The Dixon Rule (Campus Diaries, 2)
The Dixon Rule: Chapter 43

Confi-Dance

“THIS IS INTENSE.”

I glance around the ballroom of the Silverwood Hotel and wonder if it’s too late to run for my life. The cavernous room is bathed in the crystal glow of chandeliers, casting shadows over the rows and rows of white chairs arranged in a square with a raised stage in the middle. Gilded mirrors and ornate crown moldings adorn the walls, and the dance floor we’ll be tangoing and cha-chaing on today is a gleaming, polished wood.

Some pairs are brave enough to warm up in front of their competitors. The faint strains of classical music float through the ballroom as a middle-aged couple glides across the floor in a waltz. Their feet barely touch the ground. Jesus. They’re incredible. But their count is all wrong.

Or maybe…

“Dixon.” I frown, poking her in the ribs. “We’ve made a mistake.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our waltz is too fast!” I accuse. “We’re going to make fools of ourselves. Did you not look up the proper count for—” Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ FindNʘᴠᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Relax,” she interrupts with a laugh. She pats my arm. “They’re doing a standard waltz. We’re doing the Viennese. Ours is supposed to be faster.”

I relax. Then tense again when I try to take a breath and not enough air gets in. I tug on my too-tight bow tie. Why am I wearing this? Why the hell am I here?

The panic and second-guessing wreak havoc until I notice Diana’s face, flushed with excitement, and that’s when I remember why I’m here. Because she worked hard for this. And because I made a commitment.

“Don’t worry. We’ve got this.” Diana turns away from the floor and lifts her hands to my shoulders, giving them a firm massage, like she’s hyping me to get into the boxing ring. “And if we fail spectacularly, who cares? I didn’t sign up for this thinking we’d win. This was the most fun I’ve ever had.”

“Me too,” I admit. And I’m not lying.

A familiar white-blond head catches my eye. “Babe,” I say under my breath. “Don’t look now, but the enemies have arrived.”

“Who—” She stops. Eyes narrowing. “Confi-Dance.”

“Pricks.”

Viktor and Martinique from Confi-Dance, their uncleverly-named social media channel, saunter toward us with unearned confi-dance. Martinique does look amazing, though, if not a bit over-the-top. Her ensemble is made up of a form-fitting leotard adorned with sequins and rhinestones, which seems like overkill, but it clings to her body and emphasizes her ample boobs. Her skirt is see-through and has more sequins on it in strategic places. I guess the bling is supposed to be eye-catching. Diana did say our outfits need to “dazzle.”

Personally, I prefer Diana’s outfit. Hers is all drama and flair, while Martinique just went for shiny.

Diana’s red leotard, a stretchy fabric with only a hint of adornments, features lacy sleeves with a delicate pattern that goes through her middle fingers to secure them to her wrists. It has a plunging neckline and an open back, and unlike Martinique, she won’t have to worry about her tits bouncing around. Dixon’s are small and perky and contained. She’s wearing a flowy skirt with a high slit, and when we practiced our spins earlier, that material billowed all around her, the slit showcasing her footwork. Apparently, it’s supposed to accentuate her movements. All I know is I can see a lot of thigh, and my dick is happy.

“Don’t you look cute,” Martinique chirps to Diana. She raises a thick, dark eyebrow at me. “Those pants are a bit tight, no?”

They are. Diana dressed me tonight and I complained endlessly. But it’s imperative to show a united front in the face of our enemies.

“Me?” I counter, flicking my gaze toward Viktor. “I can see the outline of your balls, bro. You sure wearing white was a good idea?”

Viktor tightens his lips. “Don’t try to get in my head. It won’t work.”

“Really? Because you seem mighty rattled.”

“I don’t rattle.”

“If you say so.”

“I don’t rattle.”

I grin at him. “Sure, bro.”

“Bullying everyone around you as usual, huh, Ride or Dance?” Martinique says darkly.

“As usual?” Diana echoes, looking amused. “We’ve literally never spoken to another NUABC competitor in our entire lives.”

“Exactly.” Martinique’s voice is snide. “Snobs aren’t welcome here, Ride or Dance.”

“Can you please stop calling us by our social media channel?” I ask politely. “It’s very dehumanizing.”

They both scowl at me.

“Okay, then. See you later, Confi-Dance.” I glance at my girl. “Can we remove ourselves from this creepy showdown?”

“God yes.”

We leave them in the ballroom shooting daggers into our backs.

“I think they might actually be off their rockers,” I tell Diana.

“Certifiable.” She’s still shaking her head about it. “Come on, let’s go backstage. I want to check my makeup.”

The hotel is permitting contestants to use the adjacent banquet hall as a backstage area. The huge space is packed with dancers in various states of undress. There are a lot of sequins and man-bulges in this room.

