Keep Dancing
Authors: Leslie Wells
Keep Dancing
by
Leslie Wells
Author of
Come Dancing
Reviews for Leslie Wells’ previous novel,
Come Dancing
— an Amazon Romantic Comedy Bestseller:
“Once you start, you are completely unable to put it down.”
—Devilishly Delicious Book Reviews
“It read like a very, very good romantic comedy movie.”
—Michelle & Leslie’s Book Picks
“You know what? Sometimes a book like this comes along and takes me out of the niche reading that I tend to find myself in…So very sex+the city.”
—Must Read Books or Die
“Displayed against the glittery excess of the 80’s, Wells pens a sexy, sweet, and somewhat complicated romance…Wells builds an emotionally poignant love story, abounding with romance and humor.”
—Smexy Book Reviews
“Like a well-oiled machine or a well-tuned guitar, Julia and friends work their way into your heart…Just try to resist Jack and his imperfect life!”
—Satisfaction for Insatiable Readers
“Leslie Wells brings to life all the eclectic, edgy style of New York City at the dawn of the 1980s as she spins a story of spine-tingling romance and the complex issues that can threaten a relationship…a love story with lots of heart and plenty of heat.”
—Literary Inklings
“
Come Dancing
is not your typical girl meets musician type of story…There is music, dancing, crazy groupies, misunderstandings, and romance, all set against the backdrop of New York City during the 1980s…I’m glad I found out about this author.”
—The Life and Times of a Book Addict
Copyright © 2015 by Leslie Wells
Cover photo © Ilina Simeonova/Trevillion Images
Cover design by Laura Klynstra
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, places and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to actual events or places, or to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
For Peter, with all my love
8: I Can’t Stand Up for Falling Down
11: Every Day I Write the Book
19: Another One Bites the Dust
High Fidelity
“What page are you up to?” asked an accented male voice. I could hardly hear over the record’s thumping bass in the background.
“I’m almost ready to leave. I just have to type up one more report.” Pressing the phone to my ear, I gazed at the manuscripts cluttering my desk.
“You’d better hurry up. Little Jack’s growing cobwebs.”
“I doubt that.” I smiled at the image.
His voice deepened. “Baby, when you get home, I’m gonna boil your cabbage.”
“Are you trying to turn me on with your dirty blues talk?”
“I sure am. Hurry it up.”
On the way out, I stopped by Meredith’s office. “Have a great break!” I said. She took off her half-rims and rose from her desk.
“Are you and your rocker boyfriend going somewhere fabulous for Christmas?” she asked. The managing editor was one of only two friends who knew I was with Jack.
“I think we’re staying put. They’re getting ready for their big tour, so he’s been rehearsing nonstop.” I dug my gloves out of my pocket and put them on.
Meredith smiled. “Well, be sure to spend some quality time together.” She came over and gave me a hug. “I hope you aren’t taking a lot of work home. It’ll all be sitting here when you get back. And unfortunately, your Neanderthal of a boss will still be lurking in his cave.” Harvey, the publisher, was known for putting the moves on young female employees, but for the past few months he’d been letting me alone.
“I’m only bringing one manuscript with me. Have a great holiday!” I said.
“You too,” she called out as I continued down the hall.
Half an hour later, I picked my way across the slushy sidewalks, past Canal Jeans, Zoot, and other vintage shops, and continued down lower Broadway. The smell of burnt chestnuts from the street vendor hung heavily in the bitterly cold late December air. I shifted the shoulder strap on my backpack and tried to beat the traffic light.
It had been so hard to concentrate at work today. I’d blown it in the production meeting, daydreaming about my upcoming time off with Jack when I should have been listening to my boss. As Harvey droned on about the print run for a new self-help book—
Cherishing Your Inner Child
—I’d had a vision of Jack, his choppy dark hair falling into his eyes, silky lashes brushing his cheeks, lowering his body slowly, teasingly…Every free moment when I wasn’t answering the phone or typing letters, I was fantasizing about what new thing he would do to me tonight.
In a fever of anticipation, I hurried around the corner and slogged over to the entrance of his building. Before I could even reach for the handle, the doorman opened it for me.
“How’s it going?” I asked Tom as he walked me to the elevator.
“I can’t believe we’ll be ringing in 1982 in a week.” Tom pressed the button. “We’re supposed to get a lot more snow this weekend. I hope that won’t put a crimp in your plans.”
I pictured us snuggled together under the covers, lost in our own world, not bothering to leave the loft because we could devise our own entertainment. “Oh no, I don’t mind at all,” I said airily as I stepped inside.
