The Divorcee Murder Club

Treinta Y Tres ~ 33

“Cool. You’re the best!” I toss him a peace sign and disappear into the dark corridor.

Salsa music pulses with trumpets and percussions sizzling the air as I make my way, and when I enter the lobby, I'm whipped with a wave of heat. For a Tuesday night, the place is packed with every inch of space on the dancefloor covered in swaying bodies. Cocktail waitresses squeeze past guests with trays of mini taquitos held high above their heads. Their faces are painted like sugar skulls, making it hard to tell them apart, and each of them has a rose tucked behind their ears to match the red lipstick on their lips. 

And I must admit, tonight's theme turned out to be badass.

Somehow, through the thicket of people, I spot Jackson twirling Alma, her dark hair whipping with each spin. There’s a gigantic smile stretched across her face, but not as big as the glistening smile that catches my eye a few feet away. A guy has Angie pressed against him as they sway to the beat while laser lights zig-zag across them, and I'm suddenly gripping the staircase railing. So I begin walking down to find out who this guy is because I don’t recognize him, and he's dancing with my girl.

Fuck.

No.

Not my girl.

Yet I don't turn back.

By the time I shove my way across the dancefloor, sweat drips down my face as if someone splashed their drink on me. It’s a damn sauna in here. How can anyone dance comfortably with swamp-ass? 

“Can I cut in?” I tap the guy’s shoulder, and when he spins Angie to get a look at me, I have to stop myself from snorting.

The guy looks like a weathered version of Johnny Depp, which says a lot, and he’s wearing eyeliner with his shirt unbuttoned down to the navel. It shows off his hairy chest draped in a cheesy gold chain. Puke. Pirates of the Caribbean called—they want their stunt double back. Angie could do so much better.

“Sure, after this song,” he says, then spins Angie away from me. 

Oh, hell no.

I place my hand on his shoulder and squeeze. “No. I’m taking her now.”

“Wait your turn!” He smacks my hand away, but to my surprise, Angie unravels herself from his arms.

“No, we’re done,” she says.

“What?” 

“We’re done,” she repeats to him. “It was fun dancing with you, though.”

The Johnny Depp wannabe’s mouth gapes open, his brows furrowed as he looks from me to her. “Bitch.”

But he doesn’t get to say another word. I kick his legs out from under him and slam him to the hardwood floor. The crowd gives us space as I crouch over him and point my finger in his face.

“Apologize to the lady.”

“Fuck you,” he attempts to get up, but I push him back down and grab a fistful of his collar.

“Apologize, or I will have you banned. Understand, Captain Sparrow?”

“Is there a problem, Miguel?” Jude, the head of security, says, and when I look up, he’s standing beside Angie.

“Yeah.” I get to my feet. “This asshole called my friend a bitch, and we don’t speak to women like that in this club.”

“No, we sure don’t.” Jude folds his arms. “I’ve got this from here, Miguel.”

Pressing my hand against the small of Angie’s back, I guide her towards the bar. Meanwhile, her gaze burns the side of my head as we weave through the crowd. But I don’t acknowledge it, and it isn’t until we exit the perimeter of the dancefloor that she says something.