Two to Tango (Erotic Romance)

by Strong, Mimi

  However, from what I could see in my tiny round compact’s mirror, the designer dress—which fit perfectly—made my hair look sleek and elegant, rather than limp and plain.

  I ripped off a corner piece of cardboard from one of the boxes and left my landlord a note, asking him to leave the door unlocked once it was fixed, and I started stepping carefully down the stairs in my new-to-me shoes.

  ~

  The new clothes gave me confidence. I had a spring in my step as my stilettos made their satisfying spanking noises on the sidewalk. I got behind the wheel of the old car, though, and my confidence dropped a notch.

  What was I thinking?

  Crashing a party at The Cedars?

  Was this really what my life had come to?

  I could say the reason I was going to the Open House was to scam free food, but that wasn’t the whole picture.

  I was also planning to talk to the Level A mothers about why we needed them to keep coming to the community center. They liked to talk about how good it felt to help out “those needy girls” who couldn’t afford new ballet shoes. If they switched to classes at the country club, they’d be deprived of all those good feelings.

  ~

  At The Cedars, I steered my car into the parking lot and squeezed into the last available space.

  Stepping out of my car, I froze in panic for an instant. I was dressed in Mrs. Winfield’s cast off clothes. She would know if she saw me. I yanked open the car door and got back in.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I said, slapping my forehead.

  Then I remembered—Mrs. Winfield had said she wouldn’t be going. She was already a member, anyway.

  I got out of the car and froze again.

  Something moved, halfway between me and the entrance. Something, or someone, was in the bushes surrounding the building.

  Slowly, I got back into the car again and locked all the doors.

  With my eyes on the bushes, I sat in the dark, waiting.

  After a few minutes, I convinced myself that there was nobody in the bushes after all, and the shadowy figure was a manifestation of my social awkwardness. I’d always needed a few drinks or drugs when I was a stripper, to get over that awkwardness.

  I got out of the car for the third time. I slammed the door and strode toward the entrance with purpose.

  At the edge of my vision, something moved.

  I sped up to a fast walk, then a run.

  I pulled open the glass door and entered The Cedars for the first time in my life.

  The lobby was a round room, with a sparkling chandelier high overhead. The place smelled like fresh flowers, thanks to the sumptuous display on a marble table in the middle of the room.

  I was late to the Open House, and by the look of the sign on an easel near the door, everyone was already in the ballroom, wherever that was.

  My choices were two hallways, one to the left and one to the right.

  I caught sight of an attractive woman in a red dress and waved to get her attention. She waved back. I giggled in embarrassment when I realized the woman was me, reflected in a mirror.

  I looked back over my shoulder, checking to see if anyone was walking up to the place—anyone who might have seen me waving to myself.

  The walkway was empty, but I could see movement in the bushes again.

  “Get a hold of yourself,” I said, and I started walking down the hallway to the left.

  I walked past doors with numbers and names, none of them leading to a ballroom. I kept going. With every spank of my stilettos on the gleaming floors, I became more certain the ballroom had been to the right. Still, I kept going, because I’d made two right turns already, and something told me the hallway ran in a loop through the whole building. I’d chosen the wrong direction, but if I kept going, I’d eventually end up at the ballroom.

  I turned another corner, and when I saw the door labeled with the letter B, I turned the handle and walked through. I wasn’t in a ballroom, though, but a stairwell. The door clicked shut behind me, and even before I tried the handle, I was certain it was locked. I tried the handle anyway. Locked.

  B was for Basement.

  With a sigh, I started walking down the stairs. The stairs would probably have an exterior exit, then I’d just have to make my way around to the front entrance again. Or, better yet, I could go to my car and return home to wait for my landlord, where I couldn’t embarrass myself further.

  I reached an exit and pushed the door open. It only moved a few inches, then stuck. I pulled back and tried opening the door again, this time putting my shoulder into it. As the door finally opened, I heard a muffled cry, and then the sound of a person crashing into the bushes.

  “Sorry!” I called out into the darkness as my eyes adjusted. “Are you okay?”

  A man with dark hair and a big grin peered up at me from the shrubbery. “Okay? I need you to define okay,” he said. “I’m afraid there’s been a fatality. This azalea bush won’t see another spring.”

  I swallowed hard, not budging from the doorway. “Do you work here or something?”

  He started extracting himself from the bushes. The concrete steps I’d apparently knocked him off of were only three steps high, which was why there was no guard rail at the side.

  “Are you a groundskeeper?” I asked him.

  “Well, I’m not here to crash the Open House and fill up on free food and champagne.”

  “Me neither,” I lied.

  “So, you’re already a member?” He’d gotten to his feet, and though he was three steps below me, I could see he was tall. And cute.

  “No, I’m not a member.” My foot tapped twice in its stiletto, as if my body was reminding me that for once in my life, I didn’t look like someone who needed charity. “Not a member yet,” I said. “I came for the Open House, and I’m already disappointed nobody thought to put an arrow on the welcome sign, directing the way to the ballroom.”

  He kept grinning up at me. “Are you familiar with the club’s fees? I only ask because I saw you drive up in… what would you say that car is? A Toyota Tercel?”

