Page 70 of A Fighting Chance

Gentry nods and holds out his hand to me. He leads me through the swells of people grouped together until we find a small table along the wall and take a seat. We’re both scanning the crowd, taking in the people and the scene when he asks, “Do you go out a lot back in Boston?”

His question catches me off guard. “Not really. Believe it or not, I lead a pretty quiet existence,” I say.

“Oh, come on, you mean you and your city friends aren’t out on the town getting chatted up by eligible men like every weekend?” he asks.

“Well, I’m not. But my friend Cora is always dating. Or trying to. She doesn’t have a lot of luck for some reason. I just spoke to her the other day actually,” I say.

“Why doesn’t she have luck?” he asks.

“I’m not sure. She’s beautiful, talented, and smart. And on, like, every dating app there is,” I say, laughing a bit. “Believe me, she’s trying.”

“I guess those city guys just don’t know a good thing when they see it,” he states.

“I guess not,” I say. “I’m sure she’ll find the right one. It just may take a lot of bad Tinder dates to get there.”

Gentry laughs in the bar and I can hear his sincerity before it’s swallowed up in the noise. He takes another drink of his beer and I notice it’s nearly empty.

I look down at my own drink and realize I’m a little behind. I start sipping faster, gulping through my straw. Not only to catch up, but because I really want to dance. I watch a couple on the floor in front of us. She’s swaying her hips, her guy keeping up with her impressively well. I wonder if Gentry is as skilled.

“Are you ready to dance?” he asks.

I cut my gaze to him, realizing he’s putting down his empty beer bottle. My drink is nearly gone now so I sip the last bit and set my own glass down, hopping up from my chair. “Born ready,” I say, and he holds his hand out to me.

A country song I don’t recognize is playing overhead. It’s fast-paced but sexy. Gentry leads me onto the floor and spins me around before grabbing me by the hips to guide me.

I can start to feel the burn.

Down my throat, in my chest, the back of my neck, and lower.

And lower.

Twenty-Three

Gentry

I pullLyla to me under the strobing lights above. The flashing soft pinks and greens illuminate her skin and eyes in such a way that I have to remind myself to breathe. I spin her, then wrap an arm around her waist, lining her hips up with mine.

I know Lyla likely isn’t expecting me to be able to dance. For whatever reason, there’s an overwhelming presumption that men can’t dance. There’s also an overwhelming amount of men that can’t actually dance, which doesn’t do the rest of us any favors. But I’m not one of those men. I grind against her and sway in perfect rhythm to the music. Make no mistake, this isn’t the same type of grinding you’d see in your average club in the city. No one is humping anyone’s ass. This is more like the staff-only clubhouse watermelon scene inDirty Dancingwhere everyone drools over Patrick Swayze. The only difference is we’re swaying to a sexy country song.

My eyes are locked on hers and I watch her eyes turn from hesitation to surprise before settling into a comfortable pleasure. In this whole world, there’s no better feeling than having the body of the woman you want pressed against you, her eyes drunk on you. Knowing you did that, you made her feel that. I press against her lightly to push her away from me and spin her around, bringing her back to me effortlessly. The song changes and the tempo calms. A slow song called What Could’ve Been by Gone West comes on, and the irony isn’t lost on me.

I pull Lyla in closer and tuck her into me, wrapping my arms tight around her and pressing my cheek to hers.

“You’ve got moves,” she whispers.

“My mother insisted,” I say. I lead her around the floor, my hands gripping her skin. Her hands are warm on the back of my neck and in my hair. This is the feeling they should write epic poems about.

“Really? Did you take lessons?” she asks.

“Yes, for a while when I was younger.”

“Little Gentry, wooing all the preteen girls. I bet they were putty,” she says.

“I can assure you they were just an extension of high school. I’m pretty sure most of them thought I was very strange for being in lessons.”

“Their loss. My gain,” she says.

Yes, Lyla. Your gain.