smile up at Rio, who returns my smile and hugs me close.

“Abby is a hard worker. The credit belongs to her.”

I beam up at him and I know we sound cheesy but it’s the truth.

Ben turns from us to the camera and says in his deep announcer voice, “Well, we know how the crowd feels. Let’s see what the judges have to say about Abby Harper and Rio Martin’s sizzling cha-cha.” Turning to the judges he says, “Carson, let’s start with you.”

Of course my knees start knocking and I’m glad for Rio’s strong arm about my waist. Pursing his lips Carson rubs his chin for a long moment, making me want to climb over the judges’ table and knock him a good one. But I stand there clinging to Rio with a smile that’s starting to wobble around the edges. This is by far the most nerve-racking thing I’ve ever experienced in my entire life.

Finally, Carson takes a deep breath and in his clipped British accent that I’m beginning to think is fake he says, “There have been moments in this competition that have been painful to watch. Sort of like passing a wreck on the highway . . . you have to gawk even though you want to turn away in horror.”