Rerun
My head spins to my left in surprise with the intrusion of a gruff voice.
Immediately, I catch sight of ripped abs peeking out from between faded jeans and an aged, wrinkled white shirt. Hip bones and V-lines are also visible and I gulp.
I spin my head without looking at the man’s face. I’ve learned it’s wise not to make eye contact with strangers, even sexy strangers, on the bus.
“There are tons of seats open behind me,” I say politely and bow my chin to look back at the magazine in my lap.
Taylor Rose, I smile to myself, turning the page, surveying the fashion spread of a grayscale image of the world’s most adored dancer posed in a split leap.
“I’d like to sit here if you don’t mind.” The man to my left interrupts my perlustration.
Is he serious? The whole back of the bus is empty!
“Please, I’d like to sit close to the front,” he says, fumbling, and then lifting all of my stuff and handing it to me.
What the hell!
I let out a sigh, trying not to be loud or rude as he sits because he smells.
Like sweat.
I adjust my belongs in my lap and tuck a few things between me and the interior wall of the bus before I reopen my magazine, flipping straight to the page I was on.
The man next to me leans in. His shoulder becomes flush with mine. “So, you like Taylor Rose, huh?”
My cheeks flush warm when I realize I’m looking at a man half naked wearing nothing but tight black briefs, modeling a black tie, which floats in midair as Taylor floats with it, suspended in the snapshot he did for a luxe designer.
The dark-skinned little kid in front of me boasting a head topped with a bundle of black curly locks stops chewing on the backend of the seat to smile at me. The kid is always smiling at me.
“Do you think he’d go out with me—Taylor Rose—if I asked him?” asks the man next to me.
I figure the guy’s got to be near my age. I’m twenty-two. Or maybe he’s a bit older considering how forward he is.
I look at his faded jeans, which are frayed at the knees. And dirty! Is he homeless? He looks like he’s been crawling around in those pants.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” he asks, settling his worn black knapsack on his lap.
What does he want me to say? No, Taylor would not go out with you. I know for a fact he’s into women.
He yawns (Is it a yawn? It sounds fake) and stretches his arm around my back and across my shoulders.
I stiffen.
What. Does. This. Man. Think. He’s. Doing?
“I’m a dancer myself,” he says.
I lighten up. That explains a few things. His smell. His jeans. His poverty.
He runs his thumb along the corner edges of the stack of my magazines. “I’ve always been a fan of Taylor’s. I can see you’re a fan as well. Big fan.”
I can’t keep myself from grinning. I’m Taylor’s biggest fan.
The man rubs his thumb over the peak of my shoulder. “So, uh... you ever met Taylor?”
I resist shaking my head. I do not want to engage in conversations about my obsessions... I mean, my occupation. Not to mention, I also don’t want this stranger touching me!
Lifting his hand over my head, I give him back his arm.
“I see how it is,” he growls. “Only got eyes for Taylor, do you?” He wiggles, sitting straighter in his seat. “I bet I know more about him than you do.”
I gasp with a smile. I don’t want to engage with the man sitting next to me, but my laugh is uncontainable. The kid in front of me, the kid I see whenever I ride the bus laughs, too. I give the boy a wink.
“Well, at least we know she can be amused. Huh, kid? Do you know how to get this one to talk?” he asks the boy as he points his thumb at me.
“We don’t talk to strangers,” I say, shaking my head. His mother does a one-eighty in her seat to smile back at me in approval.
“Ah, there she is,” says the stranger. “I had a feeling her mouth worked. How about the rest of her?” He nudges me with his elbow this time, which is uncomfortable.
Okay. He’s getting on my last nerve! How old is he? Five?
“If you’re so into Taylor, that must mean you’re a dancer, too,” he says.
Dance? Me? Ha-ha-ha-ha!
That’s stupid. And my mouth does a stupid thing...
“Oh no, I don’t dance. I... I’m...” Why did I open my mouth?