  I inhaled sharply. He didn’t believe I belonged there, and wasn’t buying my act. Why not? I wore the same exact clothes as people who belonged to the club. I thought of my students, and how you could still tell who was rich, even when they wore identical costumes. The difference was attitude.

  I rolled my shoulders back and did my best imitation of Mrs. Winfield, my words distinct and separate from each other, as though each word was its own sentence. “That’s. Not. My. Car,” I said. A story about it being a loaner from my garage came to mind, but I shut down the explanation before it began. People like Mrs. Winfield didn’t need to back up everything they said with more talk.

  “My mistake,” the man said, dusting off his clothes and then leaning over the crushed azalea, its main stalk bent at an unhealthy angle. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the soft landscape lighting, I could see that the groundskeeper was more than cute. He also had buff muscles under his dark T-shirt, and the edges of a tribal-style tattoo visible just under his shirt sleeve, on his upper arm. And what a nice arm it was.

  He turned his head to look up at me, and I quickly averted my gaze. A rich, classy lady such as myself wouldn’t eye-grope a groundskeeper.

  “I have to admit I’m intrigued,” he said.

  I looked around, trying to figure out where I was, and where the entrance might be.

  “You’re intrigued? I’m lost. Nice to meet you. Where would you say the front door is?”

  “Miss, I saw you arguing with yourself about getting out of your car. You’re not here to find out about membership packages, are you?”

  I let the door close behind me and crossed my arms. With my most withering sarcasm, I said, “I’m here for free cheese and crackers. You caught me. I go from one Open House to the next, anything from self-help groups to real estate showings, all to get my hands on delicious, free cubes of cheddar. Oh, and those cow-brand cubes in the indi
vidual foil wrappers. That’s what I do, and you caught me.”

  “Why are you really here?”

  “Why are you lurking in the bushes like a raccoon?”

  “We had a problem,” he said, brushing the remainder of twigs and leaves off his jeans. “So, I did what I do, and I fixed the problem. I located the leak in the irrigation system and closed off that run of pipes. Instead of letting the water leak for days and create a pond in the middle of the front lawn, I fixed the problem.”

  “Why are you staring at me like I’m another problem you have to fix?”

  “You tell me.”

  Exasperated with this conversation that was going in circles, I walked down the steps and followed the connecting pathway, taking a right turn.

  The guy called out after me, “If you want to get to the front door, it’s the other direction.”

  “Thank you.” I turned around and marched in the opposite direction. When I glanced back over my shoulder, he was watching me.

  With the way my calves looked in the stiletto heels, I’d have been more surprised if he wasn’t looking at my legs.

  My legs have always been my best asset, making up for a lack of fullness in the chest. If I’d stuck with stripping, bigger boobs would have been my next investment.

  My legs, however, are nice and long. Longer than they should be. My knees have cute, round kneecaps, like English muffins.

  As I walked along the pathway, enjoying the thrill of having my legs ogled by a cute guy, I counted the length of time since I’d been with a man. Over eighteen months. That was a long time. For all I knew, my vagina might have closed right up from lack of action.

  My cheeks blushing, I peered back over my shoulder one more time.

  He was still looking.

  Chapter 5

  Charlie

  How long had it been since I’d touched a woman’s legs, let alone a sexy pair like hers?

  Six weeks.

  It had been six weeks since I’d been with anyone, so, basically forever.

  As I watched her walk in the wrong direction—the one that would take her to the golf club rental building—I felt something in the pit of my stomach.

  In addition to the intense physical attraction, there was a disturbing gut feeling of wrongness. This woman in the red dress was the newest problem in my life, and I had to fix it, because I’m the responsible one who fixes everything. My whole world would fall apart if I didn’t do what I do. I see a problem, I make a plan, I fix the problem.

  But those legs of hers.

  Seeing those long, gorgeous legs up close had made me stupid. And then, when I’d looked into her eyes, everything got so much more complicated. She had pale, blue eyes—the kind that have a ring of silver around the iris. Big, innocent eyes. Like those of a newborn baby. My cousin’s daughter had eyes that color when she was first born. They turned green within a year, but at first they were the color of a winter sky—winter sky mid-morning, chance of snow later in the day.

  Why did the Girl in Red need to have such long legs and pretty eyes? The rest of her was equally intoxicating—a full mouth, high cheekbones, and smooth skin with a hint of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Even in the dim light of the moon and the soft lanterns of the west gardens, I could see she was a true beauty.

  No wonder he had chosen her. I could fault him for many things, but not for his taste in women.

  The way she walked in those high heels—with strength and fragility at the same time—I couldn’t take my eyes off her until she disappeared around a corner.

  Only then did I reach behind me and remove the thorns that had lodged themselves in the back of my legs when I’d bodily assaulted the bushes. I’d felt the stinging immediately, but didn’t want to be picking thorns out of my rear while a captivating young woman stood watching me.

  Now that she was gone, I gathered up the phone I’d dropped when the door had knocked me off my feet. The screen flickered, but it wasn’t dead yet. The last message was from Duncan, cajoling me into picking his lazy ass up from his pool house and driving him to some frat party. We’d both turned twenty-nine already, which wasn’t old, but the idea of going to some keg-fueled party full of drunk co-eds made me feel old.

