The Song of David

“I never pretended to be anything else,” I called after her, smiling widely at the women beyond her. The laughter grew and a guy next to me held up his hand for a high-five. But Millie wasn’t laughing. Shit.

Her hand was still in mine, but our bodies were no longer aligned for dancing. I didn’t want to leave the dance floor. I didn’t want to act like Brittney’s interruption meant anything. The DJ had done what he could, giving me three sultry songs in a row. Maybe he thought he was helping me again by putting Justin Timberlake on full tilt, Sexy Back making my teeth vibrate and urging a few more people to the floor, creating a bit of a visual buffer between Millie and me and our audience, although not much of one. I needed an excuse to pull Millie close again, and I wasn’t sure she would be willing to engage in the kind of bump and grind JT demanded.

I stepped into her so our bodies touched, and I put my lips to her ears so she could hear me above the music.

“You still interested in dancing with a manwhore?”

“It depends. Are people watching?” her mouth brushed my cheek as she spoke.

I looked around us at the curious and the pitying. “Yeah. They are.”

“Good. Let’s dance.” She looped her arms carefully around my neck and tipped her face up, smiling for me.

And I felt the ode again, so strong it made my legs weak.

I threw back my head and laughed, whooping a little. More people looked our way. Let ‘em look.

“I really like you, Millie.”

“That’s because you’re a manwhore!” she teased.

And then I forgot about talking as I tried to keep up with Millie on the dance floor. Holy hell, the girl could dance. She kept at least one hand on me at all times, keeping herself grounded, centered, anchored, and it was the hottest thing I’d seen in my whole life. The fact that she couldn’t see me dancing was liberating and I forgot about everyone else. I even forgot myself.

We didn’t stop dancing until we were both panting and strands of Millie’s dark hair clung to her damp forehead and smooth cheeks. Her skin glowed and her smile flashed, and I couldn’t catch my breath, though it had less to do with exertion than with Millie herself. Millie was insatiable, and I was captivated, and I suddenly wanted her all to myself.

I snagged two bottles of water from behind the bar, taking quick note that things were running smoothly and my new bartender seemed to have it all in hand.

Millie stood waiting for me, holding her stick, and I snagged her coat and we slipped out the back door, breathing in fresh, cold air, her hand tucked through my arm, the muted, thumping bass mimicking my pounding heart.

We guzzled in silence until Millie sighed, capping her bottle and setting it aside so she could lift her hair from her damp neck. She’d refused her coat, claiming the air felt good on her skin. She held her hair atop her head, her slim arms raised high, her head tilted forward, and I watched the lovely display, grateful once again that I didn’t have to hide my admiring gaze.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“For what?

“I am a bit of a manwhore.”

“I know.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“It doesn’t apply to me.”

I gulped.

“Oh yeah? What makes you think it doesn’t apply?”

“I seem to remember having to beg you to kiss me.” Millie let her hair fall back down around her shoulders and hugged her arms across her chest. In another girl I might think the action was designed to draw my eyes to the swell of her breasts, which it did, but she couldn’t know how perfectly they were framed or how the moon made her skin glow.

“And I remember happily accommodating you,” I drawled softly.

She didn’t answer, didn’t smile, didn’t argue with me, and I was at a loss.

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

“For what?” she repeated.

“Brittney was rude. And she was rude because of who I am, not because of who you are. You understand that, right?”

“They all must be so confused.”

“Who?”

“All the girls in your life.”

I laughed at that. “Why?”

“Because you are spending time with me. You’re dancing with me. You left with me. You walk me home almost every night.”

I waited.

“I admit, I’m a little confused, David.” Her voice was soft, but it wasn’t timid. Millie wasn’t timid, and I loved that about her.

“You always call me David. Why?” I side-stepped the question. I was just as confused as she was and wasn’t ready to give her a response.

“Because David fits you so perfectly,” she said easily, letting me change the subject.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Names mean something. Too many parents get caught up in how a name sounds or how it’s spelled. I wonder how often they take the time to find out what a name means, or at the very least, what it means to them? Is it the name of a beloved family member? Is it the name of a place that brings back memories? What? Or is it just the name Ashley spelled A-S-C-H-L-E-I-G-H in an effort to be unique? Utahans, as religious as their population is, are great at giving out spirit-less, meaningless names with preposterous spellings.”

“So that’s why Moses and Georgia didn’t want to name Kathleen Taglee. I was so hurt.”