After The Dance Read Online Free Page B

for with most guys. So we danced, and just as the song was ending he leaned over and kissed me. Yes, on the lips and, similar to the dance, it wasn’t at all vulgar. And no, I’m not going to lie; it was, well, kind of nice. Not wonderful, not earthshaking, but nice as far as kisses go.
    But after all that, I felt it best to put some distance between us. What do you mean “why?” The disclosures, the dance, the kiss, the glazed look in his eyes—they all spelled trouble, girl. Carl, nice guy that he is—or seems to be—is simply moving too fast in a direction that I have absolutely no interest in exploring with him. So when he asked if I was coming back next Friday, I lied and said I’d already made plans. As it stands now, I don’t see where I have any choice.
    Course now, if circumstances were different—like, if he lived across town somewhere—I probably wouldn’t be so quick to rule out a quiet jaunt in the boudoir. But the realityis, the man lives next door—a distance that would be much too close for comfort when it all came crashing to an end, as it ultimately would. I told you, girl, “three strikes and you’re out.” That’s the policy. And until I run into the man who causes me to think otherwise, there will be no exceptions. Romance? Yes, it makes for good reading, but really—I have no illusions. None whatsoever.

HIM
    Okay, I’d be lying if I said that Faye’s company hasn’t meant a lot to me. Hanging out with her on Friday nights most definitely beats the heck out of spending them alone. I really thought we were starting to connect and I was hoping she felt the same. But lately she’s been avoiding me. For two weeks straight now, she’s given me the brush-off when I’ve asked her about coming over to watch videos.
    “Sorry, Carl, I’ve already made plans for the evening.”
    Plans, my foot! Who does she think I am, Sam Sausage Head or somebody? I know she’s not doing anything other than sitting over there with her head propped up behind one of those doggone Harlequins. Sure, my feelings are hurt. When was the last time a woman told you that she’d rather spend time with a paperback than with you?
    At first I was fairly levelheaded about it. I said, hey, there are plenty of available women in the world. If she doesn’t want to be bothered with me, cool, later for her then. But then it started to irk me. I mean, one day we’re laughing, talking, and having a good time, and the next day it’s back to the curt hellos and cold good-byes, and not a moment to spare for anything in between. I think, at the least, I deserve an explanation.
    I know the whole thing is pretty petty, man, but I just can’t seem to get her off my mind. Just the other day when I was picking up around the place I noticed her book,
Jungle Passions,
sitting on top of a small stack of books in my bookcase. It was right there in plain view. And I thought about that night when she had browsed the shelves. There was no way she couldn’t have seen the book, man, not with that cover jumping out at you like the neon lights in front of some strip joint. But she never said a word about it.
    Looking back on everything that’s transpired between us, I can’t help but wonder if me laying that lip action on her might have been just a little bit too much too soon. And I’m saying, it’s not like I stuck my tongue all down the chick’s throat or even tried to cop a quick feel. Still, she may very well think I’m out to do a “take the coochie and run” number on her. And granted, once upon a time I might have done just that.
    But my days of indiscriminate tail-chasing have long since ended. All that stuff that went down with the ex, Clarice, and the kids made me realize a lot of things—number one being that it’s high time I started searching for that something or someone that will add years to my life, not take them away. I’m tired of waking up and wondering if the chick lying next to me is going to give me crabs,