The silk, calf-length, asymmetrical skirt was patchwork, a dainty, flared, delicate confection of tiny, two-by-four-inch patches of teal and purple, a skirt for an impoverished princess. The hem flipped when I danced and the elastic waist rode low on my hips if I wanted it to, or higher, on my waist. I’d put on a few pounds of muscle since I bought it, but most of that was in my shoulders and thighs and the skirt still looked good on me. Rad, as the salesgirl had said.
I wore the skirt low on my hips, paired with a peasant top with a drawstring neckline. The blouse was made of a paler fabric, ocean-teal shading to lavender. The amethyst-and-chatkalite necklace I’d bought with the outfit hung with my gold-nugget-and-puma-tooth necklace on its doubled gold chain, between my cleavage. And that was something else new. I had cleavage. Well, sorta. At least a valley, if not a crevasse, thanks to all those extra pounds, a very tiny percentage of which had landed as fat on my boobs. I slid my feet into a pair of purple sandals, with ankle straps for dancing.
I tugged the purple and teal skirt lower on my hip bones, pulling the peasant top lower on my breasts, the tie open with a skin-toned jog bra beneath. Sexy, but showing nothing. The skirt whispered around my calves with each step. I’d worn this on the first night I’d heard Rick LaFleur play the saxophone in the band at the Royal Mojo Blues Company. There had to be a reason I’d chosen to wear this outfit tonight. Was it because Rick was gone, but not totally gone, as in dead and buried? Was it because he had texted me several times since he disappeared with Paka, his new were-black-panther girlfriend, as if keeping in touch with me was important? Not that I had texted back. I wasn’t that stupid. Or was it something else?
I let my mind wander as I swished on a little bronzer to brighten my skin, drew on some lips in a vamp red, and mascaraed my lashes. I didn’t test the movement of my skirt in the mirror, not like I had that first night. That first night dancing, I’d worn a turban. But tonight, I French-braided my hair into three short sections, secured them together at the crown of my head, and let the rest of the hair fall in a straight sheen of midnight black to my hips. I was the same. And not the same. And Rick was gone. I’d stopped mourning, though sometimes it crept back in. Life sans boyfriend—any boyfriend—could be unexpectedly lonely. I smiled at myself in the mirror, scarlet lips and a dress that was sex on a stick. New beginnings often started with the broken bits and shattered pieces of the old. I was not the dumb girl I’d been a few months ago—that gal’s soul had been broken and put back together with bailing wire and duct tape. And life went on. How corny was that?
But just because I’d grown up a bit didn’t mean I’d grown stupid. I strapped on a thigh sheath with a vamp-killer and two stakes and stuck two more into my hair. I looked at myself in the mirror again and let the skirt fall slowly over the weapons. Yeah. I was still me. Maybe I was more me than ever.
The boys were talking when I opened my door, but the chatter stopped when I entered the main room and paused in the doorway. Alex nearly swallowed his tongue and managed, “Shhhh-oot,” instead of what he’d started to say.
Feeling uncertain again, I bunched my skirt with my hands and said, “Thanks.”
Eli’s brows rose with a restrained reaction of some kind, and he said, “Babe. You planning to rock the house tonight? Or George’s dreams?”
“She’s got a date with Bruiser?” the Kid asked his brother.
I looked down at my dress. “Yeah. I’m pretty astounded too. I’m totally out of his league. You know? He’s British. He was raised by a Lady, as in a capital L Lady. He dates vamps, some of whom are royalty. I mean, I was raised in a children’s home.”
“And you can hold your own anywhere with anyone, Janie,” Alex said, staunchly.
“Yeah, but I bet she can’t dance,” Eli said.
“I can, too,” I said, stung.
“Prove it,” Eli said. “Music.” I heard a faint click, and something African-inspired with drums and a low-pitched wind instrument and bells started playing. “No.” The music changed to a Latin beat, horns and drums, hot, with a deep basso rhythm to it. Eli stood and held out his hand. “Yeah. That one, bro. Prove it, babe.”
“How’s that gonna make me feel better about a date with Bruiser?”
“Trust me.”
When I didn’t take his hand, Eli grabbed mine and whirled me into a rough dance I couldn’t even begin to name. It had a six-beat dance pattern that cued as tri-ple step, tri-ple step, step, step, like a boogie-woogie, but the moves were all Latin, hips and shoulders and butt all acting independently of one another but managing to work. Somehow. Eli whirled me under his arm, out, and back in, with a snapping motion that would have put a lesser woman into a body cast. And suddenly I grinned.
“What is this?” I asked.
“The locals called it ‘ha’ dzuuy,’ which I think was translated as ‘hard rain’ in Mayan or some other dead language.” He wasn’t even breathing hard as he twirled me through a complicated set of moves that involved a lot of hip rotation, then slammed me into his side like a side of beef against a rock wall. “My unit was stationed in Mexico for a bit during a war between drug lords. We partied with the locals in our downtime.
“Try this.” His feet continued the same pattern while his hips performed a sinuous, snaky move that could have come directly from my belly-dancing classes, all come-hither and keep-away at once. I followed the step and added a slight dip-and-bounce at the end, rolling my body back up to start the move all over again. Eli looked like I could have knocked him over with a feather—minimalist style—a twitch of lips that signified surprise.
The music ended midnote and I heard knocking on the front door. My date was here.
Oh crap. My date. But my nerves had dissipated somewhere in the dance, and I winked at the Kid as I swung out of Eli’s arms and to the foyer, my feet and hips still moving as I tossed a tiny bag over my shoulder and opened the door on the late-day, May air.
Bruiser’s scent swept in, smelling of citrus, gun oil, and male, riding along with the New Orleans’ air—spring sunshine, heated concrete, and the wet of the Mississippi. It all mixed with the inside scents of flowers and catnip. Though I couldn’t see the weapons, I knew he was wearing them. Bruiser always went armed. He was wearing casual clothes, dark brown slacks and a starched white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a jacket hanging by a finger over his shoulder. Bruiser had great arms, muscular and tanned.