Diana’s shoes click on the tiled floor on the way to the area where we left our stuff. They look like low-heeled sandals to me, but Diana assured me they’re real dance shoes.

She approaches one of the mirrors in the vanity area and drags a french-tipped fingernail beneath her eye to smooth out the line of her eye makeup.

Damn, she looks so hot right now. I wish she’d kept her hair down, but she said it would be too distracting. Instead, it’s in a tight ponytail secured at the nape of her neck. A red flower is clipped over her left ear. Throw in the bold-red lips and smoky eyeshadow, and I want to bend her over the vanity table and drill her right here in front of everyone.

Once she’s satisfied with her makeup, she turns to face me.

“Repeat after me,” she says firmly. “We are going to captivate the audience.”

“I’m not repeating that. And I’m not captivating my asshole teammates.”

Diana can’t control her laughter. “I still can’t believe Coach Jensen is bringing the whole team to watch us. Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s the devil.” I harrumph. “I told you to contact the NUABC people and make sure they didn’t give him tickets.”

“They wouldn’t have gone along with it. The afternoon audience is always too small. They want to fill those seats.”

“My teammates are going to be heckling us the entire time. I hope you know that.”

She pales. “They’d better not. That could affect our scores!”

It’s chaos back here. I continue scoping out our competitors, but it’s hard to know who is entered in which category. I do know that the Solo and Duo categories are up first, though, while the pairs competing in the five- or nine-dance events don’t go on until late afternoon and evening. That includes Lynsey and her partner, Sergei, so I’m startled when I spot her in the crowd.

Lynsey walks toward us when she catches my eye. She’s in sweats, but her makeup is perfect and her hair is pulled back in the bun I’ve seen her wear a thousand times during ballet performances. Meticulously styled with sparkly hair pins above her temples because that’s Lynsey. Meticulous.

Seeing the two women together, Diana is all glamour while Lynsey is pure elegance. They couldn’t be more different.

“Just wanted to come over and say good luck,” my ex-girlfriend says. She acknowledges Diana with a nod, but those dark eyes are focused only on me.

“Thanks,” I answer. “Right back at you.”

The awkward interaction is cut short when a NUABC official announces that the Duo and Solo competitors need to take their seats in the contestant section. Diana and I return to the ballroom and find ourselves seated next to Confi-Dance, who glare at us. These people need to have sex more often.

In the middle of one section of chairs is the judges’ table. There are six of them, each one stoic-faced with a clipboard in front of them. Classical music reverberates in the room as couple after couple begin to take the stage. Some pairs are pretty good, while others dance in a clunkier manner, like professional athletes lumbering around on celebrity dance shows.

“I think we’re better than most of these pairs,” Diana whispers to me. “This year’s talent isn’t as good as last year’s. That bodes well.”

“Babe,” I whisper back. “We’re not going to win or place. You know that, right?”

My prediction is punctuated when Viktor and Martinique execute a flawless foxtrot that has all the judges nodding to each other. Dickheads. And since all twenty pairs in our category have to perform their first dance before anyone goes twice, Diana and I are forced to follow Confi-Dance, which I hate. I don’t want the last memory in the judges’ heads to be that stupid perfect foxtrot.

Our first dance is the tango because Diana wants to come out strong right out of the gate. I haven’t quite been able to master that damned Viennese waltz.

I’m riddled with nerves as we rise from our seats. I’ve never been nervous before a hockey game, even a championship one, yet I’m sweating from anxiety right now.

Loud yells and hollers blast through the ballroom as we step out onto the floor.

“Yeah, Lindley!”

“GO GET YOURS, LINDLEY!”

Diana gives me a pained look. “Why can’t my friends be here?” she mumbles. Her cheerleaders are at an away game with the football team, which Diana had to get special permission from her coach to miss. And Gigi and the women’s hockey team are playing in Providence.

“At least we’ve got a fan section,” I mumble back, but knowing my teammates are out there only exacerbates my anxious state.

My pulse is racing. Nerves twisting in my gut. What the fuck am I doing here? I’m the most confident man you’ll ever meet. Secure in my masculinity. But these pants are too damn tight, and so is this shirt, and the bow tie is just plain ridiculous—

“You okay?”

The sight of Diana’s face pulls me off the panic ledge. She’s flushed with excitement, and I have to tell myself not to puke. I can’t let her down.

“All good,” I croak out.

A voice comes over the PA system. “Next pair, please get in position.”

God. Kill me.

Diana and I walk to the opposite ends of the polished floor. I swallow hard, rubbing my palms against the front of my obscenely tight pants. Whispers and the rustling of clothing echo around us as everyone waits for us to begin.

“I CAN SEE YOUR BULGE, LINDLEY!”

Jordan Trager’s voice breaks the silence, and I wish murder were legal in Massachusetts because I’d kill him if I could.

