Marty
After the intense heat of the California fire I’d left behind, the fierce Pittsburgh cold revived my flagging energy. Three days earlier I parachuted with the rest of the crew into an inferno on the other side of the country. Between then and now, we’d managed to cut, burn, and beat a firebreak into existence before being relieved by local hotshot crews.
Half way home, Elaine had called on the SAT-phone reminding me of the damned dance-a-thon commitment I’d made. As soon as we’d landed earlier, I’d cleaned up, driven across town, parked, and made it to the door by the DJ’s stage without falling down. But, shit, I was tired. Maybe Maxine’s girl will be a no-show and I can go home.
I scanned the tables lining the dance floor and spotted Gable immediately. And Marilyn.
Well I’ll be damned. Cowboy did good. My evening took a turn for the better when I saw my dance partner. As ordered, the escort wore a Marilyn Monroe costume and looked like the actress in the flesh.
Surprised, I locked gazes with the blonde at the table. When I saw her deer-in-the-headlight expression, I started moving fast since it appeared Miss Marilyn was considering flight. I figured my ugly mug scared her, but tough shit.
Instead of walking the parameter of the room, I cut through the dancing couples, intent on getting to the table before she decided to run. More than one man thumped me on the back during my journey. Good. It was the point of the evening. I said my hellos and pumped hands on the way through, doing my bit for the company.
Good for business. Kit, my late wife, had always claimed public relations as our reason for going to events. The truth was, she’d loved mixing it up with people. And I loved watching her. Since she’d been gone, usually I sent a check and stayed home. If I did show up it was a business process without personal pleasure.
Tonight, would be no different. The people who controlled budgets would see me here and remember Smoke, Inc. had attended and helped the community. I’d dance a couple of songs with the glamour star and then leave.
I arrived at the table and wasted no time, ditching my overcoat, and then my suit jacket. I enjoyed her startled look. Okay maybe the pinstriped pink shirt was over the top, but I kind of liked the color. I draped the suit coat over the back of a chair, then flexed my back and shoulder muscles, testing the fit of the shirt. I didn’t want it constricting my movement.
I didn’t eye her directly, but I gave her a good once over just the same. Marilyn looked to be an armful. No chance I’d get her confused with Kit who’d been as light and airy as a hummingbird in my hand. When we’d danced, it had been a sight to behold.
“Elaine did you up proud,” Cowboy drawled, calling my attention back to the now.
“Yep,” I agreed and snapped the white suspenders clipped to the front-pleated gray flannel pants. On my feet, no joke, I wore gray suede shoes. At least, they weren’t blue. I’d drawn the line there when she called me in California before she ordered the clothes.
“You’ll be that mob boss, Sam something or other and your dance partner will be Marilyn Monroe.” Elaine got excited about shit like that. She probably didn’t get to dress up dolls enough when she was a kid. Anyway, she got a kick out of ordering my costume and I’d promised to get a couple of pictures before the end of the night.
So much for thinking my escort might take flight. My dance partner didn’t wait for introductions. She stood up, shoved her hand at me, and said, “Marilyn Monroe, nice to meet you. Let’s dance.”
Holly
Being tall myself, I had the unusual experience of tilting my head to see my dance partner’s face.
Sun lines marked his wide forehead, a shaggy lock of hair dangled above unruly brows, and dark eyes met my gaze as he frowned down at me. Apparently, his expression never changed. I resisted the urge to tidy him, as he removed his suit jacket and flexed his arm, showing off bulging pecs. Oh yeah, macho man in pink.
Did I mention his height? At five feet eleven barefoot, I didn’t often gaze up at anyone. At six feet three in the strappy four-inch silver heels Roger had insisted I wear, it should have been even less likely. And yet, there he was, looming above me, my own personal dancing bear.
Without a word of greeting, he led me to the official starter table and registered.
“Good to see you Marty.” The guy at the table beamed at him and barely looked at me, which was good.
