Page 55 of Promise Not To Fall

“You gotta be careful ’round here,” Jake says as we walk through downtown Nassau in a part of town I remember that taxi driver referring to as being crime-ridden.

My grip on Jake never lets up. I know what big cities are like, but Nassau is different. A well-developed city, during the day, Nassau is filled with friendly, laid-back people. When night blankets the city, it’s quite a bit different.

“Crime is really bad here,” Jake notes, moving around crowds of people gathered on the streets.

“What kind of crime?” I try to keep step with him, but it’s hard in heels.

“Rape, murder, you name it. That shit happens here, and nobody is ever held accountable. You kill someone, and tomorrow you could be walking the streets again.”

“Whoa.” It makes me sick to think people can get away with that shit. “Have you ever been in trouble? I mean, you live here. Do you see that stuff happening?”

Jake nods, his jaw clenching when he says, “I was robbed at gunpoint two blocks up when I was twenty-one.”

My throat tightens, a lump rising in fear. “And you still come down here?”

He shrugs, like usual, blowing it off. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I? You can’t live your life in fear of what could happen, or has happened.”

“I think maybe your mom might have dropped you on your head when you were a baby.”

Another careless shrug. “I’m sure she did. She’s clumsy as fuck.”

Hand in hand, we walk past a group of men. They whistle and make some comments, but Jake keeps his head down and continues walking, his grip on my hand tight. Men and half naked women walk the streets, parties on every corner, and Jake informs me the area is flooded with weapons, gangs, and drugs. Makes me feel super safe to be here. Not.

Jake leads me around a dark alley that I’m convinced I’ll die in, and then through a back door to what appears to be a nightclub crawling with hundreds of people.

Appearing completely relaxed the moment we walk inside, it’s clear Jake spends a lot of time here. The club is dark and dingy, sort of like what you’d see in downtown Phoenix, the parts that are rundown. There’s a bar to my right; painted black wood and black concrete floors darken the large room. Strobe lights pulse, as does the music. It thumps wildly in my chest, and I immediately want to dance.

Again, I know I’m using the classic movies as my examples, but this bar, the dancing, it’s totally like a scene out of the movieDirty Dancingwhen they lead her to the “members only” section of the resort and her life changes forever, only in the Bahamas and in a bar tucked away in the ghetto of Nassau. I love it.

At the far end of the bar is what looks to be a stage with a DJ and women dancing around. To the left is a band—appearing to be locals—warming up. Surrounding the dance floor is a small half wall separating the bar from the stage.

It’s the kind of club where everyone appears to know one another. It’s a place where tourists stick out like a sore thumb. I stick out. At least, I feel like I do hiding behind Jake.

“Hey, Jay,” a girl says, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She hugs him, but he offers nothing in return, his hands never moving from his sides.

He tenses immediately, and I’m thinking she might possibly be the reason he doesn’t like his name shortened. I wonder what their history is together. I want to knowallthe gory details too.

“I heard my mom saw you the other night.” The woman’s skin glows under the lighting of the bar. She looks to be darker skinned, maybe Puerto Rican or from the Dominican Republic?

“Yeah, she showed up.” Jake nods, never making eye contact with her, and then reaches for my hand, drawing me into him. “Amara, this is Kendall.”

“Nice to meet you,” she says, reaching out to shake my hand. She’s fucking stunning, and I’m suddenly feeling like I’m too fat, not pretty enough, and I should go tanning. And workout. Less drinking, less tacos… okay, fuck all that. That’s crazy talk.

Amara seems nice. Upbeat, lively, long flowing dark hair that’s layered in the front framing her heart-shaped face, wide brown eyes, and a body only Instagram models have. What has my attention is the way her stare rarely leaves Jake, as if she has let something go and she wants it back.

Tucking me into his side, Jake doesn’t give me a chance to actually say hello to Amara, or askwhoshe is before he yanks me to the dance floor. “Can city girls dance?” he asks, his eyes low on my hips.

“Guess you’re gonna have to see,” I tease. I glance back over my shoulder at Amara as he ushers me away. Her brow’s scrunched together, more than likely as confused as I am about what just happened.

On the dance floor, Jake wastes no time in showing me he has many talents aside from bartending and fucking. I’ve never danced with a guy who actually knows how to move—until I dance with Jake Pierce, that is.

Most of the guys I’ve danced with did the bounce shuffle. You know what I’m talking about too. It’s a bobbing squat that they repeat over and over again. Sometimes they’ll revise it and add in a nod, or whatever. It’s their only move. And girls, don’t you dare dip it low. They freak the fuck out because they don’t know what to do. Then there are the guys who add in that Eminem crotch grab and their other hand just bobs in the air.

Having said that, I’d like to point out that Jake is none of those dancers.

I’d like to think I have moves too. Guys have it easy when it comes to dancing. Girls, we need moves. It’s our time to sell and give it. And to be honest, I’ve fucking mastered the ghetto booty bounce. Practiced that shit in the shower when I was in college until I had ten stitches in my chin and had the moves down.

Tonight, I show Jake my booty bounce.

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