Read the Disco Bar Cute Meet!

It’s been a while since we’ve talked here. Yeah…I’ve been busy trying to finish the book in question. It’s been an experience writing a book that took place when I was two and writing 3 character POVs. Yikes. Everything else seems easy now.

But I thought I’d pop in and let you read the cute meet scene from Disco Bar. As a reminder, Disco Bar drops July 16th on Kindle, paperback, and Kindle Unlimited. It is full-length. I wasn’t sure it would be, but it got there. I did have to cut this teaser off at a certain point because Amazon only allows the first 10% to be used off site if the book is in KU, and we were cutting it close if I didn’t stop mid-chapter. You’ll get the idea, though.

Enjoy!

And add Disco Bar to your TBR! Pre-order is only 99 cents.

Chapter 2: (Nicole’s POV)

The man at the door is built like a brick shithouse and looks me up and down with such a sneer that I shrink behind Tima and her friend. Miriam Price is so beautiful that I surely look like the stepsister who wears hand-me-downs to the ball as I practically whimper behind her blonde hair and minidress.

To my surprise, the bouncer nods. Both women with me smile at the bouncer, and Tima grabs my hand, leading me through the door.

I’ve never been in a place like this. It’s beyond my wildest imagination, and I squint as my eyes adjust to the light. And…there’s a lot of light.

Purple and white shimmers come off the disco ball above us. The dance floor, lit in purple and blue neon lights and raised in the center of the room, gives the impression of a boxing ring as patrons gather around the base of it. Two bars, one on each side of the room, offer drinks. One of the bars is dedicated to beer and wine, the other to hard liquor and mixed cocktails.

Next to me, Miriam and Tima both wiggle their butts and bump hips in time to the music, laughing. The fringe around Tima’s top shakes wildly and draws all eyes to her cleavage. Eventually, Tima notices I’m not engaged in the celebration of a night out and straightens her face. “Close your mouth. You look like you’re catching flies. Go to the bar and get a drink. It’ll make you feel better.”

I glance at the bar, confused. “I’ve never ordered a drink at a bar. What do I do?”

Wrong thing to say.

“I can’t help you,” she says, and I hear the disappointment in her voice. “We’ll be over in the booth with those guys.” She points to a booth behind the dance floor. I smile a little because I’m pretty sure Tima and Miriam aren’t fitting in that booth with eight men and another woman already in it and gathered around something on the table in front of them.

Tima and Miriam walk off, and I make a beeline for the bar. I may not be a big drinker, but drugs scare me to death. If I have to choose a chemical here, I’ll go with alcohol. Besides, Tima said something about a Soviet drink I should try.

I approach the crowded bar and quietly try to hide and get a drink at the same time, which won’t work. People around me wave dollar bills in the air and yell things at the bartenders waiting on them. The music is loud, so I can’t hear much beyond the people directly in front of me ordering their drinks. A woman a few people over leans across the bar and pulls her shirt down, licking her lips at the male bartender until he slides over to serve her. I look down at my halter top. Yeah, there’s no way I can pull this down without my boobs coming out entirely.

“You have to get in there. Don’t be shy,” a voice says next to my ear, startling me.

“Is it that obvious I’m not a big bar person?” I ask, turning to the man who just spoke to me.

Dear. Sweet. Lord. Christ. Jesus.

My eyes move over the man, and my stomach drops like I’m in a runaway elevator. He’s a couple inches taller than an average man, but he leans down to make eye contact at my level. His hair is somewhere between long and short and curls nicely at his neck except for some curls that he’s tamed around his forehead. His hair is dark, and he sports a perfectly trimmed, dark mustache I want to smooth with my index fingers because he looks so much like that actor who was in that car movie, albeit a bit younger. His brown eyes are the most magical I’ve ever seen. Granted, that could be because the disco ball’s light shimmers over his face. He smiles, showing perfectly white teeth that are mildly crowded around the canines like my own.

I guess him to be about thirty-five, maybe a year or two older, and a quick perusal of the length of his body tells me he’s a fashionable dresser. This is a man who cares how he looks. I can imagine him lint brushing his black shirt which is open a few buttons and showing a smattering of chest hair. The amount of dark hair is so perfect – not enough to be obnoxious, but enough to tell me he’s well past puberty.

“Did you need help then?” he asks, tilting his head to the side and studying my face.

I wonder what he sees. Can he tell this outfit is borrowed? That my hair probably doesn’t get this feathered on a normal night?

What would Tima do? What would Tima do? I chant the question in my head as I throw my head back to position my hair perfectly and smile the biggest smile I can. She’d flirt with him.

“I’m a little shy. Do I just push through?”

“With that top? You could just shimmy through that line of men over there and get pretty much whatever you want. Dex Holden,” he says, holding out his hand. “Let me help you.”

“I’m Nicole. OK, Dex. I’ll have a white communist.”

He squints, and his lips move into a smirk. “What?”

“Um, I may have got that wrong. White…Russian? Do they have those here?”

He laughs. He actually freaking laughs, and it’s so beautiful – so engrossing – that I’m not mad that he’s laughing at my expense. I wring my hands, wondering what to do next now that I’ve obviously turned him off. I jolt in surprise when his warm hand is suddenly on my lower back.

“That was a good one,” he says, shaking his finger at me. “I’ll have to remember it. You’re funny.” He pushes me forward a bit as he nudges us both up to the crowded bar.

