The Love Club

Chapter Thirteen

A cloud of pink raspberry cotton candy floats down the block, swirling around you and melting to your skin like honeycomb. The source, Russell who is leaning against the chipped turquoise wall of Lolita's Dance Studio, inhaling a long puff of his cigarette, red heart shaped sunglasses balancing on the end of his nose while he tips his head towards the sky, drenching himself in sunshine. His skin glows golden and you imagine he would not look out of place sculpted in an ancient temple of some sort. He spies you approaching a moment later and raises his sunglasses from the bridge of his nose to get a better look.

"Good night, Melvin?" His nonchalant stance straightens, and he quirks a suggestive brow at your dishevelled appearance and creased clothes.

"What's it to you?" You snap, fingers subconsciously reaching up to smooth out your hair.

Russell shrugs, throwing his hands up in surrender as he follows you into the dance studio, "Just didn't think the yuppie had it in him is all."

You whirl at the insinuation, blood boiling. The reasonable part of you would have told you that he didn't mean anything by it, probably just said it to get a rise out of you. But that very part of you dies as soon as the words leave his mouth. The wound is too fresh, too real and it is all you could do not to hide under your bedsheets this morning, torturing yourself with memories of last night.

"Are we going to rehearse or are you just going to stand there and be a dick?"

Russell almost jolts back in shock, and he must see it written all over your face at your own choice of words because his lips curl inwards. A sorry attempt at holding back an amused grin.

"Geez, cool it," he continues to toy with you, a light hearted lilt as he makes his way towards the turntable, fingering the needle, "I kinda like it when your feisty Melvin, it's more fun that way."

Russell joins you in the middle of the studio floor as Wishin' And Hopin' by Dusty Springfield sounds out of the turntable. He reaches an arm around you, splaying his hand flat above the arch of your back and the gentle warmth of his touch surprises you.

"It matches the same tempo as the piece for the ballroom scene," he clears his throat, nodding his head towards the record as if having to justify his song choice.

Russell's fingers reach for yours and he shakes your hand abruptly, "You need t'work on your technique, if you don't have a strong frame the partnership looks weak."

Raising his chin, he locks your arms in place and leads you through the footwork but your mind his elsewhere. Instead, you find yourself focusing on the size of his hand encompassing yours, how to your surprise you are not repulsed by the feeling of his skin pressed against you. But Russell's hands aren't soft like Walter's had been. They are calloused and scarred by years of manual labour and guitar playing. You spot of few specks of dirt embedded around his nail beds and wonder if he had spent his morning under the shade of a palm tree while he worked the soil at the Botanical Gardens.

"Concentrate," he scolds, brows furrowing together disapprovingly.

"I am," you lie.

"Don't step on the one!"

"I didn't!"

Russell gives you a look of warning and clicks his jaw.

"Straighten your back," he commands, pushing against your shoulders and begins taking you through the footwork again.

His gaze never leaves yours as you watch him in the reflection of the mirror. He counts of the beats his feet effortless and fluid, he is in his element, doing what he is born to do. You imitate his movements, back straight, arms firm and then something clicks like a piece of the puzzle sliding into place. Your feet move as if they have a life of their own and you close your eyes allowing yourself to really feel the music and connect to the dance. Allowing yourself to understand what it really means. And for one sweet moment there is nothing but the hums of Dusty Springfield and the sound of Russell's voice like gravel on a driveway as he counts.

Two, three, four. Two, three, four. Two, three, four.

The turntable crackles and you slowly open your eyes, adjusting to the daylight realising that the song has come to an end. Russell leans back against the mirror, coffee-stained t-shirt which reads 'Photosynthesis is fun!' stretches across the hard plains of his chest, a trippy flavourful graphic of a marijuana plant growing happily in the sunshine.

"Good girl," he hums his approval, and it feels like fireworks crackle and explode in your chest, "it's not perfect but it's a hell of a lot better."

Tired and sweaty, you gladly nod your head when Russell glances out the window and suggests you both call it a day. His fingers flex and itch unable to hold still and you suppose you are probably holding him up from a good swell, lounging with his friends or maybe even from taking a certain blonde out for milkshakes and pancakes, after all, he is carving time out of his day to rehearse with you. But there was something about the image of Russell taking that blonde out who had been stuck to him like a wet leaf that squeezed uncomfortably at your chest. You help him pack up his things, hoping to rid yourself of the thought and you exit the studio together, distracting yourself by thinking of the game of cards you and Sally will play tonight, giggling around your kitchen table.

Russell slings his bag over his shoulder but before you part ways, catches his footing and grins at you mischievously. "I have t'ask or it'll be eatin' at me all day," he begins, and you quirk a curious brow, "does Floyd have as big of a dick as he likes everyone to believe or is he overcompensating for somethin'?"

Your nostrils flare and you shove past him, knocking him back a few paces, "Screw you."

"It's a joke!" He half laughs, jogging to catch up with you. "Such a fuckin' prude." He whispers underneath his breath, rolling his eyes when you abruptly brush him off and continue stomping down the sidewalk.

"That's right," you whizz around to face him, chest heaving with unleashed anger, "Melvin, prude, uptight. That's what you think of me isn't it? Then why for one second would you assume I'd even touch Walter?"

Russell stands before you, eyes wide and mouth falling open and shut like a thoughtless goldfish.

"Such a man thing to do," you raise your voice, flailing your arms around and gathering the attention of passers-by, "just because you're constantly thinking with your...dick, doesn't mean I'm thinking with mine!"

Russell quirks a brow, puckering his lips at your statement and you can see the faint pulls of a smile in how his muscles twitch and fall around the corners of his mouth.

"Shut up!" You snap, pointing an accusing finger at him.

"Didn't say anythin',"

"You didn't have to it's that look," you are seething now, words dripping with venom.

"I don't have a look!"

"Oh yes you do, that stupid cocky look that screams I'm better than you."

He adjusts the strap on his shoulder and huffs out a puff of air, running his tongue over his teeth, "Oh so you think I'm cocky?"

"Among other things."

"Well c'mon Melvin, get it off your chest!"

He is baiting you and you know it, but you cannot stop yourself even if you wanted to. It feels good, healthy even to release this pent-up anger that has been stewing inside of you, eating at you from the inside out. The sensible part of you can recognise that it is not fair for Russell to be on the receiving end, but he is here, and he is listening and if you do not scream and rage at this very moment until your lungs give out, you fear you might tear yourself apart.

"Arrogant. Selfish. Bastard."

It is not Russell who you were speaking to anymore but all the men of your past who have hurt and taken advantage of you, crushed your self-worth and made the word 'sorry' stale in your mouth from being in constant rotation. A common theme you realise.

"What the fuck," Russell spits, turning on his heel, heading down the street before either of you can do anymore damage.

A trail of saltwater warms your lips, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand. You had not realised you have been crying. Maybe you will come to your senses and regret your outburst in minutes, hours or days but right now you could not care less. You are liberated and it feels delicious.