The Dixon Rule: Chapter 20

I COME HOME FROM WORK ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON ALL PUMPED UP to rehearse with Shane, only to discover he’s still out golfing with Will. Ugh, such a spoiled brat. I know he likes to joke about being a rich boy, but this dude’s seriously living the dream. What other twenty-one-year-old has the luxury of spending his entire summer golfing and honing his physique?

While I wait for him to get back, I catch up on Fling or Forever, enthralled by an epic catfight between Faith and Ky. Donovan is still running a long con on Leni, and either I’m paranoid or this new chick Marissa is trying to sink her claws into the Connor. Girl, keep walking.

Around seven, Shane texts to say he’s ready, and we head downstairs. I’ve decided to hold our first rehearsal outside, since it’s such a perfect evening. Warm but not too hot, and breezy enough to cool the sweat. Meadow Hill has a tennis court, but I think it’ll be easier to practice on the grass, so Shane and I set up camp in a small clearing in front of the courts. I’m wearing little black booty shorts and a neon-orange sports bra, and I’ve come prepared with an external speaker, my laptop, and a tripod.

“How was your girls’ night with Gisele and Will?” Shane asks dryly, while I adjust the height of the tripod.

“It was fun. I’m meeting Gigi again tomorrow after my breakfast shift for a dress fitting and then she’s coming over for a swim.”

“Excellent. Make sure you both wear your skimpiest bikinis.”

“Only if you wear your Speedo.”

“Deal.” He dips his head, distracted for a moment by his phone. It looks like he’s typing an entire essay.

“Stop texting your ex,” I taunt. “We’ve got work to do.”

He glances up, rolling his eyes. “It’s my dad.”

“You text your dad in multiple paragraphs?”

“Yeah. He’s my best friend. We talk about shit. Got a problem with that?”

I want to call him a dork, but I can’t deny it’s sort of heartwarming. My dad and I are close too, but we don’t engage in long, ongoing text conversations.

“Okay, let’s start.” I approach Shane, all business. “I assume you know the basic steps of the cha cha?”

He stares at me. “No. Why would you assume that?”

“You dated a dancer for four years.”

“She’s a ballerina. And just because she dances ballet doesn’t mean I know ballet. It’s not like I was going around doing pirouettes and jetés and—oh shit, I guess I do know some dance steps.”

I swallow a laugh. Shane’s funny sometimes, I’ll give him that. And he happens to look really fucking good in his rehearsal clothes. I told him to wear something more form-fitting, so he’s in a tight white T-shirt and black joggers. The pants are a thinner material than sweatpants, and although they’re not skin tight either, they do pull tight against his groin when he walks, outlining his generous penis. I still think about how it felt pressed against me when I was in his lap. Why is this thing so big? And—oh my god, something occurs to me. What if it’s even bigger? What if he only had a semi at the pool party? Like, he might have the largest penis of anyone on earth. It could be like twenty-five inches.

“Dixon.”

I snap out of it.

“What the hell’s the matter with you? Your face is redder than a tomato. Are you having an allergic reaction or something?”

Lovely. My face turned red thinking about Shane’s twenty-five-inch penis.

I shake myself out of it. I don’t know what I like less, blushing at the thought of Shane’s equipment or this recent spate of anxiety attacks because my ex-boyfriend smacked me in the face.

I believe the word is punched?

I grit my teeth and turn away from Shane so he doesn’t witness the dangerous mixture of rage and helplessness I know is flooding my eyes.

It’s like there are two Dianas inside me. One of them is furious. She’s saying, What is the matter with you? Go to the cops. Punish him. And the other one is cowering and crippled with shame, ordering me not to waste any more energy on this fucking catastrophe. The bruise has healed, and Percy is blocked from contacting me.

So really, everything is fine now.

It has to be fine.

“Let me finish setting up and then we can get started,” I say, keeping my back to Shane as I set up my tripod.

“Do we really have to film this?”

He sounds so upset that I spin around, needing to verify his expression. Sure enough, his unhappiness appears genuine. I falter then, as I realize I never asked for his consent.

“Ah, fuck.” Remorse flutters through me. “I guess we don’t have to film this if you really don’t want to.”

“I’m not going to embarrass myself in front of your gazillion followers.”

I crack a smile. “You know how many followers I have?”

“I creeped the account the other night.” He scowls at me. “Trial girlfriend.”

I snicker, but my humor fades when I realize what this means. “Look, I’m going to be honest. I make a bit of money by monetizing my posts.” I shrug awkwardly. “It helps pay for groceries and stuff. I don’t expect you to understand because I’m sure you don’t pay for anything—”

He frowns.

“Sorry, I’m not trying to insult you. Truly. I’m only stating a fact. Like, I doubt that you and I have the same expenses.”

“No, I get it,” he says gruffly. “We don’t.”

“Right.” I bite my lip. “All I’m saying is, these silly dance videos help me out in terms of money.”

