CHAPTER TEN
“Ohmygod, I can’t. I can’t!” Gustavo pulls me back onto the dance floor for the tenth time tonight. And even though I’m in sweats and tennis shoes and a few people stared, I’ve still had the time of my life. My feet, on the other hand, are throbbing.
“Yes, you can. You must!” He laughs, pulling me along.
“Okay. But this is the last one.” Not only am I stuffed from snacking on chips and salsa and those fried cheese stick things, but I’ve had two mango mojitos. I never drink. Ever. Nor am I twenty-one yet, but Gustavo’s friend owns the place, so we were given the VIP service, including our own table. No doubt about it, tonight has been one big hedonistic adventure. Even the club—with its enormous indoor palm trees, three separate dance floors, and live band—is something to remember.
Gustavo takes my hands and threads his fingers into mine. Like he showed me in the quick lesson earlier, I keep my hips loose and my shoulders still. Mostly, I just try to follow his steps. He goes back; I go forward with the opposite foot. He steps to the side; I mirror.
I love the way he maneuvers his strong body, especially how his pecs and biceps bulge and flex when he moves his arms. And I can’t say enough about his ass. It’s hard and tight, like two beach balls under his jeans. Every time he turns around, I can’t look away.
He pulls me into him and grinds his hips in a circle against me. I follow, enjoying the light friction and sensual movements. We have insane chemistry. I just don’t know if that will translate into love.
Ultimately, the only way to find out is to take the next step forward. And then another. Just like Dr. Hughes said.
Suddenly, an image of Bex standing in his tuxedo the night of the party flashes in my mind. There was a look in his eyes I’ll never forget. Fearless, determined. So incredibly hot.
Rose. No! I’m confusing gratitude with something else.
I refocus on my task at hand: step two with Gustavo.
“I’m getting a little tired. Would you mind if we call it a night?” I whisper in Gustavo’s ear, followed by a coy grin and wink. I’m hoping he gets the gist.
He pulls back to look at me, but he doesn’t seem excited. More like uneasy.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
He stares for a long moment, which makes me nervous. Maybe he doesn’t want to have sex with me. Or he misread my come-on?
“Do you want to come back to my place?” I ask.
His silence and lack of enthusiasm suddenly makes me feel like the world’s biggest moron. Ohmygod. “Are you one of those super-religious guys, and now you think I’m a slut?”
“What? No. I just don’t think we should—”
“Um…” I point over my shoulder, feeling all the more humiliated. “I’m gonna go now.” I’m sure there are plenty of cabs outside. If not, I can try Uber for the first time.
“Wait. No, I’ll take you home.”
“You really don’t have to. I mean, I understand if you’re not feeling it between us.” It’s just weird, because up until thirty seconds ago, he seemed to be really interested.
“I’m juss a little nervous,” he says. “That is all.”
He’s nervous? Him? My mind jumps to what Bex said about me not being the only one who gets anxious on a date. Stop thinking about Bex!
Still, he had a point: Guys get nervous too. Maybe Gustavo is worried that I won’t like sleeping with him. Performance anxiety or something.
I smile reassuringly. “You have nothing to be nervous about. Not with me. Can we go now?”
He nods hesitantly and takes my hand. His is cold and clammy.
Wow, he really is anxious. It’s kind of sweet. As we weave our way through the crowd and the hundreds of gyrating bodies, I force myself to focus only on Gustavo. I don’t want a certain therapist popping in and out of my thoughts when I should be getting ready to enjoy my first time and assessing how I fit with this man.
Gustavo and I step outside onto the nearly empty sidewalk. The night air is cold, and a few people are standing around smoking cigarettes. A couple leans against the front of the stucco building, making out.
We turn to our right, toward the parking garage where he left his black Lexus sedan with tinted windows. The car seems a little…I dunno. Too mature for a guy his age? But what do I know?
I let out an involuntary brrrr sound. I have no body fat except on my chest, and I hate it. I get cold way too easily. I’ve been eating more these past weeks just to gain weight because I want to erase decades of bitter memories.
“Are you cold?” Gustavo asks.
“Just a little.”
“I’m so sorry. My jacket is in the back of my car. I should have brought it in with me.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t die.”
He chuckles nervously. He must be cold too, because I can barely keep up with his brisk pace.
We turn the corner and head toward the pedestrian entrance of the garage. All I can think about is getting back to my warm apartment and—
“Yo, hey. Gustavo!” a man calls out from behind us. “Where you going, man?”
We both turn our heads, and it’s a rotund Latino man wearing a gray T-shirt and a black baseball cap.
“Oh shit.” I freeze. He’s got a gun.
In that moment, my focus turns into a blur of images, noises, and thoughts. I don’t know what to do, and apparently I’m the only one because Gustavo takes off.
What the…? Words cannot describe how shocked I am—even more so than the fact there’s a huge fucking man pointing a gun at me as I stand alone on a dark side street at two in the morning.
I look at the guy and hold up both hands while he stares with a predatory gleam in his eyes. Shit. I can’t believe this is happening. It doesn’t feel real.
“I don’t have any money on me,” I say. “Not even a credit card.” It’s a lie. I brought a twenty and a debit card. They’re both inside my bra because I didn’t want them to fall from my pocket and I didn’t bring a purse. But the last thing I want is for him to touch me or to draw attention to that part of my body.
“Then it’s your lucky day,” he says, his voice gravelly and menacing. “I don’t want your money.”
Oh, shit. Oh, shit. I blink rapidly and feel my heart knocking against my chest wall. Because if he doesn’t want money, then there are only two other things left for him to take. My body or my life. Yes, it occurs to me that he might want both.
Okay, think fast. He’s a big man, definitely overweight, so there’s a chance I could outrun—
A loud boom cracks through the air and thunders through my eardrums. The man drops to the ground, his hands limp to his sides. Blood spills from his chest, discoloring his light gray shirt.
“Ohmygod.” I step back and cup my hands over my ringing eardrums. He’s been shot, and I’m not the one who did it, so…
I whip my head over my left shoulder, seeing nothing, and then look to my right. There, on the second floor of the garage, is a silhouette pulling back a rifle. It’s dark, but I’m close enough to see the man removing some sort of headgear. I can also see the familiar outline of the two shoulders I’ve been watching for the last four hours.
“Gustavo?”