Okay, I can do this. I gritted my teeth and scrunched my toes inside barely-there sandals, wincing as I surveyed my partner’s humongous gray suede shoes.
“At least fourteens,” I muttered, staring at the intimidating foot gear.
“Fifteens,” he grunted without looking at me. “Wide.”
I was saved from further embarrassing conversation when the DJ announced us.
“Jones and partner, Team One for Smoke, Inc.” Though the audience was meager, a smattering of applause and a few cheers from the balcony greeted us. It surprised me. He had fans.
Gable and Harley-Jane-soon-to-be-Matthews followed behind us, registered, and were announced as Smoke, Inc. Team Two.
“Let’s get this show on the road.” My dance partner frowned down at me as if I’d kept him waiting. His scowl deepened as he reached for me. “I’m Marty Jones.”
Couples surrounded us on the dance floor. Whether I was ready or not, Marty snagged my hand and deftly swung me into the Beatles singing Twist and Shout.
“I’ve been ready,” I answered, tartly, taking control. My partners until now had been shorter than me so I always navigated. I didn’t expect to steer him around, but I needed time to ease into the subordinate dancing position since it wasn’t my usual. Marty didn’t agree.
“I lead. I’m boss. Understand?”
Really? His grunted declaration made me defiant. “I said I’d dance. I didn’t say I’d take orders.”
Before he could answer, I danced away, emphasizing my hip movement as I gazed at him over my shoulder.
“Get back here,” he demanded, and crossed his arms in front of his chest, glaring at me like a petulant child.
I grinned at him over my shoulder, shrugged, and gave the audience an exaggerated Marilyn wink. Laughter greeted my antics, and I glanced back at him. I don’t know if he was playing along or remembered me from the elevator, but his expression changed to a frown as he stared at my butt.
I strongly doubted he’d recognize me from the elevator. It had been a four-floor ride and he’d never seen my face, only my backside which wasn’t memorable. On the other hand, I’d seen his frown and never forgotten it.
While I mulled it over, I waved my index finger at him, Naughty, naughty, scolding him as I danced backwards, away. Frankly, I considered giving him a middle finger salute. Someone in the balcony hooted at my antics which of course encouraged my insanity. I hoped my Marilyn lashes wouldn’t stick together as I batted them at him.
Who knew a costume would be so liberating? Little Richard screamed as Jerry Lee Lewis hammered out Good Golly Miss Molly, and I totally owned Marilyn.
Honestly, prior to this moment, I’d always maintained a low-key, lips-zipped profile. But the laughter and applause from the audience was intoxicating. I hammed it up. And, if you discounted all the frowns, Marty Jones was hot.
“Did you decide to quit pouting?” I taunted when someone blew a whistle and Marty went into dance mode again. His expression was grim as he approached, but I was pretty sure I detected a smirk trying to break loose from his outrage.
I faced him, dancing backward, guarding my flank, and resisting the urge to sprint toward the nearest exit. At the same time, I couldn’t stop giggling as Marty demonstrated his alpha qualities, not following, so much as giving chase.
Before I grinned too big, he caught up with me and turned me around, pulling me into a hug that seated his groin against my rear.
“Are you going to dance or put on a show,” he growled into my ear.
“Put on a show,” I sniped back and exaggerated my hip sway, grinding my ass against his very impressive package.
“Be careful what you ask for,” he warned, holding me in place with a left hand on my hip when I tried to spin away. Securing me even more, he caught my right hand and locked fingers, raising my arm with his to cradle my breasts.
His cheek pressed against mine as his long legs framed my long legs, his big thighs plastered to the back of mine, and his hand moved from where he’d placed it on my hip to my stomach. He surrounded me with his body, demonstrating his authority as he pressed me backward against his massive frame.
“See if you can follow this.” His breath brushed my ear as he whispered his order.
He rocked left, my body followed. He rocked right… Yeah, I got the picture. He was stronger than me and had me locked in place.
“Okay, tutorial over,” I muttered.
