Why Don't You Stay? ... Forever (McLaughlin Brothers Book 2) Read online

  Then he turns around and spies Erin. His face crumples as though Cupid’s arrow has just shot through him. He runs joyfully to her and pulls her into a dance.

  I enjoy it at first—two talented people showing off what they can do. But I start to not like this guy’s hands all over Erin. I tell myself it’s nothing—he has to lift her in the air and assist in her gravity defying moves. When I was a little kid, Ryan, a pre-teen then, used to put his hands under my chest and thighs and raise me high, and I’d pretend I was flying. The male dancer—Dean Whitaker, the program says his name is—does much the same thing with Erin.

  But I’m hoping he’s not having too much fun up there.

  Erin and Dean move together fluidly, her smaller frame inside his big body. Her kicks avoid his groin entirely.

  Their grace makes me feel large and clumsy. Maybe I should have learned dance when I was younger instead of hunkering down to master C++.

  The dance ends to thunderous applause. I’m on my feet too, because even I realize they are really, really good.

  The show goes on. There are more dance numbers, and a loose story that goes with it, according to the program, all about the seasons, with a nod toward global warming and Venus—the planet, not the goddess. Against it are two people falling in love or at least dancing and looking at each other like they’re hurting inside.

  The final dance between Erin and Dean is quiet and full of sensual moves. Erin flows with him. After a while, I forget about being envious of the man and look only at her.

  Erin is beauty itself. I bask in her, every move she makes precise and effortless. I swell with pride—that’s my girl, the one who’s so quick to catch on to our company’s software’s little quirks. Far faster than my brothers have ever done. Austin still can’t work his damned computer.

  Before I realize it, Erin and Dean twirl around each other and come to a halt in a curved stance, the two of them like a Renaissance statue. Applause thunders.

  Erin and Dean rise out of their final pose and make their bows. Dean presents Erin with a sweep of his arm, breaking character to clap for her as Erin does her low curtsy.

  Bouquets of flowers flow toward the stage, which Erin accepts with a happy but humble smile. Now I feel like a jerk because I didn’t bring her any. I didn’t realize it was a thing. I guess I’ll know better next time.

  The thought jolts me. Will there be a next time? Or is this a one-off? Erin gave me the tickets to apologize for kicking the hell out of me. Trying to save her job. Would she want me here again?

  I vow right then there’ll be a next time. I’ll buy my own ticket and give Erin so many flowers she won’t be able to walk off the stage with them.

  Like now. Dean helps her, laughing and pleased at all the attention she’s getting. He bows to her too, and pats her on the back like, “Well done, you!”

  The lights come up and the curtain rings down. The audience starts drifting out, talking excitedly. They say great things about Erin—who knew she was so talented?

  “What was her name?” the lady who’d been sitting next to me says. She had been on stand-by to see the show, able to come in because I’d turned in the other two tickets Erin had given me. I hadn’t said anything, but she’d been so pleased she and her husband had been able to get in. “She was wonderful.”

  “Erin Dixon,” I tell her proudly. “She’s a friend.” I think I’m glowing.

  “Well, she did great tonight,” the lady says, patting my arm. “Tell her that when you go backstage to see her.”

  Another jolt. I can go backstage to see her? I abruptly want to—want it more than anything else. I can’t leave until I do.

  I say good-night to my seat mate, head down the aisle to the stage, and start arguing with the security guard, who takes up a stern stance and forbids me going past him and behind the curtain.

  Erin

  “Hey, sweetie, I think your new guy is trying to find you.”

  Dean, who is surrounded by his admirers, mostly women, shoots me a wink and points through the gap in the curtain. I see one of the theater’s security guards trying to send Ben away.

  I push the curtain aside and hurry to the front. “It’s all right,” I tell the guard. “He’s with me.”

  Ben and the security guy break off their harried debate. The security guard flicks a hand in resignation, and I gesture Ben up the steps on the side of the stage.

  “Thanks so much for being here,” I say as Ben climbs the stairs. “Come and meet everyone.”

