blood pumping fast,
lips tingling from the last sip.
Then Ace Ryder appears,
snatching up my hand before I can protest, flashing the giant Hawaiian grin I’ve known most of my life.
“Borrowin’ her,” he tells Ben. “She don’t got a choice.”
The horns hit?—
Valerie—
and the room brightens under it.
I glance at Raymond across the floor.
He’s already watching,
judging my every move
as if I’m about to strip on the bar.
“No, no,” I shake my head,
tugging back to pull free.
Ace laughs, shaking his head, then nods.
“C’mon, it’stradition.
“You ain’t sittin’ this one out.”
I tumble into his ear. “Raymond’s watching.”
Ace’s big brown eyes hit me.
“Fuck Raymond.”
He pulls me forward, twirls me once,
and I’m swept into a jazz line-dance Mom taught us—hips swinging low, shoulders rolling, our feet brushing heat across the floor.
It’s dirty jazz?—
sliding, dipping, my hair whipping?—
and when I laugh,
it comes out reckless, full-throated.
Ace feeds it, throwing me another spin,
chandelier flashing, and I steal a glance.
Andrew’s mid-pour,
whiskey flooding the glass,