“Ready?” he murmured in my ear right before he snapped me out, unfurling me like a ribbon at the end of his arm. When he pulled me back, I was not prepared for the lift and toss, and before he caught me, I’d shrieked loud enough to rival Little Richard.
“Not so sassy now,” boss man grunted and slid me through his legs.
I’d previously had a partner where I’d been the thrower, not the throwee, so I sort of knew the move. When he stood me on my feet again I prepared to dance away but he retained control. “Try to keep up.”
I clutched his rock-hard bicep and vowed to use him to polish the floor.
Time fell into an in-between world of forever as we moved to The Crows, The Penguins, The El Dorados and The Turbans. The big guy could dance. If his attitude indicated his personality, in real time Marty was a hulking, rude clunk. But set to music he became fluid motion, and somewhere during the evening, his frown changed to a happy grin.
Although few words passed between us, we hit our rhythm and fell into a weird kind of sync with me anticipating every move before he could give a gruff order. As he guided with a light touch, magic happened on the dance floor and I forgot this was a performance and we had an audience.
During the first set, I rode his thigh, wrapped my legs around his waist, and hugged his neck when he slid me between his legs again. When he duck-walked behind me across the room, I was distracted by the size of his package. I mean the guy was obviously big all over but it kind of felt like he had a baseball bat in his pants. It didn’t slow either of us down, though.
It didn’t matter what music played, we danced as if we’d known each other forever. Sometimes, I’d pout, close my eyes, cross my arms over Marilyn’s abundant chest, and pretend to forget him altogether.
I don’t know if the DJ fit his music to us or if we were just that good. But, I heard applause more than once, and I knew it was for Smoke, Inc. Team One.
Hours later, when the music finally slowed to The Great Pretender by The Platters, I rested against my partner’s big frame and pressed my face into his chest, breathing his spicy scent.
He smelled good. I on the other hand, acutely aware of the perspiration trickling down my spine, doubted the caliber of my own aroma.
I glanced up at the clock. Shit. I should be at Balls & Bones serving drinks.
“I need to go to the john.”
“You’ve got fifteen minutes,” he growled.
Excuse me? I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. Before the inclination became reality, Harley-Jane crossed the room and I met her at the edge of the floor.
I had more important things to do than insulting the dance partner from hell. But really, fifteen minutes? I called off work with Harley-Jane’s phone, and decided I’d better pee while I was free, since Simon Legree didn’t believe in taking breaks.
“You two are hot,” Harley-Jane exclaimed as soon as we were in line at the restroom. “Do you, uh, dance professionally?” No doubt Janie thought my dancing included a pole and tit-tassels.
“No, I’m kind of an entrepreneur.” I smiled at her, not giving up more personal information as advised by Megan. Besides, I had too many jobs and none of them particularly interesting.
She took the hint and as we stood in the line waiting for our turn to pee, she pointed at our dance partners.
“He’s something, isn’t he?” she asked.
“Marty?” He was something, all right. He-Man on steroids. He’d thrown me into the air and caught me as if I weighed no more than a sack of flour.
“Gable,” she answered. Then added, “I hope this line hurries along, or it could get messy soon.”
I looked at the men’s sign outside the male facility beside our line where men entered and exited rapidly.
“Come on. I’m on the clock and time lost, is dance time lost, which translates into money lost.”
When Janie looked doubtful, I took her hand and pulled her toward the other sign. Once inside the men’s potty-room, Janie claimed the one stall, and I took the time to study my Marilyn costume. No men came in while we commandeered their john. For that, I was thankful.
My bolero jacket had become a crumpled mess. I wrinkled my nose and removed it, then frowned at the cleavage on display.
“Think they’ll fall out?” I asked Janie when she emerged from the stall.
“Ah, but it’s for a good cause. Think of the pledges.” Janie wagged her finger at me and then motioned me to turn around as she studied the dress.
“It really does look great. And with this heat, I’d leave off the jacket.”
I accepted her judgment and deposited Roger’s bolero at the table before we returned to our partners.