  I’m breathing hard, even more than I had been during the last pas de deux. A couple of those moves were tough, and Dean and I had practiced them until we couldn’t move.

  Ben glances around with interest as I lead him backstage. “I didn’t bring you flowers, sorry.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. Some people follow the tradition. Plus, this was for my opening night. I’m so grateful people liked it. We usually donate them to retirement homes—I couldn’t take them all home with me.”

  I’m babbling nervously, but Ben does that to me. He’s the smartest man I’ve ever met, and I’m always afraid of being a dunce in front of him.

  “You were good,” Ben says, true admiration in his eyes.

  My face gets hot. I bet my makeup is running, and I look like a raccoon. “Thank you. I was seriously nervous.”

  “It didn’t show. You seemed perfectly calm. The lady sitting next to me said to tell you that you were awesome. Okay, she didn’t say awesome. But it’s what she meant.”

  “You are so sweet.”

  Ben’s eyes flicker, and I want to bite my tongue. No guy wants to be told he’s sweet.

  “Hello.” Dean’s deep voice booms out behind me. “I’m Dean. I hear you’re Ben. Great to meet you. Wasn’t Erin fantastic?”

  Dean and Ben are about the same height, but the likeness ends there. Dean’s face is painted with bright makeup, his muscles bulge out of his leotard, and he exudes charm. A girl is supposed to fall for guys like Dean.

  Ben to me is far more appealing. He’s in great shape—I’ve seen him in shorts and T-shirt at backyard cookouts at his parents’ house. He looks very good in them. Ben carries himself casually, as though he doesn’t realize how attractive he is. He considers himself a nerd next to his jock brothers, but he’s as agile and athletic as they are.

  Dean beams at Ben, shaking his hand hard.

  “Erin was fantastic.” Ben’s words make me hot all over. “Oh, you were good too,” he adds hastily to Dean.

  Dean roars with laughter. “I know where your eyes were. I can’t blame you, bud. You two kids take care.”

  He pivots, still laughing, and returns to his fans.

  Ben’s brow wrinkles as though he’s worried he offended Dean, then he laughs. I’ve never heard him laugh. It’s warm and nice. “I like him.”

  “Most people do. Dean’s one of a kind. Um.” I stop myself shuffling my feet as I return to the self-consciousness I feel in front of Ben. “I need to change and scrape off this makeup. Want to come with me to get food after?”

  “Sure.” The answer is instant. “This isn’t the best neighborhood anyway. I planned to walk you to your car.”

  I tamp down my joy with difficulty. “My car’s not here. I rode with Ida—one of the other dancers.”

  “Oh.” Ben sounds disappointed. He rubs his upper lip. “Is this food-getting a thing you all do together?”

  “Yes. Another tradition. But … afterward. Would you drive me home? Unless—if it’s out of your way, then don’t worry about it—”

  “Sure.” Again Ben’s word cuts over my fumbling ones. “How about you go get changed, and I’ll take you to your party?”

  “Good.” I grab both his hands. “Stay right here.”

  I run off to the dressing rooms, ready to tear off my costume and rush out again, my feet lighter than they’d been the entire performance.

  Ben

  During the drive to a burger bar that’s actually open past ten on a Saturday
night—a rarity in this town—I find my tongue leaden and my conversation stilted. My brain comes up with witty things to say to Erin, and I can’t utter a one of them.

  Erin’s excited and bouncy, coming out of the quiet shell she keeps herself in at work. Of course, compared to my obnoxious brothers, anyone seems quiet, but tonight she’s sparkling.

  She stretches her bare legs under shorts in my roomy pickup, sneakers pointing. “Dang, my feet hurt.” Her laugh sounds like music. “No duh, right? Keeping up with Dean is rough.”

  “You, uh.” I clear my throat. I have to ask before I get too optimistic. “Anything between you and Dean?”

  Erin shoots me wide-eyed surprise. “Dean? Not at all. I’m not his type, and he’s not mine.”

  “Ah.” I run that through my brain. “Is he gay?” It’s the only reason I can think of for a man not to be interested in Erin. I try not to sound hopeful.