“You look like a dancer,” he responds.
I do?
“You have the figure. I was positive when I saw you, especially with all those books and magazines you have.” He bends over, and I finally get a glimpse of him... sorta.
He’s wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap, but he’s oddly familiar.
He pokes at the spines of the books again. “These are all books about dance.” He slips both his hands into the stack and steals one!
Who the hell does he think he is?
I grit my teeth and reach with one arm, trying to take the book back. “They’re for research.”
The kid is gnawing on the top of the chair and drooling, he’s so entertained.
The man turns away, flipping through The History of Dance. “Research for what?”
“I’m a designer,” I say, debating on whether I should smack this guy.
“Clothing designer?”
“No, I’m a graphic designer and an artist, but I mostly work in social media marketing. Can you give that back please?” I lean over trying to get the book back when I notice the man’s head is turned completely back to me and although I barely see the shadow of his eyes through his sunglasses, I can tell he’s checking me out!
I lean back, sitting up straight. This guy is creepy. I debate whether or not I should inform the bus driver of his inappropriate behavior.
“Hey,” he says, also sitting up straight and handing the book back. I think he’s finally come to his senses. “I was just messing with you. When I saw your books, I thought we had something in common... besides Taylor.”
Curious. “And what was that?”
“Dancing,” he says, slouching in his seat. He looks defeated. I kinda feel sorry for him now. He’ll never be like Taylor. No one could ever replace Taylor Rose.
“I love dancing,” I mumble.
“But I thought you just said you’re not a dancer.”
“No, you’re right, I can’t dance,” I correct. “But I love people who do. It was always a dream of mine to be able to dance. I treasure people who have the talent, the gift.” Quickly, I glance at the magazine with Taylor inside and flip the cover closed when I hear the man chuckle.
“Everybody can dance,” he chortles. “There’s nothing to it really.” The man does a weird wiggle in his seat that looks more like an oversized caterpillar humping itself.
The kid in front of us laughs, but I don’t.
It’s not funny.
“No, not everybody can dance,” I say sternly.
“Well...” he clears his throat. “You know, I could teach you.”
I blush from the heat of my shame. “I’m unteachable. I prefer to admire those that have the skill, those that were born to dance.” I smooth my hand over the magazine cover, a beautiful cover I helped to procure. “Like Taylor.”
“Mmm... right... like Taylor. You’re putting too much emphasis on someone you hardly know. I heard he’s a jerk. I even heard he murdered his own mother.”
Now, I’m upset. This guy totally barged into my space and he’s going to bash on Taylor Rose?
I love Taylor Rose.
I’ve loved Taylor since before he got famous for his standing ovation after a Nutcracker performance he did at only twelve years old during a Presidential Christmas party. I’ve loved him since before he became the principle lead at the Vander Rose Conservatory of Dance, which I also know everything about even though I’ve never actually stepped foot in there.
And... okay... I admit I’ve been fantas
izing about Taylor since before I can remember, before I got the opportunity to work for him, which is why I’m so good at being his social marketing manager. I know what makes him look good and I know what his fans expect from him, even when he is reluctant to comply sometimes.
I am not going to let some homeless street dancer talk bad about my forever-crush. My hero. My client!
“You shouldn’t say horrible things about a person who inspires others.”
The man laughs. It’s so loud, even he is aware of the decibel level and he pulls his cap down and his knapsack to his face to restrain the cackle.
“Inspiring?” He drops the bag back in his lap. “The guy is a con. His skills are purely propriety.”
What is wrong with this guy?
My shoulders turn to front him. “He’s not a con. He’s a dancer. That’s his job. He gets paid to dance. If you knew how much and how hard he trains—”
“Oh, I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Believe me, I do.”
Now, I’m really pissed. “You have no clue who Taylor Rose is and if you knew—”
“I bet I know him better than you.”
