Page 6 of Spiced!

Dennis, who by this point had fully committed to the evening, produced a bill from his wallet with the dignity of a man making an investment in tech stocks.

I stepped down between sets for water and an orange Fanta to find Benji already holding both.

“Madison wants to dance with you,” he said.

“I’m a performer,” I said. “Not a—”

“She’s the bride.”

“I know she’s the bride.”

“It’s her last night as a free woman.”

“She is gaining a husband, not entering a correctional facility.”

“She would like to dance with you,” Benji repeated. “The crowd wants it. I want it. Rod appeared at the pass-through three minutes ago. He looked at Madison, then at you, then back at Madison, then went back to the kitchen. You know what that means?”

I chugged my Fanta. “Rod wants it, too.”

“Yep. Rod wants it, too. He might even leave his lair just to watch.”

I glanced at Madison. She was looking at me with her full-moon eyes and both hands clasped again. She had, at some point, acquired a foam tiara that sat precariously atop her veil.

I finished my Fanta and rolled my neck.

“Tell Jacks to play something danceable,” I said. “Not his usual EDM crap, something with a real beat and words, preferably in Spanish so they’re sexy.”

Benji was already texting before I finished the sentence.

The crowd parted without being asked, then the human instinct to create a circle around something that was about to happen took hold. The ring was wide with good floor space at the center.

Madison stepped forward.

She was probably ten drinks past her usual limit. Her veil fluttered in the draft from the A/C vent blasting down from the circle’s center. Her foam tiara was nearly falling off.

I sauntered forward, my leg band now less impressive, as I’d emptied it of cash before stepping into the ring.

I bowed like some Elizabethan noble.

The crowd hooted.

Sharper than her alcohol blood level suggested, Madison giggled, then curtsied.

The crowd hooted louder.

We started slow with a simple two-step. It was nothing ambitious, the kind of thing you might do at a wedding with someone who’d never danced before. She was actually decent, far better than the “Mrs. Always Right” sash, and she knew it. She stood up a little straighter when she realized I was genuinely dancing with her rather than managing her.

“You’re good,” I said into her ear.

“My mom made me take lessons,” she said. “I hated it until literally this second.”

Her hands fixed themselves around the back of my neck as I smiled and moved us around the circle.

The bridesmaids shrieked.

Madison blushed.

We did a little turn.