  “He’s bi.” Erin answers without hesitation. “Everyone knows that—he came out in his teens. He calls himself a ‘people person’.”

  I burst out laughing, willing my jealousy to recede. “He’s kinda cool. Not what I expected.”

  “Everyone likes Dean.”

  She says it neutrally, no big deal. I guess if I was built like the Hulk but could dance like I was in zero gravity, everyone would like me too.

  We trail off into silence. Erin starts to hum as we pass street after street, traffic light after traffic light. In Phoenix, no two places you want to go in one night are ever close together.

  I pull into the burger bar, the parking lot full. The late-night grubbers know where the few after-hours restaurants in the Valley are. I wouldn’t be surprised to find Austin, the night owl, here.

  Takes me a while, but I finally locate a parking space at the edge of the lot. I try to get around the truck to usher Erin out, but she agilely leaps down before I can. She doesn’t notice my disappointment as we make for the restaurant.

  Inside it’s packed. The dance company has reserved a back room, and that’s packed too. Dean is holding court, surrounded by people who hang on his every word. The rest of the dancers are in clumps with friends and family, everyone laughing and talking.

  I’m uncomfortable, because I don’t know anyone. This shy guy has no business walking into a room full of strangers.

  Erin sticks by me as we squeeze through. She introduces me to her fellow dancers, men and women, who give me interested stares.

  “I work with Ben at my temp job,” she explains. “I whacked him good while I was rehearsing and had to make it up to him.”

  Everyone she tells this story to finds it hilarious. They seem to like Erin, exhibiting no jealousy that she got to dance the lead role with the fabulous Dean. At least, if they are envious, they hide it well.

  Erin finds us a table in the mob, and I flag down the waitress working the room. We order burgers. When they arrive, Erin doesn’t pick at hers. She downs it, wiping grease from her mouth with a wad of paper napkins.

  “I earned this.”

  “You did.” I want to tell her how amazing she was, how wonderful a dancer, how much I loved watching her. But the room is loud, and I’d have to scream it at her. I settle for eating my burger and fries, the two of us sharing the occasional smile.

  Dean, who has more stamina than anyone really should, starts a drinking game. Since the game consists of balancing a bottle or mug of beer on the head while doing a dance move, I stay out of it. Some of the company is good at it—I suspect they’ve played it before.

  Erin watches for a while, sipping iced tea. She glances at me. “Want to get out of here?” she asks in my ear.

  I shrug like I don’t care, but my heart is racing. I try to signal the waitress to pay the tab, but Erin forestalls me. The manager, Clarice, has picked up the bill for the company and guests.

  “Nice of her,” I say.

  “She’s generous.” Erin presses close to me as we slide out of the room. “This company is her baby and she does all she can for it. We’re lucky.”

  I respond in the affirmative, and then we’re out in the parking lot, the darkness comforting. It’s cooled down a little from the heat of the May day, the breeze refreshing.

  Erin steps from me as soon as we’re out of the crowd, but I move closer again. This time I manage to open the pickup’s door for her, and she gives me a thank-you glance as she leaps gracefully inside.

  I jog around to the driver’s door and, far more ungainly, get myself into the seat. I start the truck.

  “Where to?”

  She gives me a startled look. “Did you want to go somewhere else?”

  “No—I said I’d drive you home, but I don’t know where you live.”

  “Oh.” She flushes. “It’s not far from the office actually. Twelfth Street and Glendale. I have a house behind there.”

  “Got it.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I turn off Glendale and follow her directions to halt in front of a small place with a well-kept yard. This is an older neighborhood but one that has seen a turnaround in the last twenty years. Our company has worked on some of the houses here.

  Once away from Phoenix’s major streets, the neighborhoods can be quiet and homey. Erin’s house has been remodeled, it looks like, with a glass block wall near her front door.

  Her house. Where she lives, sleeps, undresses …

  Damn it, why the hell did I have to think of that?

  I’m now imagining Erin gracefully sliding her clothes from her body and dropping them on the floor. Her bare skin comes into view. My view only. She’s undressing for me.