As we wait for our music cue, the air is charged with anticipation. Finally, the melody fills the ballroom.

Pray for me.

Diana and I lock eyes. She’s a vision in red and black, silk and lace. Her lips quirk in a smile. I grin back.

Then we both glide forward, marching toward each other in what Diana likes to call “our journey across the floor.”

I extend my hand.

Diana slips hers into it.

Her other hand rests on my shoulder, and suddenly we’re surrounded by the most melodramatic music, courtesy of my melodramatic woman. I command the dance floor with a confidence I only half feel. I don’t have time to wonder if I look stupid. To care that I’m making an ass of myself in front of my hockey team. I’m going to nail this fucking routine if it kills me. Diana follows my lead, surrendering to me the same way she submits in the bedroom. She’s the better dancer, but I’m the lead.

Her steps are precise. Mine are less so but not embarrassingly bad. We communicate with our eyes, knowing exactly what needs to be done. We’ve practiced this routine so many times, I know it by heart, but tonight it’s more seductive than I intend.

My hand finds the small of her back. I caress it and her breath hitches.

Our chests meet, then retreat.

I hear cries of approval in the audience and loud cheering from my teammates, but I drown it out. Only concentrating on Diana, my footwork, and the motherfucking tango. Legs intertwined, I march us with growing confidence, following the seductive steps she choreographed for us. The sultry rhythm gets in my blood. It’s intoxicating. It makes me want to fuck.

My fingers graze her back again, stroking seductively. Christ, this sexual tension is something else. An electric charge that’s about to set fire to this ballroom. I don’t even care that Coach Jensen is probably having a panic attack.

Diana’s heels click on the floor, my feet working hard to match her step for step. Every dip and twist get us closer to the end, and I realize the audience is quiet now. Just watching us. Diana is drama personified, so our tango features a lot of dramatic pauses, and I hear a woman gasp over the music at one point.

Everyone is collectively holding their breath when I lift Diana. She slides down my body and I immediately hook her leg and we march again. Her body is like liquid in my arms, enthusiasm and sensuality radiating in her movements. She’s so hot.

Our bodies arch, legs intertwine as the song reaches its climax. If we were naked, I’d be coming inside her right about now.

We execute a final dip to the cheers of the audience. The bottom of Diana’s ponytail brushes the floor as I hold her in a low dip. She’s suspended there like a sexy angel. With our eyes locked, the final pose is intimate and sexy as fuck. We hold it as the music dies.

My heart is racing. I’m panting, feeling like I just played a full period of hockey without a rest.

There’s a brief silence before applause erupts in the ballroom.

Yeah. We killed it.

Diana beams at me. She’s breathless too.

“We did it!” She throws her arms around me.

I lift her off her feet, glancing over to see the judges scribbling wildly on their clipboards.

“Fuck,” I say as we hurry off the floor. “I wish this score wasn’t combined with the waltz. I think based on the tango alone, we could’ve placed.”

“Oh, look who’s getting invested now,” she teases.

I grin. “Dixon. We slayed that tango. You know that, right?”

Proof of that is in the sulking faces of Viktor and Martinique when we pass their seats. Aw, someone’s looking confi-sad.

“Nice job,” Martinique spits out, as if the words taste bad.

“Thank you,” Diana says magnanimously.

We bypass the seating section because Diana needs to make a quick wardrobe change. The backstage area is still bustling. A few monitors against the wall show live footage of the routines being performed in the ballroom, and I notice Lynsey standing near one with her partner Sergei. When her gaze finds mine and she gives me a smile and a thumbs-up, I can’t decipher her expression.

“You were incredible,” Diana tells me, awe rippling in her voice. “No joke, Lindley. That was phenomenal.”

I can’t deny my ego gets a nice boost hearing that.

Diana opens her garment bag and pulls out another skirt. She slips out of her red, filmy one, replacing it with a pleated number that falls to her ankles. It’s a shimmery white, and the black leotard combined with the white skirt seem to transform her.

I was wrong. Diana is glamour and elegance. She’s both.

“The waltz is more flowy,” she explains, noticing me watching her. “All those sweeping movements. The pleats will emphasize that.”

“Of course,” I play along. “And it’ll show off those indecent ankles. Get all the dicks hard.”

“Exactly.”

We have the Viennese waltz and the cha cha left, but now that I’ve gotten one dance out of the way, my nerves are fading.

“I’m sorry in advance if we don’t win or place,” I say gruffly.

“Honestly, I don’t care. I’m just so happy we did this.” Her gaze softens, her tone now lacking that usual Diana sass. “Thank you.”

“For what?” I say thickly.

She stands on the tips of her high heels and brushes a kiss over my lips. “For everything. Talking sense into me about Percy. Humoring me with this silly stuff.” She waves a hand around the backstage area. “I was wrong about you, Lindley. Turns out you’re actually a good guy.”

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