I do my best to ignore the prickly sensation caused by my confession. I hate admitting weakness or showing vulnerability, especially in front of someone like Shane, who comes from means. Not that I come from poverty. I inherited a major windfall in the form of this condo, and yes, I could sell it the way Thomas did with Aunt Jennifer’s other investment property and take the cash. But I like having a home. Something that belongs to me. Cash is easy to blow, but an apartment is forever. It can be a lifelong investment.

“So yeah, I can work my way around it. Post some solo stuff when I’m rehearsing on my own. But the content with me and Kenji did stupidly well.” I give him a hopeful look. “If it helps, I’ll split any ad revenue with you. It’s not a lot, but—”

“No,” Shane interrupts. “I don’t need that at all. Whatever, just film us. But I get approval of everything you post, so I don’t look like too much of an ass. I don’t trust your editing.”

He shouldn’t. I definitely would’ve given him the asshole edit. I hide a smile and set up the equipment.

“Okay.” I stalk toward him. “Our basic rhythm is slow, quick quick, slow, quick quick.”

“That’s easy enough.”

“Don’t get cocky. The cha cha is all about timing. One misstep and you’ve ruined everything.”

“But no pressure.”

“Our starting position is facing each other, and the only step you need to know right now is the chasse step. Start with your weight on your left foot. Left foot, Lindley!”

“Sorry, I was looking at your foot.”

I position his hands—his right one on my left shoulder blade, his left in my right hand. He’s got big hands, probably on account of his two-foot dick. As we slowly run through the steps, heat rushes through me, and I know it’s not from the warm breeze snaking over our bodies. I really need to stop hypothesizing about his penis.

Normally, I love the cha cha. It’s fast and lively and makes me feel like a kid. But Shane’s expression is anything but jovial.

“This is supposed to be a fun dance!” I chastise him. “You look like you’re in a prison camp performing for your captors. Smile.”

He bares his teeth.

I almost keel over laughing, which messes up our rhythm again.

“Sorry, let’s start over. And stop staring at your feet. We need to maintain eye contact the entire time. It’s how we communicate. Look at me, not your feet.”

“But then how do I know if they’re doing what they’re supposed to be doing!” He sounds frazzled, his forehead creased with frustration.

“Ready?” I restart the music and count us in. “Slow step to the right, quick-quick to the left. Slow, quick quick, slow, quick quick.” I yelp when Shane nearly crushes my toes in my sneakers. “Okay, stop. That wasn’t it at all. We need to work on our timing.” I sigh because that’s going to be the hardest part, doing this in sync. “Your quick steps need to be quicker.”

He groans. “This is the worst thing I’ve ever experienced in my life.” He turns toward the camera. “Don’t judge me.”

“No, we got this,” I assure him. “Trust me.”

Although his footwork is better next time, his body remains stiffer than a brick wall.

“The cha cha is all about the hips. Every step, roll your hips. Like this.” I show him.

“I’m not doing that.”

“Yes, you are. Push your hip out when you do the chasse step. Then pop it back in on the cha cha step.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Just a little more hip movement,” I encourage. “You can do it.”

He growls at me. “I’m a hockey player. My hips don’t move that way.”

“I guarantee they do.”

I plant my hands on his waist, then bring them around to the top of his butt.

“Dixon,” he says in amusement. “What are you doing?”

“It’s all in the ass and glutes. I promise. Can I touch your butt?”

“Obviously.”

I slide my hands down so I’m cupping his buttocks. Jesus. This is the tightest, most muscular ass I’ve ever felt. I’ve dated athletes before, but Shane’s butt is something else.

“You have the ass of a marble statue,” I marvel.

He smirks. “I know.”

“All right, not to be crude”—I peek over my shoulder at the camera—“cover your children’s ears, people. But dancing is basically vertical sex. You’re too rigid, Lindley. You need to move your hips the way you would if we were…you know.”

His eyes gleam. “Are you asking me to vertically fuck you?”

“Shane,” I warn. I lightly smack his butt. “C’mon, let’s repeat that step.”

“While you squeeze my ass?”

“Yes, trust me. I’ll be able to show you how to relax the hips.”

“This sounds like the premise for a really bad porn scene.”

“You wish.”

After I count us in again, Shane thrusts his hips as if he’s trying to bang his way through my body. It rips a wave of laughter out of me.

“No, you have to roll the hips.” I squeeze the sides of his ass. “Here. Move from here.”

We try again, and this time his movements are a bit looser and less pornographic.

“See? You feel the difference, right?”

An angry voice interrupts our moment of progress. “What’s the meaning of this?”

I glance over my shoulder to see our neighbor Carla stalking toward us. “Oh, hey, Carla. We’re rehearsing for a dance competition.”

She crosses her arms over the front of her flower-patterned silk blouse. “Is one of the requirements fondling each other’s rear ends?”

“No, but it’s more enjoyable this way,” Shane says, winking at her.