“There’s no way.” I shake my head emphatically, regretting what comes out next. “I love him. I’m his number one fan and I’m not going to let you demean him. He’s amazing and that’s. It. Trust me, nobody knows Taylor better than me.”
“But I bet I do,” the man sings cockily.
“Sir.” I inhale, trying to keep my cool.
I’ve always been the passive-aggressive type, but this guy is driving me insane. I’ve never told anyone off in my life, but this guy makes me want to drop a bucket of F-bombs over his head—he is so annoying!
“Can you please move to another seat?” I ask calmly and turn my head away to look out the window.
“I’ll tell you what,” he says. “I think I have to get off soon anyway. Tell me what Taylor’s favorite food is and I’ll move.”
“Fish,” I say right away, keeping my eyes on the glass. “He loves seafood.”
Thank goodness! I’ll be able to move these books from my lap.
“You’re wrong.”
What!
I turn to the man, making sure he can feel the heat of my fiery glare through his shades. “I’m not wrong. He eats healthy—salmon and cod, even mackerel up to seven days a week.”
“Yeah, but that’s not his favorite food. Taylor has to eat healthy like that because that’s what’s expected of a dancer.”
I gasp. “So, what’s his favorite food then? Like you would know.”
He points to his cap. It says Bravo across the front.
Bravo? I recall reposting a picture of Taylor, which was snapped by one of his fans while he was seen at the Latin diner. I posted the pic across all his social media platforms. It was rare to get images of Taylor in normal attire—faded dirty jeans, ripped at the knees, and wrinkly old tees doing normal things. Part of my job is to exploit Taylor’s image so the school will stay relevant in a world where technology impacts how people buy things. Taylor was already a celebrity in the dance community, but I’ve turned him into a social media icon. His social image brought in thousands of untapped revenues, all going toward his school and company.
But he can’t always appear as living among the elite. His biggest supporters need to see him cozy and relaxed as if he’s also a regular Joe. It makes him look sexier.
I look at the knees of the man sitting next to me and feel uneasy when I recall the look of his abs, his hips, and V-lines lines. It makes me think of Taylor.
“Have you ever been there?” asks the man next to me.
“Huh?” I snap out of my daze. I’m always in a daze when it comes to Taylor, so I’m dazey most of the time.
“I’ve asked you three times now,” he says. “Have you ever been to Bravo’s?”
“Oh, no,” I reply.
I never go anywhere. On the bus, between work and home—those are the only places I go.
Except when I’m with Ben. He’ s my best friend. He’ll pick me up and let me hang out with him every now and then when he’s working. He’s the only one, second to Taylor, I dream about dating because Ben is so understanding and accommodating. Ben, like Taylor, however, will never chance getting intimate with me.
But then again, I’m doomed to never be intimate with anyone.
“Well... here,” the man replies, taking off his cap and placing it over my head. He tugs down on the lip to force the cap more snugly over my forehead before I have a chance to react.
Watching him rake his fingers through his chocolate brown hair, a pang hits dead center in my chest as he pulls off his sunglasses to reveal deep indigo eyes. “We should go to Bravo’s one day. Me and you.”
I melt. The most beautiful man, Taylor Rose—my dream guy, my icon, the man I work for but I’ve never seen in real life has his thigh pressed flush next to mine and he’s looking at me. A spark ignites. I’ve never had an orgasm before, but I’m pretty sure I just came in my panties and I wiggle in my seat with the dampness.
Taylor, observant, grants a little more show of his teeth. “Actually, I changed my mind. It’s Thursday, which means its salsa night tonight, so what time should I pick you up? You have a dress to salsa in, yeah?”
“No,” pops out of my mouth. I hate to say it. It makes me sick to deny him, but there’s no way I can go.
His chiseled stone cheeks soften as his long nose tips downward and his salivating tongue grazes across his lower canines as he studies my dress. “No? Well... that’s okay. You can wear that if you want. Your panties might show when I twirl you, but I’m okay with that.” He bites his bottom lip as the corners of his mouth quirk up.