The man next to him sneers at the intrusion but soon takes a step back when he sees Dex. “Sorry, Mr. Holden,” the man says, holding up his hands like he’s being robbed. He moves further down the bar, and Dex and I lean comfortably against the wood.

Dex raises his hand to get the bartender’s attention. Other hands are raised near us, tits are out, and some patrons even wave large bills at the two bartenders working. To my surprise, the bartender approaches Dex immediately. “What can I get you, Mr. Holden?”

Is Dex someone important here?

“Do you own this place?” I ask.

Dex smiles and orders our drinks at the same time he slides a ten-dollar bill across the bar, telling the bartender to keep it. When the bartender leaves, Dex turns to me and casually leans on the bar like he does own the place. “Not yet, sweetheart. Owners don’t usually pay for drinks,” he says with a smile. “But I’m well-respected, and I tip well. Why are you here?”

I jerk my head in the direction Tima walked. “My roommate dragged me out. I got fired today. I guess this is her attempt to cheer me up.”

The bartender appears with my drink and a martini for Dex, and I stare at the beige concoction in front of me.

“You’ve never had one of those before, huh?” Dex asks.

I shake my head. “I’m kind of a drinking virgin except for a few sips of wine.”

Dex leans closer to me. “Well, let’s pop that cherry, shall we?” He whispers it in my ear, and I shiver as his breath moves over my lobe and down my neck. It’s suddenly very warm in the club, and I’m hyper-aware of the sensory experiences around me. The lights move over every surface of the room, and the music switches to a faster song.

He clinks his martini glass with my white Russian and downs half his drink in one go. Pulling the olive out of the glass, he sucks it off the toothpick and focuses back on me. I’ve never held the attention of a man like this before, and I’ve certainly never had the attention of a man like him.

“Why’d you get fired? Fuck a coworker?” He waggles his eyebrows.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Do you have a reputation?” he asks, but there’s laughter in his voice. He’s teasing me.

“That’s the funny thing about it. I certainly don’t.” I taste my drink, barely sipping it, and immediately put it back down. Ew.

“Don’t like alcohol either, huh?” Dex says, picking up my glass and swirling the creamy liquid. “I better taste it to make sure Robbie made it right.” Tilting the glass, he swallows a large gulp of my abandoned cocktail. He smacks his lips for a moment and then waves the bartender over again by only waggling two fingers.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Holden?” the bartender asks.

“Nothing is wrong. Can you get this beautiful woman a Shirley Temple?”

The bartender nods and walks away. “What’s a Shirley Temple?” I ask. My fingers itch to wave down the bartender and tell him I’m fine. The drink is fine. I don’t like making waves, and I don’t want him to make me a different drink.

Dex laughs and rubs his face. “You really don’t get out much, do you? Relax, it’s a virgin drink.” He stares at me a moment. “I think you’ll like it. I know I like the occasional virgin…drink.” Heat moves up my neck and to my cheeks. “Now, tell me why you got canned. I’m very interested in hearing this story.” He sets his martini down, and I’m mesmerized by the purple light bouncing off the clear fluid.

I blink, trying to think and not look at every little detail about anyone and anything around me. “They said I needed to go to church more.”

“Jesus Christ.” Dex’s eyes widen like he’s never heard such a thing. He probably hasn’t. It’s clear we come from two different worlds.

“Literally,” I mumble. He probably can’t hear me over the loud music. I lean forward and speak next to his ear, and he puts his hand gently at my waist. I’ve seen men do this with Tima and Miriam, but never to me. I stumble a little, but his hand at my waist keeps me upright. “I worked at a religious grade school.”

He gives a short nod and a smile. “Well, that’s some shit, huh?”

The bartender brings my drink and sets it in front of Dex. Not me. The man slings his white bar rag over his shoulder and nods at Dex in a show of respect. The bartender doesn’t move to the next customer, breathe, or smile until Dex approves the drink.

“Are you sure you’re not the owner? If not the owner, are you the manager?” I ask.

“Neither.” He slides the drink to me after it meets his approval. “Maybe someday,” he says, sighing. “I own my own dance studio a few blocks away. I find talent here. They know me.”

“Talent? What kind of talent?”

“Dancers mostly. I need teachers or demonstrators. I find people who can dance, pay them a few bucks to show my classes some moves, and everyone’s happy.”

“What kind of dance?” My eyes dart around the room. Modern styles, I’m certain.

“Disco mostly, but I teach a little of everything. I even teach jazz and tap classes for children. Those have a waitlist a mile long and fill up fast. Everyone wants their little Suzy to learn jazz.” He rolls his eyes. “Even more annoying are the old people who are trying to relive their youth. Learning the Hustle is the midlife crisis of the Midwest. You understand?”

“I think so.”

“You’ve never heard of Holden School of Dance?”

“I don’t get out much,” I say.

“Not to places like this, huh?” Dex asks, taking a sip of my old drink.

I look around again, and a small smile slides up one side of my mouth. A smirk, really. “No, I mean anywhere. I don’t get out.”

“That seems a waste. You’re beautiful.” Dex smiles again.

A blush creeps up my neck. Thankfully, Dex probably won’t notice with the bar lighting.

“Will you dance with me?” he asks, sliding his hand up from my waist and trailing his fingers over my arm.

….