“It was one of my most unforgivable mistakes asking you to dance with me. I rescind my invitation.”
He shakes his head. “I called your ass perfect.” His sway becomes more severe as the beat drops, and I laugh out loud. People are noticing the show he’s putting on. “Show me you can move it.”
“Air quality, remember?” I pick up my watered-down drink and take a sip. “Beach?”
Leif narrows his eyes and doesn’t stop dancing. “It would be a crime if you don’t dance with me,” he says, noticing the attention he’s getting. “Any other ladies want to dance with me? Malena here isn’t up for the challenge.” His voice is booming with command, and I know they’ll come.
My face heats as two skanky river rats wind their way into our vicinity and start working their bodies against Leif. One in front of him and one behind him. He’s thoroughly engrossed in watching me as he dances with the girls—trying to decipher my reaction. His friends are now shouting his name, and women areshouting out joyfully. The first time he looks down at the girl in front of him is my chance to escape.
Putting my drink down on the nearest table, I back into the crowd of people surrounding us. I rush down the dark hallway with the peeling wallpaper and old posters advertising live mic nights and hit the back door at a jog. He was right about one thing. The fresh air really is a relief. I have to be back home in forty-five minutes, and while I dread returning, especially even a minute early, there’s no way I’m staying here to talk to my friends after the Leif show. How embarrassing! It reminds me why men are more trouble than they’re worth.
Rounding the dumpsters, I head to the side lot and find my parked car.
“I thought we were heading to the beach,” Leif says, appearing on the passenger side of my car. He’s grinning like a complete lunatic, utterly pleased with himself. If I wasn’t so annoyed, I’d probably smile back. At the moment, my resting bitch face is at full tilt.
“Bringing your dance partners to the beach?” I ask.
“You invited me to dance and then turned me down,” he replies. “Rude.”
I bring a hand to my chest. “I’m rude? You’re crazy. I don’t have room for any more crazy in my life.”
“I don’t want to be in your life, Malena. I want to go to the beach with you, right now.” He says the words “right now” like they’re the words he wants me to focus on. “Be my beach friend,” he adds.
“I’m going against every womanly instinct by agreeing to this. You’re lucky I have some time before I have to be home.”
His forehead wrinkles. “Before youhaveto be home? Do you have a boyfriend? Husband?”
Releasing my door handle, I turn toward the edge of the lot where it dips down to a path that leads to the beach. When he’snext to me, I answer. “Would my husband or boyfriend be okay with me walking down to the beach with my new beach friend?” I let my gaze flick from the top of his head down to his toes very methodically.
He kicks up his flip-flops and catches them when we hit the sand section of the path. I scoop up mine in one hand. “I suppose he wouldn’t, would he? So why do you have to go home?” Leif clears his throat and looks at my profile. “You have a kid?”
He’s perfectly uncomfortable now, and I relish the feeling he gave me back in the bar. “Do I look like a mama?” I ask, smiling at the dusty pink and dark blue swirls of the sky butting up against a glass-calm ocean.
His eyes slant down in the corner, deep in thought, trying to figure out how best to answer such a pivotal, possibly offensive, question. We stop before we hit the packed, wet sand and stay perfectly still as we take in the beautiful night. Leif takes in a deep breath and finally replies, “Honestly, your ass says no, but your age, location, and desire to be at home say yes.”
“Age and location, huh?” A few seagulls call out overhead and break up the sound of waves lapping against the shore.
“Forgive me if this is a stereotype, but I have discovered that many of the women who look about your age”—he finally glances over to meet my gaze—“have kids and husbands. There’s nothing wrong with that, mind you, but it’s not that way where I’m from. The big city and everything. City people are busy doing everything except settling down.”
I don’t say anything. I keep my face neutral and pretend to be offended. The longer I stay silent, the more he moves—his body rocking back and forth, from foot to foot. “You are a serial killer, aren’t you?” I say. “Making sure I don’t have a family that will look for me. Rest assured, I’m more like the city people you speak of. I don’t have any kids or a husband. Not even a boyfriend. Or prospects.”
He blows out a long breath. “You had me worried.”
“Don’t like kids?” I smile.
He shakes his head. “Or families,” he jokes. “For the record, I feel like I need to say it right now: I’m not going to kill you.”
“My mom has dementia,” I blurt, and he looks surprised. “Her nurse leaves in about thirty minutes, and someone has to be there all the time. She forgets where she’s at and will try to leave. It’s a pretty shitty situation.”
He nods. “I see. I’m sorry. No one else to help out then? Sisters or brothers?”
Sighing, I turn my eyes back to the ocean. “Unfortunately not. Just me and the person she’s turned into. I shouldn’t be telling you this. You don’t care. I don’t talk about her often. It’s a depressing subject, and I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. So don’t.”
He clears his throat. “Family is important. You shouldn’t worry about what people think. It’s not depressing, it’s life. I’d never feel sorry for you.”
I quirk one brow and sit down in the soft, dry sand. Looking up at him, I’m greeted with a mammoth figure. “What if I told you to feel sorry for me?” I smirk, trying to sway the mood of the conversation to something lighter.
He sits down next to me, his long legs stretched out way past mine, and puts an arm around my shoulder. “You’re the most pathetic excuse for a woman I’ve ever met. I am more than sorry for you, I feel bad for you, and I’m going to be your beach friend anyway.” He sighs. “Better?”
