Page 62 of Boss Me

Mateo met my gaze in the rearview mirror and raised his eyebrows. I didn’t like the idea of any of this—Ben sitting next to my flirty cousin, going to a club where I wouldn’t drink, and watching Ben dance—but I nodded anyway. If this was what Ben wanted, I’d give it to him.

Twenty minutes later, Mateo pulled up in front of a club in the city, and we all followed Ben inside. I hadn’t been to a club in years, not since Jackson stopped inviting me, but it was the same as I remembered. Loud music and lights that flashed to the beat, which settled right at my temples. Ramón led the way to a reserved table near the dance floor. A banquette curved around the round table, and Ben wiggled in between Mateo and me.

The waiter brought an iced bucket of bottled water, a fifth of rum, and seven glasses. When he tipped the bottle toward the glass in front of me, I laid my hand over the rim. “None for me, thanks.”

Mateo grinned and shouted, “Does that mean you’re the designated driver?”

My flirty cousin, rum, and Ben? No, thanks. I scowled. “No. You’re driving.”

When he pouted, I added, “This is for Isaac.”

“Isaac.” He sat back and stared at the pattern of colored lights on the ceiling. “That tiny, yellow Speedo.”

“That’s the one.” I tipped a bottle of water toward him, and he tapped his own to it. We drank to the first date he’d stolen from me.

Ben watched the exchange with avid interest. Then he grinned. “Nope, I’m not sitting between two sober guys.” He half-stood and squirmed across my lap.

My fingers stretched toward Ben’s hips like they wanted to pin him onto my lap. And for a hopeful second, I thought he paused to perch there. But the next second, he plopped onto the banquette between Bobby the bartender and me.

He didn’t stay there for long. Once he’d downed a glass of rum, Ben scooted out onto the dance floor. And he was right. His feet hardly moved. His shoulders, abdominals, and hips did all the work, a hypnotic gyration that drew more than one person into orbit around him.

Tall, lanky guys and stout ones. Fair-skinned and dark. Guys who dressed up in buttoned-up shirts like me and guys who dressed down in T-shirts and strategically ripped jeans. Even a couple of shirtless guys with harnesses across their chests and teeny-tiny latex shorts. Ben danced with them all, but never for more than a song or two.

Jesus, how I wished I could be one of them. That I could stand behind him and sway my hips with his. Trace the contours of his chest.

But that wasn’t me. I was the protector, not the party animal. And the person Ben needed protection from most? Me.

I pulled a cold bottle of water from the tub and held it against my throbbing temple.

Ramón slid back into the banquette. I hadn’t noticed whom he’d been dancing with; my gaze had centered—still centered—only on Ben, who’d borrowed a lime-green bowler from his current dance partner and was gazing up at him from under the brim.

Ramón poured a finger of rum into a glass and sipped it. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you yet. For the stock.”

I ripped my gaze away from Ben to look at Ramón. “You’re welcome. I keep my promises, even the ones I make when I’m drunk.”

He nodded and sipped his drink again. “He’s waiting for you, you know.”

“Who’s waiting for me?”

He tipped his chin toward the dance floor. Ben stared at me from under the green hat. His hips circled, and in my imagination, they pumped against mine. It stole my breath.

Without breaking our stare, he lifted the hat from his head and tossed it to the other man. His dark curls reflected the red and blue of the multicolored house lights. Ben lifted his chin, daring me to join him on the dance floor.

I trailed my gaze over him. His shirt stuck to him now, and the front of it had ridden up to show a sliver of his flat belly above the waistband of his skintight jeans. The club’s spotlights flitted over him, revealing flashes of his taut thighs, the curve of his ass, even for a tantalizing second the outline of a ridge that stretched from his crotch toward his hipbone.

Helpless to resist, I slid to the edge of the banquette and swam toward him through the dancers like a fish on a line. I stepped into his space, close enough that he bent his neck to look up at my face. I stood still while he swayed in front of me.

“Aren’t you going to dance?” He had to shout so I could hear him over the music, and his voice was already hoarse.

“I don’t dance.”

“Of course you do. I heard you danced with Marlee at—once.”

“Not like this.” I flicked my hand at the mass of whirling dancers.

“It’s not complicated. I’ll teach you.” He set his hands on my hips and tried to rock them from side to side. I didn’t budge. I was far too solid for that.

He raised his eyebrows. “No?”

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