Whooshing up to the penthouse, I reflected on my surroundings. After living with Jack for over a month, I was getting used to the cushy digs. I still paid the rent on my narrow Broome Street loft in SoHo, and I stopped by every week to make sure a pipe hadn’t burst, or that it hadn’t been broken into. But I could feel myself getting soft. I’d quickly become used to a doorman building where I didn’t have to worry about getting mugged coming in at night. An elevator instead of the three flights to my walk-up. Noiseless heating vents instead of radiators that were either cold to the touch or clanked loudly at five a.m., like someone was taking a hammer to the pipes. Ordering takeout from any restaurant that struck our fancy. Not to mention, getting to hear chords being woven into songs that would eventually climb the Top 40 charts. I still felt like pinching myself every time he picked up his Gibson. Jack seemed to have endless variations in his repertoire—and not just in the musical sense. Every night, he made mind-blowing love to me. On top of that—so to speak—I was still in a state of disbelief that I was living in sin with the sexiest British guitarist on the planet.
The elevator slid open and I pushed through the front door. Jack didn’t lock his apartment, which made me uneasy at times. Ever since I’d moved in with him, I’d tried to convince him to use keys, but he said he’d only leave them all over the city. At least he had doormen to buzz him whenever a visitor showed up.
The front table was covered with piles of Jack’s mail, neatly sorted by his manager, Mary Jo. I’d go through the stacks of invitations later; Jack usually tossed them out, but they fascinated me. Sometimes there was a museum’s first night, gallery opening, film premiere, or party that I’d want to go to. So far he’d humored me, although it wasn’t really his thing. I guessed for someone like him, who’d seen and done it all, those events were pretty boring. But not for me; I was still fairly new to Manhattan, and a novice at such glam affairs.
I removed my knitted hat in front of the large wall mirror. Someone—it didn’t seem like the kind of thing Jack would do—had inserted tickets from Four to the Floor’s past concerts all the way around the edges of the frame. Every time I saw the reminders of Jack’s wild life, I wondered who he’d been with at all those shows in all those cities.
Resisting the impulse to rip them off the mirror, I tried to tame my staticky hair. My loosely layered style was in imitation of my female rock idol, Chrissie Hynde of the Pretenders. Before I met Jack, I couldn’t afford a salon, so I’d propped the album cover on the bathroom sink and cut my hair with kitchen scissors. Now my chestnut layers had grown to the middle of my back, and needed a trim. Frowning, I met my gaze in the mirror. People tended to comment on the blue of my eyes, but I still saw myself in the glasses that had been the bane of my teenage existence. Only when I left for college did I scrape together my after-school job money and buy contacts. Much of the time, I still felt like that four-eyed girl hiding behind her thick lenses.
As I pulled off my snow-sluiced boots, I heard the shower running. Jack’s guitars were propped up on the couch and on various chairs; he must have been working on a new song. Even though The Floor had just released a new album and were going on tour in February, Jack never seemed to stop creating new material. If I hurried, I’d have time to get him back for what he did to me last night.
I went through the loft to the kitchen and ran the water until it was icy cold. Filling a large cup, I walked past the fireplace and a second sitting area filled with guitar stands, amps, keyboard, and drum set.
The shower’s still running; better hurry
. I entered his spacious bedroom and stepped over some clothes that he’d dropped: jeans and one of his “Just Say No” tee-shirts. His fans definitely had a sense of humor; they’d been sending them by the truckload ever since the campaign began a few months ago.
Stealthily I turned the knob to the bathroom and listened.
Shower still going full-on—good
. I cracked the door and peeked in. His back was to me, wet hair streaming down to just below his shoulders. God, Jack was sexy with his long thick mane, muscled shoulders tapering to his lean waist; the lovely curve of his rear. He was humming something, looking down as he soaped his chest.
Now!
I darted to the shower door, reached up over the top, and dumped the ice-cold water down his back.
“Aaagh!” Jack whipped around, wet hair flying, his lightning bolt necklace askew. He glared at me for a moment through the steamy shower glass. I was practically doubled over, laughing at his pained expression.
“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, hands on his hips. I backed away as he quickly slid the door open. “I’m gonna get you for that!”
“No, you’re not!” Spinning around, I ran through the bedroom, almost tripping over his jeans. I raced toward the front of the loft, figuring he wouldn’t follow me since he was dripping wet. But his feet pounded behind me, slapping on the wooden parquet floor. Just as I reached the couch, an arm snaked around my waist. I pushed at his wrist, trying to peel him off, but his other hand clutched me through my blouse. His damp body pressed into my back, his mouth at my ear.
“You’re quick. But I’m quicker,” he murmured.
I reached around behind me and grabbed him in the one place I knew would have an effect.
“Now you’ve got my attention.” He made the mistake of relaxing his grip on my waist. I let go of him and scooted around the corner of the couch.
“So you’re playing dirty,” he said. He brushed a damp lock of hair out of his eyes.
“And you were playing fair last night?” I taunted him. “Hiding my manuscript while I was changing clothes. Then you wouldn’t give it back until I gave you not one, but two—“
“As I recall, you seemed to enjoy yourself.
Oh, Jack…do that again
…” he mimicked in his falsetto Julia voice.
“Only because I was under duress.”
We faced each other across the couch; me in my rumpled work clothes, Jack breathing hard, naked and dripping wet. Fine dark hair sprinkled his chest and came together in a suggestive line below his navel, now mostly obscured. His smile gleamed dangerously.