  “Well, thanks for coming,” Erin says, breaking my treacherous thoughts. “And for driving me home. I hope you liked the performance.”

  “Yeah. It was nice.”

  Nice. Oh, good one. I’m again blowing my chance to tell her how wonderful she was, but I don’t have the words to describe it. Three hours from now, I will, I’m sure, when I’m lying alone in my bed, aching, unable to think about anything but her.

  On impulse, I move abruptly toward Erin, turn her to me, and kiss her parted lips.

  One touch, her lips smooth, her breath warming mine. My body goes molten, melting like silicon into glass.

  I pull back. Shit. I just kissed her. I wait for her to smack me or snarl at me, or worse, threaten to tell my mom.

  Erin watches me a moment, her eyes glistening in the dashboard light. I start to turn away, give her the chance to get out and run, when she grabs me by the shirt, hauls me across the center column, and kisses the hell out of me.

  Chapter Three

  Erin

  I expect Ben to tear himself away and shove me out of the truck, but he pulls me closer, gentling the hard kiss I’d hammered him with.

  Fire washes me as he caresses my mouth, his tongue sliding inside. My fingers sink into his shirt, finding hard muscle beneath.

  His lips are strong, the burn of unshaved whiskers on my skin. Ben cups my head, holding me steady. I’m shaking all over and feel safe at the same time.

  I want to kiss him forever, but it’s not practical, so we ease apart. He hovers near me, his gaze on my lips, his fingers brushing my cheek.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that since I met you,” he says in a quiet voice.

  I swallow. “Yeah? The nerdy girl with glasses?”

  “The beautiful woman with amazing eyes. I’m the nerd in this equation.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” I say shakily.

  “That’s right. My opinion.”

  I make a noise that sounds like a giggle. Seriously, I haven’t giggled since I was a little kid. But then, I’ve never met a guy who makes me feel like Ben does—silly, young, excited …

  “Want to come in?” I say it casually. No pressure. This doesn’t have to lead to sex. We can just talk. Right?

  Ben hesitates. Any second, he’ll say, I really should be going, and I’ll nod, understanding. No pressure, remember?

  “Sure,” he says.r />
  Ben kills the engine and opens his door. I sit there like a fool until he’s halfway around the truck. I realize he means it—he’s going to accompany me inside.

  I open the door and leap out. As he had at the restaurant, he looks a bit let down, and I realize he wanted to do the gentlemanly thing of opening my door. He really is sweet.

  Ben locks up his truck, and I fumble for my keys to the front door. I find them, drop them, and dive for the ground, groping in the dark. Of course they’ve landed in the gravel beyond the doorstep, outside the circle of the porch light.

  Ben crouches down, helping me look. Our hands touch, and I let out that stupid giggly sound again. Please, make me stop.

  “Careful,” I tell Ben. “There’s a cactus …”

  He yelps as the words come out of my mouth. I have desert landscaping in my small yard—saves water and it’s easy to take care of, as I’m rarely home.

  Ben jerks his arm up. My keys dangle from his hand, and so do spines from the prickly pear he’s shoved them into. He shakes his hand, keys jangling, but I know from experience the spines won’t be dislodged so easily.

  I grab the keys and open the door, waving him inside. I slam the door closed and drop my keys onto a table, hitting the light switch before Ben can fall over the furniture in my tiny house.

  I take him by the arm and pull him down the hall past my bedroom to the bathroom. “Sorry,” I say.

  “I’m the idiot who stuck his hand in a cactus,” Ben rumbles.

  I have the water running in the sink, the antiseptic out of the medicine cabinet, and duct tape from the cabinet on the wall. When I redid the bathroom two years ago, I went with a retro feel, installing a sink with legs, a clawfoot tub, and black and white tile on the floor.

  To Ben, whose family renovates lavish homes in the town of Paradise Valley—the swank stretch that runs from Camelback Mountain north to Shea—it probably looks dorky, but I did it myself with finds from big box stores and the Park and Swap. I had a plumbing party and my dance friends helped out. I was expunging my life of another person, and they knew it.