Page 72 of Elusion

Cracked or not, he doesn’t hesitate to partake, setting down the slushie cups and dashing over to them. He catches Callie around the waist and swings her around and then switches to Cate. They team up and tackle him to the ground, laughing and smiling the entire time.

The three of them keep playing in the street without concern. The confrontation with Brock, Connor’s torment from earlier, all the heaviness from their lives suddenly gone. From what I can tell, it’s a rare moment—everything in their world bright and happy and right. And it’s a remarkable thing to witness.

Callie. Callie. Callie. Callie. Callie. A million more times, Callie. At the end of the bed, she sits cross-legged, wearing nothing but a black bra and matching panties, playing an acoustic guitar. As unbelievable as she looks, she sounds horrific. Each strum is an insult to every musician everywhere, dead or alive. But I’m lying here, in my boxers, loving every single second of it because, anytime she hits a particularly offensive chord, she peeks up and smiles.

We’ve taken over Benji’s room for the last two days. Sunday night, when we returned from Waymore, we stayed in my janitor-closet-sized room. The next morning, over breakfast, I told her about my deal with Benji to trade for six months. She marched up the stairs, changed the sheets on his bed, and claimed it as her own until his return. If he freaks out at her, I plan on playing the innocent card. But she and Benji seem to share a strange connection, so I doubt he’ll get angry.

Callie slides the strap over her head and sets the guitar down by the bed. “When Beta Void finally decides to replace their awful guitarist, I’m auditioning.”

Straight for the jugular.

I lunge at her and drag her back on the bed with me. Her surprised giggle is a welcome sound after half an hour of shit guitar.

Dark hair sprawls over my face until she whips around and crawls on top of me. “Are you bored of me yet?”

“Not yet. And when I do tire of you, we just need to have sex, and I’ll be good for another few hours.”

Her eyes roll. She climbs off to snoop through Benji’s CD collection. I stay put, perfectly content to lie here, staring at her. The Callie channel—featuring all Callie, all the time—receives no complaints from this avid viewer.

An album from the shelf catches her attention, and she pulls it out. “Polka?”

Really?Excellent material for holding over Benji’s head rarely makes an appearance.

I hop up and snag the case from her hand. My eyes travel over her legs. Certainly, she’s a better dancer than a guitarist.

“Come on.” I toss the CD on the bed and grab her hand, leading her out of the bedroom.

Downstairs, she watches me like I’ve gone mad while I push the two couches in the living room farther apart and move the coffee table. Space is a must for my plan.

“What are we doing?” she asks.

I hook up my laptop to the stereo and pick a random polka song off a streaming site. “We’re going to polka.”

Skeptical, she raises her eyebrows as the whine of an accordion fills the room. “You know how?”

“My grandmother on my mother’s side taught me before she died.” I throw one of her hands over my shoulder and take her other in mine. I place my free hand on her hip. The bare skin beneath my palm distracts me, but I force myself to focus on teaching her the dance. “All right, beautiful, we start with—”

She steps back with her right foot, following with a shorter left-right.

Of course she already knows how to polka. Why would I expect anything else? I shake my head and one-two-three her—half-naked—around the room. As the song ends, I swing her onto the couch and collapse next to her.

“You could have given me an ego boost and at least pretended to let me teach you.”

She sighs. “Don’t bother trying with the fox-trot, waltz, or square dancing either. Our gym teacher ran out of sports and taught us how to dance.”

“I’m with you all the way to square dancing. I draw a line there.” I jump up and search my music. I stop on one I noticed on her playlist over the weekend.

“Shall we fox-trot?” I extend my hands.

“Sex on Fire” by Kings of Leon blares from the speakers. After a giggle at my musical selection, she accepts my offer. I yank her off the couch. She holds up her dance frame, so I equal her professionalism with rigid posture. She knows her steps, keeping up with any challenge I throw out. Around the living room, we slow-slow-quick-quick to a song written about an unforgettable sexual relationship. Grandmother would have been proud of me putting my training to use. Any approval, however, would have ended there.

Mid-promenade, a movement in the doorway catches my eye. The two of us freeze—actually, all four of us do. Johnny drops his bag, eyes open as wide as his mouth, which happens to mirror my expression exactly.

Next to him, Gavin doubles over in hysterics, lowering himself to the floor. “Oh my God.”

My attire does nothing to embarrass me, but a spotlight shining on my ballroom dancing skills less than enthuses me. They already have the T-shirts. Now this. Not even Benji’s polka collection will spare me from constant ridicule in the coming weeks.

“Dude. Callie.” Johnny holds a hand over his eyes in the most gentlemanly display I’ve ever witnessed from him.

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