Strike a Pose (Blame It on Fame #1)

26. Willow

Chapter 26

Willow

T he first thing I notice when I walk into the bar is the reek of stale beer. And the peanuts crunching under my boots. And the giant wooden dance floor full of people doing all sorts of different dances; some are doing a partner-switching thing, some are doing a swing dance, and others are doing the type of individual dancing you’d see in any nightclub.

I beam up at Riley beside me. “I love it.”

“Let’s get some drinks, then I’ll teach you.” He nods to the dance floor before leading me to the bar.

“Woah, woah, woah. I don’t know about that,” I respond, trailing after him.

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t dance.”

“Then consider it a challenge, Willow Jordan. You know, normal people dance,” he adds. “It’s practically written into the contract of our deal that you have to learn.” He grins as he catches the bartender’s attention. “A beer, whatever’s coldest is fine, and…” he trails off, looking at me expectantly.

“I’ll have the same,” I panic-order .

The bartender slides us two bottles, and Riley clinks his against mine. “Cheers,” he says, taking his first sip, which should not have made my heart race. “What’s wrong?” he asks, nudging the arm holding my glass.

“I don’t drink beer,” I admit.

Riley throws his head back laughing so hard his shoulders shake, drawing a few stares.

“What,” I whine, embarrassed by all the eyes on us.

“Of course you don’t,” he says, clearly delighted. “And so why, pray tell, did you order a beer?”

“Because I didn’t know what to order! I usually order cocktails, but I figured they wouldn’t make those here, and I don’t know the names of any wines they’d have?—”

“It’s okay,” he assures me. I can tell he’s struggling to contain another bout of laughter. “I get it. I’m going to be so, so honest with you, though, Willow…I would not order wine here. Do you like any mixed drinks? You know, like rum and Coke or something?”

“Um…” I hesitate. “I like tequila.”

He loses his internal battle and laughs deeply again before flagging down the bartender. “Two shots of tequila, please,” he says, swiping the beer out of my hand.

The bartender fills the shots until they overflow onto the sticky bar top. Riley expectantly raises his eyebrows at me. Not one to back down from a challenge, I take both of the shots. He nods approvingly, chugging one of the beers before grabbing my bottle.

“Now that you’ve had some liquid dance lessons…” he prompts, looking longingly toward the dance floor.

“I don’t think anyone calls it that, but even if they did, I haven’t had nearly enough,” I say as the boys and Nellie settle in on our sides, ordering their own drinks.

“And another two shots of tequila,” Riley throws in. My jaw drops. Four shots back-to-back would make me drunk . “Don’t worry, one is for me.” He grins, seeing the surprise on my face.

“Tequila, huh?” Nellie asks. “I thought your go-to drink was a Sauv Blanc with one ice cube.” She covers her mouth like she can’t believe what just came out of it. “Oh my God, I did not mean to say that.”

“Don’t worry, I’m impressed, if anything.” I laugh. “Usually it is, but Riley told me not to drink the wine.”

“Smart,” she says, catching the beer the bartender slides to her and drinking down half of it in one go. “Sorry, I’m just so nervous right now,” she admits. “I’ve never met a celebrity before.”

“You’ve met me,” Riley protests.

“Shut up, you don’t count,” she quips. “I meant like a real celebrity.”

“I am a real celebrity,” Riley huffs. Waylon slaps his shoulder in male solidarity.

“Yeah, yeah, call me when you get to the big leagues,” I join in on teasing him.

Nellie cackles. It’s so refreshing to meet someone who knows who I am and actually likes me for it. I have the feeling that if I told Nellie I killed someone right now, she’d help me hide the body without so much as blinking. It’s a good feeling.

Riley just shakes his head in exasperation as the bartender pours our shots. “Drink up, then we’ll see if you're all bark and no bite on the dance floor.”

“You hear the way he talks to me?” I ask his friends, despite the grin on my face.

“He’s despicable,” Nellie agrees. “But I am partial to dancing.”

“Fine,” I say, reluctantly permitting Riley to drag me onto the dance floor.

“How do you plan on dancing with a beer in your hand? ”

He holds eye contact as he drains his second beer, setting it on a table on the sideline. “Happy? Don’t worry, Willow, we’ll do something easy,” he adds, reading the hesitation in my face.

“I’m holding you to that,” I say, feeling the first hints of alcohol flooding my system.

“Okay. First things first,” he declares, gently taking each of my hands. “Take a step in toward my left shoulder, and I’ll take a step in toward yours.”

“You’re sure this is easy?”

“Trust me,” he answers. “Now we flip our arms up behind each other’s necks…” he garbles out a list of instructions, walking me through it slowly. “And then we can do this,” he finishes.

He chuckles at the small yelp that escapes me as he spins me back into him. He grabs my free hand and dips me slightly.

“See?” He smiles. “You’re not so bad. Now let’s try that again.”

I remember the steps well enough that he doesn’t need to prompt me this time.

“Good girl,” he says as I rise from the little dip. “Now let’s add a few more steps onto this…”

After about an hour, we take a quick break to grab more drinks from the bar.

“How come I’m the only one without a hat? That’s not right,” I say as we walk back onto the dance floor. After more shots of tequila, both of us are properly drunk by now.

“Next time, I’ll have to get you a hat to go with the boots.”

“What if I just…” I reach for the hat on his head with my free hand.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he cautions.

