William motioned for Matt and Paul to sit.
Evan and Luke left to get fresh drinks from the bar.
“Hi!” A beautiful brunette with Tom Cruise dimples materialized. He could have stepped out of an A&F catalog. His t-shirt cupped his hard, muscled pecs, could not hide the two small nipples pointing south. He leaned over the table, locked eyes with Matt.
“Dance?” he asked. No introduction. No small talk. And the way he said “dance” was ambiguous enough to cover both the musical and the mating kind.
Matt had never done the former and wasn’t keen on making a fool of himself. He was interested in the latter. His dick was ready to try on a prophylactic hat.
“I’ll dance with him if you won’t,” Paul said to Matt.
William patted Dimples’s hand.
“Give us a few minutes, dahling, will you? Mama asked me to chaperone my sisters tonight. I forgot to warn them about handsome dark-haired devils. Dimpled devils. Present company excluded, of course.”
Dimples just smiled. He seemed unaccustomed to rejection, and truth be told his eyes were somewhat glazed.
William shooed the guy away. “Come back in five minutes. You know, little hand on the ten, big hand on the three.”
Dimples melted back into the crowd.
Matt forgot the guy, sought other eye candy.
Then he saw him: a flaxen-haired youth who reminded him of Adam. The guy was dancing in shirtless abandon. The Greek god Pan, patron of flutes, forests, and fucking. That Pan—but with Adam’s fair coloring and elfin figure.
Matt wished the real Adam were there.
What he wanted was to dance with Adam, to spend his three condoms on Adam.
But Adam had quit responding to Matt’s letters. And, besides, Matt was on Rumspringa—not a character in some Harlequin romance.
William snapped his fingers. “Pay attention ladies! Let’s review some things. What’s rule number one?”
Matt noticed that one of the large screens was flashing a countdown. 47:26, 47:25, 47:24—BELLA BOTTOMS—47:21, 47:20, 47:19—BELLA BOTTOMS…
“Drink in moderation. Buzzed is okay. Barfing is not. And don’t accept drinks from strangers. They can pay but not serve.” This from Paul, who had removed his glasses and was cleaning them with the tail of his Hawaiian shirt.
Yes, Hawaiian. Layered, unbuttoned over a crew-necked, white t-shirt. William wanted him to lean into the wholeRevenge of the Nerdslook, be as cocky and outgoing as Booger—without any nose picking.
Paul’s mild Asperger’s dulled his social awareness just enough that it could be perceived as swagger. And the layered shirts smoothed his pineapple-shaped frame.
Evan and Luke returned with fresh drinks, set them on the table, wished Matt and Paul good Fuck, then went to sit with therest of the GM.
Matt sipped his bourbon and Coke, hoping to bump up his buzz without veering into forbidden territory.
William watched him drink. “And rule number two, Matthew?”
46:11 on the countdown clock. Who or what was “Bella Bottoms?”
“Do not leave the premises under any circumstances—unless Brad Pitt is driving, in which case we’re to invite you to join us.”
William smiled wistfully. “And number three: Change dance partners frequently. Leave them before they leave you. Come back here if you need to. Better that than being stranded on the dance floor. Never get stranded on the dance floor.”
Forty-five minutes and change remained on the countdown clock when Dimples reappeared. He took Matt’s hand and led him down into the pit.
The pit was crowded. And wildly dynamic. Infinitely more so than any soccer field, which never held more than 22 players, all of whom were rational actors once one understood the purpose of the game. Not so with dancing. It was anything but rational.
Dimples edged into a tight space, whirled, and faced Matt. He leaned in close, put his lips to Matt’s ear. “You’re so fucking hot!” he slurred. Then he started dancing.