My hands drop from the rear end in question. “Sorry. Nope. I realize how this looks.” I fight a laugh as I offer a fuming Carla a reassuring smile. “I promise we’re not engaging in lewd behavior.”

“You’d better not be,” she replies primly. “With that said, I will be raising this at the HOA meeting.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything else, Carla.” I give her a wave as she marches away in a huff.

“I don’t understand the people in this apartment complex,” Shane muses, watching Carla go.

“Sometimes I think it’s some bizarre government experiment where they placed all these random people to see what would happen. Like, everyone has a unique role to play but nobody knows what the roles are.”

“Why are you and I here?” He sounds intrigued.

I think it over. “You’re here because…”

“I’m the wildcard.” His eyes light up. “They’re all like, what the fuck’s he gonna do?”

“Sure.” I pat his arm. “You’re the wildcard.”

We practice for another thirty minutes, and as much as I don’t want to accept it, I think the cha cha is a lost cause, at least for the preliminary process. I have no doubt I could bring Shane’s skills up to a decent level in time for the competition itself in October, but the audition video is due in a few weeks. There’s no way he’ll be good enough by then, and I’m worried we won’t qualify if we go with the cha cha. I’ll give it a few more sessions, but I suspect we’ll have a better chance with the tango.

“What are you up to now?” Shane asks on our walk back to Red Birch.

“I need to finish watching last night’s FoF. I’m dying to see who gets released from the Sugar Shack.”

“I can tell you if you want. I watched it last night.”

I swivel my head toward him. “I’m sorry, what?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t have anything better to do. Anyway,” he says, ignoring the giggles I’m convulsing with at his expense, “why don’t I go pick up some dinner? We’ll finish watching your episode, then watch the new one. And then, maybe, you know…”

I stop in the middle of the path and eye him in amusement. “No, I don’t know.”

Shane waggles his eyebrows. “We go to the bedroom and…”

“Are you asking me to have sex with you?”

“You don’t have to look so repulsed.”

I snicker at him. “We don’t even like each other.”

“We tolerate each other,” he protests.

“Oh, what an endorsement to get me into bed! I tolerate you, Diana. Please, let me make sweet love to you.”

“That’s not what I meant. All I’m saying is, we ought to consider a friends-with-benefits-type situation.”

“I thought you said you don’t want to do one-night stands anymore.”

“This wouldn’t be a one-night stand. It’ll be a long-term thing. I mean, if we already have to pretend to be all over each other this summer for Percy’s sake, we might as well put our hands on each other for real. What do you have to lose?”

“My patience. My dignity. My purity.”

Shane releases an exasperated breath. “Must you keep pretending this isn’t a thing?” He vaguely waves at his body.

“What are you pointing at?”

“My dick. You need to quit acting like it doesn’t get you hot.”

“Oh my God, you’re so arrogant.”

He just grins. “So…about this friends-with-benefits proposal?”

I slap my forehead in mock remembrance. “Oh, shit, I forgot to tell you. I actually screen all of my friends with benefits very, very carefully. There’s a whole application process.”

Shane plays along. “Oh, is there. May I have a copy of the application?”

“Unfortunately, I’m in the process of editing it to make it more in-depth, so I’m not open to applicants at this time. But maybe you can apply next year.”

He nods solemnly. “Please let me know when a slot opens up again.”

“You will be the first person I notify,” I promise. “And by first, I mean dead last.”

We’re passing Sweet Birch when Percy suddenly exits the front door. The paranoid part of my brain wonders if he’s been lying in wait. Hiding in the lobby waiting for his opportunity to pop outside. But my logical side says that’s crazy. He couldn’t have timed this so well.

His expression darkens when he spots us, but he recovers quickly and pastes on a weak smile.

Shane stops, but I reach for his hand to pull him forward. “Keep walking,” I murmur.

“Diana,” Percy calls at our backs. “Do you have a second?”

I ignore him and quicken my pace, practically dragging Shane along. The anxiety rises again, compressing my throat. It’s a familiar sensation now, and I hate that it’s familiar. Thanks to Percy, I feel helpless and trapped. I want to call my dad and beg him to come here, to heave Percy up by the collar and throw him into a different fucking state. But I can’t ask my father to solve my problems. I have to solve them myself.

I inhale as many deep breaths as I can, but I only feel more lightheaded by the time we enter our lobby.

I don’t know what Shane sees on my face—I pray it’s not fear—but whatever it is makes his jaw tense. “Do you want me to go have a word with him?”

“No. I’m hoping if I ignore him, he’ll eventually go away.”

That doesn’t seem to satisfy Shane, but after a beat, he shrugs. “Fine. Let me know if you change your mind.” We reach the top of the stairs. “What should we get for dinner?”

I realize my appetite is completely gone. The sight of Percy’s face annihilated it.

“You know what, I changed my mind about dinner. I have a headache,” I lie. “I think I’m going to take a shower and lie down for a bit.”

“Are you sure—”

“Later, Lindley.” I slide into my apartment before Shane can argue.