  The last time I’d taken Duncan to one of his parties, the evening had taken an unexpected turn for the horrifying.

  Three sorority girls had glued themselves to my side as soon as I walked in the door. That part wasn’t so bad. They eventually gave up on getting me to dance or do shots, and followed me into the house’s library. I didn’t know the owners of the house, but I immediately felt respect for them. The room was perfect, full of old books, a crackling fireplace, and brown leather chairs.

  I settled in for the evening, with a first edition Sherlock Holmes.

  The three girls asked me to read to them, and I agreed. They gathered around my feet, sprawling out on the wool rug before the crackling fireplace. This was back in February, when you could run a fire all day without needing to crack a window.

  After two of the girls fell asleep, and before I hit the third chapter, the brunette was up on my lap. I wanted to keep reading, but she put her hand down my jeans and changed my mind. With her legs wrapped around my waist, I carried her into the adjoining den, where we fucked around for an enjoyable amount of time.

  When we were done, she burst into tears and confessed she had a boyfriend. I got dressed and starting edging toward the door. Going after another dude’s girl was not my thing.

  “Why’d you have to be so cute?” she cried.

  I replied, “Coming to a house party with a purse full of condoms and jumping on a guy’s lap seems like an odd choice for someone in a relationship.”

  That only made her cry harder, which put me into problem-solving mode. The study provided: I located the bourbon inside a credenza, poured two tumblers, and sat her down on a chair next to the desk where she’d just had her knees up next to her ears.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  I sipped my bourbon and felt every day of my twenty-nine years as her story unfolded. She’d been having a difficult time in her second year at college, mostly with money, but with grades as well, as she’d taken a part-time job back in October to support herself. Recently, however, she’d been introduced to a wealthy man who wanted to “spoil” a special girl.

  The bourbon I was sipping did little to wash away the sour taste in my mouth as she told me more about this man. She didn’t have to say his name, because the details gave him away.

  I knew exactly who her sugar daddy was. Everything he did was the same as the previous time.

  First, he’d put her up in a nice apartment. Then, he’d given her a car. She quit her job and started splurging, buying new clothes and shoes with the cash he slipped into her pockets whenever he visited. She stopped worrying about her grades, because she didn’t need a degree to be a mistress.

  At the beginning, he’d encouraged her to carry on with her usual life, even suggesting she might see other guys her age.

  After Christmas, though, he’d been angry. She’d gone home to visit her family rather than stay in the luxurious apartment, waiting for him, in case he slipped away from his family to see her.

  By the time I’d finished my second bourbon, I had everything solved. She would sell the car the next day, move back into the dorms immediately, and break up with him via text message, so he couldn’t try to talk her out of it. I even wrote the text for her, using the key phrases I knew he wouldn’t argue with—specific phrases about asking God for guidance and forgiveness. He wouldn’t argue with that.

  “I can’t send this,” she said tearfully.

  “You have to.”

  “I love him. And I think he loves me.”

  “Fine.” I cleared my throat and set the empty glass tumbler on the desk between us. “Let’s pretend he loves you. And let’s imagine he leaves his current wife and marries you. Let’s just close our eyes right now and imagine this.”

 
; She blinked over at me, her face showing her confusion at my business-like tone.

  “For real. Close your eyes,” I said.

  She furrowed her brow and glanced around the cozy den, then she finally closed her eyes.

  “Next winter, you’ll be with him,” I said. “He’ll still be moody and possessive, but you’ll never have to worry about money again. Now imagine your first big family gathering. Thanksgiving. There you are with a golden roasted turkey, cooked in your new kitchen that would make Martha Stewart blush. You proudly set the turkey on the table while the cook who actually prepared it stands in the shadows. She’s a nice Russian lady with white hair. Your new husband begins to carve the turkey, and you look across the elegant table at your new stepson. As you lock eyes with your new stepson, you lick your lips, because try as you might, you can’t forget that cozy night in February when you went to a house party to flirt with guys. You ditched your friends, ditched your panties, and came three times while your future stepson fucked you on a desk. A mahogany desk.”

  Her eyes flew open.

  “You’re…?”

  “Yes, I’m Charlie.”

  Her eyes were wide with shock. “Fuck.”

  “Should I call you Mom? You’re younger than me, but we are a very traditional family.”

  “No,” she gasped. “I’ll break up with him. I’ll end it tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure? It might be cozy, the three of us sharing a roof. Mom.”

  “Fuck.” She jumped up from the chair and ran for the door.

  I sat in the chair with tented fingers, like an evil supervillain, listening to her yell at her friends to wake up so they could leave the party.

  Once they were gone and I was alone, I grabbed the nearby wastebasket and vomited.

  When I was done being sick, my hands were trembling. I sent a message to Duncan, telling him his ride was leaving in five minutes, and to meet me at the car.

  The brunette probably thought I was the devil.

  Little did she know, I hadn’t a clue who she was until she’d told me. My father’s mistress. The idea sickened me.