My mouth is open. I have no idea what to say. I just told this man I love him. Then, he asked me to meet him at Bravo (just a friendly gesture, not a date, I’m sure) and I’m flat out turning him down, which I’m sure is difficult for him to accept.
The problem with managing Taylor’s social media is I also have to filter through all the images people send me, which includes him with other women. A lot of other women—the women waiting in the wings.
If I could be any one of those women, I would totally go. But I’m not one of them.
I’m me.
Born differently.
You’d think I’d have something else to say after all the time I spend looking, daydreaming, working on him.
But no.
I just want to die.
I’d totally kill myself over Taylor. I already do, so I might as well get death over with, especially since he has no clue that he’s sort of my boss.
Because when he finds out who I am tomorrow, he’ll probably want to kill me anyway.
Not to mention the fact that...
I. Can’t. Dance.
And dancing is his passion.
“Listen,” he says looking out the window and back to me. “Tell me where you live, I’ll pick you...” He pauses. “Ugh, fuck! My car is dead. That’s why I’m on the bus today.” He turns, fronting me completely. “Can you meet me instead? I’ll meet you at Bravo, but I’ll make sure I find a way to take you home after we salsa a bit. Is eight okay with you or is that too late?”
Did he not hear what I just said? I said, “No.”
“Cool,” he gets up, twirling his knapsack over his shoulder. “Eight it is. Looks like my stop is approaching.”
Wait a second! I meant “No” as in I can’t go, not “No” as in eight isn’t too late.
That uneasy feeling I had earlier has turned into a full blown anxiety attack. I can’t breathe. I can’t cope. My head has gone from dazey to dizzy but I need to collect myself because I need to make Taylor Rose understand that I won’t be there. “Taylor, I can’t meet you.”
“Why not? You got a boyfriend or something?”
I wish.
My eyes scroll up into the back of my head, searching for an answer but all I see is the lid of Taylor’s cap, which
he grips. I try to back away but he’s got my head in a cap trap, locked and pulling me towards him. He leans in further to take a whiff.
A whiff! Taylor Rose is sniffing me?
With his heat radiating from his body and his face so close to mine...
I’m paralyzed. I can’t move. I can’t even breathe. In fact, the excited pulsating twitch between my legs is what seems to be in control and it forces a gasp, which brings me to inhale.
Why does Taylor’s sweat suddenly smell sweet now that I know that scent belongs to him?
He whispers in my ear. “Be a good girl and show up tonight, will you? Ten minutes of my time is worth upwards of two million dollars nowadays. And, you should know I don’t normally give private lessons but I’m willing to make an exception for my biggest fan.”
He lets go and reaches for the bars above him to secure his stance. The lines of his waist peep out again and I wish he’d steal one of my books once more so we could wrestle again now that I know his true identity.
I pull down the lid of the cap to hide the fact I can’t stop admiring him. Even with the tattered clothes...
He’s so sexy.
I’m so...
Not.
I need to make him understand this.
“Taylor, really. I can’t go. I can’t dance.”
And I won’t!
Ever.
I especially would never attempt to dance in front of him.
“Of course, you can dance. I’ll teach you,” he says confident but nonchalantly and quickly changes his tone to something sultry. “If you’re a good student, I might even teach you a few other things as well.” He winks with a sly, dangerous smile, turning my anxiety attack into a crippling heart attack.
A loud screech brings the bus to a halt as the driver steps on the brakes causing everyone to belly forward and back in unison.
“See.” He chuckles, watching me. “You got a nice sway up top. Now we just gotta work on the lower half, but you’re almost there.”
The bus doors swing open and Taylor jets towards the front of the bus.
My jaw drops. I try to clarify one last time with a shout, “Taylor, no! You don’t understand, I can’t—”
“You can and you will,” he says, shouting back and pointing at me. “You be there, Rosie.” He jumps from the bus to the sidewalk.
The Kisser Page 3