Page 6 of Easy Rumba

She’s pretty, and even though I’m not looking for anything serious, I fancy getting off tonight. I’ve been too busy with training for the last few weeks. I’m not exactly a man-whore, but when I’m on downtime from competition, I like to let loose a bit. One night of fun won’t hurt, and then I’ll get straight back into my routine. I meant what I said to Angelique earlier—I want to win this show. I really do hope I get a partner who’s ready to work.

“Sure thing,” I respond with a smile.

Getting to my feet, I lead her onto the dance floor as a Latin rhythm comes over the speakers. I mold the blonde to my body and show her just what my hips can do. She’s a good mover—not up to my standard, of course, but then I do train for at least fourteen hours a day. We dance to a couple more songs before we head back to the bar.

I still haven’t told her my name, and I probably should, but I can’t be bothered. It keeps it less personal. Something I learned from my father after he left my mamá. The less they know about you, the better. It’s probably why I haven’t seen him in almost fifteen years. My mamá moved back to Spain when I left home. I did consider staying in Europe with her once I’d finished my training, but America has always been my home, and something drew me back here. I’ve yet to find out what it is.

“I could do with a drink. You certainly know how to move.” Delia bites her lip and looks up at me from under long, dark lashes.

I’m certain she’s wearing extensions. I’ve seen enough of them to last me a lifetime. Angelique refuses to wear them, despite the protests of many a dance manager. She also uses minimal spray tan, which is one of my pet hates too. Thankfully, my Spanish heritage gives me a perfect tan as soon as I step outside in the sun, so I don’t need to enhance my coloring as much as some of the other dancers.

“What would you like?” I motion for the bartender. “A beer and...”

“A glass of rosé, please,” Delia responds.

The bartender pours our drinks, and we make small talk while we wait. She doesn’t sound as if she’s from New Orleans. But I can’t quite place the twang in her accent.

“Where are you from?”

“New York. I’ve been trying to lose the accent since I came here, but it hasn’t worked. I think it’s ingrained.”

“Why would you want to lose it?”

The bartender hands us our drinks, and I pay. We find a table where we can continue talking. She doesn’t ask my name, and I don’t volunteer it.

“People seem to think I’m part of the mafia or something when they hear the accent. It’s silly. I’m a student here, working part-time to fund my way through college.”

“Why didn’t you stay in New York?”

“New Orleans and the history has always fascinated me. I’m researching spiritual activity, so it’s a good place to come.”

“It certainly is. The house I grew up in was haunted by an old lady who’d died there years before. I’m sure my mamá told me she’d fallen down the stairs, chasing another ghost out of the house. Then again, my mamá was always making up stories like that to scare me.”

“She sounds a lot like mine.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Alexis on the dance floor with a girl. His hands are all over her. My friend is definitely the male slut of the show. He adores the attention from the females.

“Did you grow up here? I thought you were a dancer from the show.”

“So that’s why you singled me out.”

I wink, and Delia blushes crimson.

“My friend was after Alexis. She’s dancing with him now. She dared me to speak to you and have some fun.” Delia rolls her eyes at the last word.

“I’m guessing you don’t really want fun?”

I pick up from her tone that something is wrong, and maybe she’d prefer to be at home with a cup of hot cocoa rather than here, talking to me.

“I’m sorry. I’ve probably acted like a real tease. My boyfriend and I broke up last week. We’d been together for five years, and my friend, Anna-Marie, thinks I should jump straight back on the horse, so to speak, and move on.”

“Five years is a long time.”

I peer over Delia’s shoulder and see Alexis leading her friend off the dance floor and to the back of the bar.

He winks at me, and thrusting his hips, he mouths, “Go for it, Latin king.”

Turning my attention back to Delia, I watch as she circles her finger around the rim of her wine glass a few times. She’s not drunk any of it, and the beer in my hand suddenly feels like it’s warm and three days old.

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