Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour
CHAPTER 22
Sofi
“Bailando. Bailando.”
The dance floor is packed, the music full blast, the energy off the charts. Everyone lets go and sings the refrain. Including me.
Vincent, who’s part Cuban, is a fabulous dancer. He’s got rhythm in his blood and all the right moves. He makes me look good even though my agility is limited due to my voluminous dress and six-inch stilettos. The song ends and everyone breaks into applause, not moving from the dance floor. I catch my breath.
The next song up is Ed Sheeran’s “Perfect.”
“You up for a slow song?” Vincent, who’s always had a crush on me, anxiously awaits my response.
“Sure.” My voice wavers. I’ve never danced this way with him. Nor been in his arms except for a chummy hug.
With a twitch of a smile, he plants one hand on my back while the other holds up my right hand. I cup my free hand on his shoulder. There’s space between us. It’s not too touchy-feely. He leads me awkwardly. In contrast to our freestyle dance to the upbeat music, there’s hesitancy in his steps. Like he’s nervous or something. Our bodies never touch.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice faltering.
I don’t answer. Our dance is anything but perfect. He even steps on my dress a few times. Feeling sorry for him, I finally nod and shoot him a small reassuring smile. The truth is, it doesn’t feel right. Like we don’t belong together this way.
Suddenly, a growl sounds in my ears. I turn my head. My heart almost stops. Holy macaroni! It’s Roman, his face red with rage. A prickle of apprehension lodges in the back of my throat as he swaggers up to us.
“It’s my turn.” His fiery cobalt eye sears into a surprised Vincent, who’s still shuffling me.
“Hey, dude. What are you doing here?”
On my next rapid heartbeat, Roman forcefully shoves Vincent out of the way and grabs me. I gasp as he wraps his strapping arms around me, drawing me so close my body scrapes his. My forehead flush against his tux, I have little choice but to fling my arms around his neck and turn my head askance so it’s resting on his steely chest. Even in my skyscraper heels, he towers over me. Unlike Vincent, he sways me with confidence and ease. Like we’ve danced this way forever. I melt into him and it’s as if we’re melded together. An electricity welding us. Beneath all the layers of my dress, I feel his erection. Hear his heartbeat. Inside my chest, my heart is thudding. Between my legs, I’m pulsing with liquid heat and white-hot need for him.
Halfway into the song, Vincent, whom I’ve all but forgotten, breaks into our dance.
“I don’t care who you are, but you had no right doing that.”
“Get lost, Blickdick!” barks Roman.
Vincent’s face darkens. “What did you just call me?”
“You heard me, Blickdick!”
“Fuck you.” To my utter horror, Vincent takes a swing at Roman, punching him hard in the face. I shudder at the bone-crushing sound of his fist against Roman’s cheekbone. So dangerously close to his good eye. Millimeters away.
Roman doesn’t flinch nor rub the welt that’s already swelling. He only grows madder. I swear he looks like a foaming rabid dog. His lips snarling, his nostrils flaring.
“No, fuck you!” Wasting no time, he balls his long fingers into a tight fist and—POW!—delivers a blow to Vincent, who’s half his size, with a force so great it sends him flying to the floor. Oh God! Blood is pouring from his nose, dripping onto his tux shirt. Dazed and a mess, he examines his camera. The lens is shattered.
“Fuck, man, you ruined my camera!” Poor Vincent! His Leica camera cost almost three thousand dollars and he worked so hard to save up for it. He looks so forlorn, so defeated. My heart hurts.
Roman looms above him, his menacing expression intensifying. And frightening me.
“If you don’t get the fuck out of here, I’m going to break every bone in your wimpy body. Sofi’s mine.”
Roman’s threat vibrates on my skin. When I sent him the photo of Vincent and me, I only wanted to rouse him. I didn’t expect this. Thank God the wedding guests are too busy dancing or getting drunk to take notice of the brawl. Fear consumes me, thinking Roman will strike Vincent again. Every nerve in my body sizzles. I can no longer stand here being an innocent bystander. On my next breath, I crouch down and scrunching the hem of my dress, I gently dab Vincent’s bleeding nose. The blood seeps through the sumptuous fabric. I don’t care how much this gown is worth. It doesn’t matter.
“Look what you’ve done, Roman!” I cry out, unable to stop Vincent’s nosebleed.
“Let’s go, Sofi!” Roman growls back. With a snap of my head, I gaze up at him, the intensity of my face matching his. I feel my cheeks blazing, rage skating over my skin.
“No, Roman, you can drive home all by yourself. And if you dare touch me—or Vincent—I’ll scream and call for security. And have you arrested!”
Truth is, I’m going to call for a cab and get out of here as fast as possible. Before things get any worse. And tears begin to fall.