Page 5 of Desire

There’s a variety of ages and backgrounds between us. Some, like Angelique, are married or in committed relationships, but many are single like me. It’s not that I don’t like women, it’s just I’ve never met the woman I want to settle down with. There was one girl at school—we grew up together. I could have seen myself happily married to her, but we drifted apart after she moved to Hollywood and I traveled to Europe for dance training. Maybe one day I’ll settle down, but at thirty-two, I’m happy the way I am for now.

“Leo,” my closest friend in the group, a Russian dancer named Alexis, calls me over. “I got you a beer.”

“Thanks.”

He hands me the beverage, and I take a long sip. We don’t drink much alcohol because it doesn’t help our bodies stay trim for dancing, but every so often, we like to have a few.

“Are you getting nervous?” Alexis asks, but his eyes aren’t on me. He’s surveying the bevy of beautiful women in the room.

There’s definitely a positive to the show being down in New Orleans. The women are a lot curvier here than the stick thin actresses in Hollywood.

“Why would I?” Shrugging my shoulders, I take another mouthful of my beer

“You’re a virgin compared to the rest of us,” Alexis teases with a knowing wink.

I let out a bellowing laugh, and a few people in the room turn to look at us.

“I think my ‘v’ card sailed a long time ago, mate. I’ve been doing competitions longer than you have.”

“But not winning them.”

In the grand total of wins, Alexis is one ahead of me. But then, I specialize in Latin American dance where he’s better known for his ballroom skills, the easier of the two disciplines if you ask me. Nobody can compare the technical aspects of a rumba to a waltz

I show him my middle finger and turn my attention to the women at the bar. Alexis and I have been staying in a hotel since we arrived here, and he intends to stay there for the duration of the show. But next week, I move to an apartment of my own, which the show has helped me rent. I wanted the home comforts of my own place. I grew up near here, and I’ve already felt my love for New Orleans rekindled since coming back, despite the fact I’ve no family living here anymore. Hollywood has never been my sort of place, too phony and too many lies.

“Hi.” An attractive blonde in a tight, teal dress and two-inch heels edges my way. “I’m Delia. You fancy a dance?”

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 mymamá. The less they know about you, the better. It’s probably why I haven’t seen him in almost fifteen years. Mymamámoved 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.”

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