“Why not?” I ask, freezing my hand in midair. “You’re not sweaty, are you?”

Riley laughs. “I love that that’s your main concern. No, not sweaty.” He lean s in close to whisper in my ear over the pounding music. “But they say if you take a cowboy’s hat, you have to ride the cowboy.”

I raise an eyebrow in response as I slowly, deliberately pluck the hat off his head and set it on mine. Riley raises his eyebrows in return and grabs me, and I’m swept into another dance. And the minutes blend into hours as we dance the night away, everything a blur of boots, hats, and neon lights.

It must be well past midnight when we attempt a really wide spin, and I fall flat on my ass, bumping into another man on my way down.

“I’m so sorry,” I say to the man as Riley helps me up, insisting it was his fault.

“Clumsy bitch,” the man grumbles, rolling his eyes.

“Excuse me?” I ask, genuinely unsure if I heard him right, with the way my head is spinning.

“I said you’re a clumsy bitch,” the man spits, turning back to his partner. “And apparently deaf, too.”

“Oh fuck no,” Riley says, grabbing the man’s shoulder and forcefully spinning him back around to face us. “Apologize to her.”

I suddenly feel much more sober.

“I don’t think so. But she sure does have you by the balls, doesn’t she?” he sneers. Riley’s glaring at the man with pure malice, a look I’ve never seen him even close to making before.

“Riley, it’s okay, really,” I say, trying to diffuse the situation. “I’ve been called worse.”

This only seems to infuriate Riley more, and he grabs the man by the collar, forcing him onto the tips of his toes. He’s still easily a head taller than the guy. “I won’t repeat myself again: Apologize. To. Her,” he growls.

The man clearly has no self-preservation instinct, as he says, “Or what, you’ll?— ”

Riley punches him in the face before he has a chance to finish the sentence.

“Riley, stop.” I try to separate them as the man swings back. Riley dodges but not quite fast enough, and the man’s fist grazes his jaw. Riley twists his arm back to throw another punch, but luckily, Waylon runs up and restrains him just in time. Well, restrains him well enough to keep his arm from swinging. Nash comes up not two seconds later and helps, the two of them fully able to hold Riley back.

“I don’t know what you did, but I’d probably get the fuck out of here if I were you,” Waylon advises the man, who wisely grabs his date and pushes his way toward the back exit, but not without a final sneer in our direction.

“Come on, let’s get you home,” Nash says to Riley, gently releasing his arm.

“I saw that from across the room,” Nellie says, appearing out of nowhere. “What the fuck did he do, Riley?”

Riley spits blood on the floor in answer.

“It was my fault. I knocked into him, and he said something nasty and?—”

“Ah. I figured he deserved it. I’ve never seen Riley throw a punch in his life.” Waylon turns his head and looks at a security guard who’s slowly approaching us. “But either way, I think we should split before we get kicked out.”

“Agreed.” Nellie nods, taking advantage of her small body to nimbly cut us a path through the crowd.

“Where’s your first aid kit?” I whisper to Riley as we pass through the threshold of his house, not wanting to wake his parents .

“I think there’s one in the upstairs bathroom cabinet,” he answers, his first words since he punched that guy.

I lead the way upstairs and enter the narrow bathroom, Riley following. “Willow, it’s okay. I can do it myself.”

“I want to do it. Let me help you.”

He breathes a sad, tormented sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“Sit on the edge of the tub,” I direct, my emotions so tangled I’m afraid to pull on any thread by saying more.

“I swear I don’t have anger issues or alcohol issues or whatever else you’re thinking right now. Before tonight, I’d never punched anyone in my life,” he laughs mirthlessly.

“I know you don’t,” I assure him, locating the red pouch in the closet. “You just got…worked up. It happens.”

“You deserve better,” he says as I turn back to him and meet his eyes. They look even greener than usual since the whites of his eyes are slightly reddened by the alcohol. The despondency that shines through is too much for me to bear right now, so I break eye contact.

I gently lift his right hand and inspect it. “Riley, don’t say that. It’s okay, really. I forgive you.” Just bruised, not broken, thank God. His face, however, is another story. His lip is busted, and his jaw is already slightly discolored.

“Better than me, yes,” he continues. “But I really meant better than the way people treat you. When you were so unphased by that guy—when you said you’ve been called worse . I don’t know. Something in me just snapped. And by trying to stop the people who bring you down, I ended up becoming one of them. I ruined your night.”

“Riley, stop,” I demand, lightly dabbing his split lip with an alcohol-soaked pad. He winces, either from my words or the alcohol seeping into his cut. “I had a great time tonight. Some dick calling me a bitch doesn’t change that.”

“You shouldn’t have to put up with that shit. ”

“As I said, I’m used to it. It hardly phases me anymore.”

“That makes it worse.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

There’s a brief pause while I pack the supplies and put the kit back in the cabinet.

“I don’t regret it,” he says lowly.

“What?”

“I don’t regret hitting that guy. I only regret that Waylon and Nash stopped me from beating him to a pulp.”

“Riley,” I scold. “That’s not you.”

He stands. “Maybe it is.”

“It’s not.”

“Maybe it’s me around you.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.” He sighs. “I think I should go to bed before I dig myself deeper.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask.

“Are you?”

“Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow, Riley,” I respond, leaning in to lightly brush my lips against his cheek. “Goodnight.”