Page 12 of One Hotlanta Night
That feeling you get when someone’s watching you? The one that says, “pay attention”? Yeah, it’s gone up to a ten on the Richter scale.
A low hum pulses through my body and my skin tingles with warmth.
Where is it coming from?
A quick glance at Matt—whose mouth is still moving, but I can’t discern the words—confirms that he is definitely not the source of this electrifying feeling. I try to subtly glance past his shoulder but don’t see anyone looking my way.
Huh. My senses are usually spot on, but maybe there’s a glitch in the Matrix.
That movie was just messed up enough to make anyone rethink reality; we had to pause it and wait til Raelynn had gone to bed because it was scaring her too much. Shaking my head at the memory, I steer myself back toward Matt and try to catch up.
“I’m sorry. I just blanked for a minute,” I tell him. “You were saying?” He hesitates a moment, and I almost feel bad for blowing him off. Unintentional, maybe, but still rude.
“I was just going to ask if you wanted to do another shot with me.” His puppy dog eyes are fixed on me. He’s a cutie, sure, but since there’s zero attraction, I’m not worried about hanging out with him. As long as he keeps his hands where they belong. Might be a bit of a challenge since pretty much everything they taught had us touching in one way or another. I can handle that though. At least he won’t be bending me over and grinding on me; pretty sure it’s not that kind of club.
“Sure.” I brighten and fix a smile on my face.
His smile grows wider, and he flags down the bartender. “Two Jose Cuervos, my man.”
I barely keep the eye roll in check as I rethink my answer. Not only did he not ask me what I would like, but also clearly the dude does not know tequila. Negative two points for Matt.
The bartender sets down the shots in front of us, this time with a healthy salt rim. Going out on my own, I’m careful to always watch the pour and never let go of my drink after. I’ve heard of girls getting their drinks drugged and the horrors that follow. To think, you used to only have to worry about driving sober.
Being a woman ain’t easy.
As Matt pays and I thank him, I get that prickle on the back of my neck again. Someone or something is definitely causing my spidey senses to go haywire. But it doesn’t feel dangerous, like when you know you need to watch your back. This feels more like anticipation… excitement. That dip in your stomach that you get right before the roller coaster drops.
I look around again, trying to find the source. Who is staring me down? But the crowd is heavy, and I’m not tall in these heels. All I see are smiles and laughter, faces lit up withjoie de vivre,and it makes me smile too. These folks are so joyful. It’s a celebration of life on the dance floor, and my feet itch to join them and put the lessons from earlier into practice.
Taking a last look to try to pinpoint the source of this tantalizing pull, I reluctantly tune back into what the sweet, pedantic boy next to me is saying.As long as I keep my wits about me, I’ll be fine, I remind myself.You’ve done this a million times before.
But I’ve never felt like the object of attention for someone I can’t see.
Matt and I chat for a bit—or rather, he does most of the talking—and he tells me he works for an IT tech firm in Atlanta. I’m only partly paying attention as he rambles on and on, his voice blending into the background. My lack of focus isn’t intentionalreally. Who can be bothered with small talk with all these gorgeous people effortlessly gliding along the dance floor?
Bouncing on the bar stool in time to the exhilarating music, I’m eager to join them, even unsure that I won’t trip over my own two feet. Feeling intimidated is a foreign concept for me, and my confidence is beginning to win out over my anxiety. I have rhythm, but I don’t know the songs or where the transitions are. Maybe give it a few more minutes. So I sit back and bring my attention back to what Matt’s saying.
My interest is piqued when he says he plays street hockey. Sounds cool, so I ask him to tell me more. It’s easy to steer the conversation since he clearly likes to talk about himself. But he has a thing or two to learn about women since he doesn’t seem to realize conversation is a two-way street.
After what seems like an eternity or only five minutes—who can really tell?—Matt stops to take a breath. He must be feeling pretty good after his shot, because now he’s trying to shoot his, snaking an arm out around my waist. Kudos for making a move, but he’s not reading the signs.
As I gently untangle his hand from my side—because who needs to be a total douche?—I’m saved by the loud thumping beat intro to “Get Ur Freak On.”Thank you, Missy. A genuine smile takes over my face because this is my territory. Not only can I sing every word to this song, it also gives me an out without being a total jerk.
Matt doesn’t seem aware of the brushoff as he inclines his head toward the dance floor. “Care to?” A quick nod and he’s grabbing my hand to lead me out, his palm clammy against mine. I grimace but allow it as we struggle to push through the crowd, knowing that I can easily let go once we’ve found a spot.
Bodies twirl and more than once I have to pull my head back to avoid getting hit with flying hair. But I don’t even mind because the elegance of the dancers is just astounding. The men guideand turn the women around with practiced grace, showcasing their partners’ bodies. It’s a hip hop song, not salsa whatsoever, but every step, every spin is precise. Smiles, laughter, and sweat show exactly how much the dancers are enjoying themselves.
What’s remarkable to me is that most couples aren’t even that close to each other. It’s like Patrick Swayze’s here saying, “This isyourdance space; this ismydance space. No spaghetti arms.” To be fair, some bumping and grinding is still going on, and that’s where Matt leads us to.
The crowd swallows us up as we find a party on the dance floor that’s heaving with other twenty-somethings dropping it low and gyrating. Not requiring Matt’s hand anymore, I release it in exchange for raising both of mine in the air as I join in, bobbing my head and pumping my fists along with everyone else.
This. This is exactly what I love about dancing. Nothing else makes me feel so free. Nothing else takes me out of my head as much as connecting with other bodies, moving and shaking and just feeling alive. Only my body exists, feeling the music. Everything is hot, heavy, pulsating, and it’s exhilarating. To be part of something bigger than myself. For just a little bit, I can lose myself, be surrounded by people without anyone demanding anything of me. Just be part of a group expressing themselves and having a good time.
When I’m on the dance floor, I’m not a disappointment or wasted potential.
There’s no pressure.
No expectations.
