I found people were still watching me.
However, w ithout any conscious intent to do so, my gaze eventually sought Nico. He was still surrounded on all sides by women wielding sharpened elbows. Instead of just the three, he’d amassed six or seven, and he was smiling at them, all of them. But it didn’t look like a welcoming smile; it looked like a beleaguered, pacifying smile.
They had him cornered on one side of the dance floor , and I noticed his movements were somewhat restricted; the pack of she-wolves appeared to be pressing into his personal space with increased audaciousness. Their slutty one-up(wo)manship made me inwardly cringe and outwardly chuckle.
Micah stepped into my line of sight and grinned at me, I grinned back; he reached for my hands, and I allowed him to turn my back to his front, Sandra behind him. We made a Sandra, Micah, Elizabeth sandwich.
H e was a pretty good dancer—not as good as Nico, but still decent—and I permitted him to place a hand on my hip as we continued our booty shaking good time. We turned, and I was facing Micah’s back, Sandra at his front, which—once again—allowed me a pretty good view of Nico’s harem.
I expected to get another chuckle from the lady-antics ; instead felt a bolt of fury. Nico was now surrounded by at least fifteen women; two of whom were pulling his shirt from his pants; he’d grabbed their wrists. He was no longer smiling. He did not look amused.
Before I fully comprehended my intent, I was across the dance floor. I used no subtlety to push through the crowd of crazed women. At five foot four, I could (wo)manhandle these females in a way that would be forgiven—with hair pulling and scratching and smacking and eye poking—in a way he could not.
There were a few exclamations of: “Hey!” and “Ow!” and “What t he—?” and “My foot!” and “That’s my eye!”
I ignored their screechy protests, but —despite my aggressive attempts—an impenetrable barrier remained. Through the crush of bodies I could see that more women had placed their hands on him, squeezing his bottom, grabbing his tie. They’d tugged his jacket back by the collar in an attempt to pull it off.
The dark frown marring his features mirrored my own.
“Get the hell off of him!” Frustration made my hands shake.
Only one woman seemed to hear my shouted command , and she merely smirked at me.
I glanced around the room expecting to see other outraged faces and was astonished to find —among those who were paying attention to the great wall of women spectacle—only expressions of amusement. One person even had their phone out and was apparently either recording or taking pictures. I thought about asking Sandra and Micah for help, but, before I could turn, I witnessed one of the women snake her hand around and try to grab Nico in the crotch.
His dark frown turned furious. He looked murderous.
I gasped. I struggled to find words that would make them stop before he used physical violence and chaos descended.
I needed to do something shocking, something no one could ignore. I could only think of one thing.
I found the nearest chair, climbed on it, and yelled at the top of my lungs, “THE CHILD IS YOURS!”
Everything stopped.
Well, the music continued, but everything else stopped. No one was dancing; everyone was looking at me—including the pile of grabby females, including Nico.
I took a deep breath. His gaze tangled with mine , and I saw the precise moment that he comprehended my words. Before I lost the crowd’s attention I climbed from the chair and charged through the circle of still-stunned women.
I reached for, grasped Nico’s wrist, and pulled him through the parted red lipstick sea. I marched him off the dance floor. He gently slid his wrist out of my grasp then enclosed my hand in his. I didn’t know where to go. He must have sensed my hesitation because he soon took the lead and his pace immediately quickened.
W e were near running when he
However, w ithout any conscious intent to do so, my gaze eventually sought Nico. He was still surrounded on all sides by women wielding sharpened elbows. Instead of just the three, he’d amassed six or seven, and he was smiling at them, all of them. But it didn’t look like a welcoming smile; it looked like a beleaguered, pacifying smile.
They had him cornered on one side of the dance floor , and I noticed his movements were somewhat restricted; the pack of she-wolves appeared to be pressing into his personal space with increased audaciousness. Their slutty one-up(wo)manship made me inwardly cringe and outwardly chuckle.
Micah stepped into my line of sight and grinned at me, I grinned back; he reached for my hands, and I allowed him to turn my back to his front, Sandra behind him. We made a Sandra, Micah, Elizabeth sandwich.
H e was a pretty good dancer—not as good as Nico, but still decent—and I permitted him to place a hand on my hip as we continued our booty shaking good time. We turned, and I was facing Micah’s back, Sandra at his front, which—once again—allowed me a pretty good view of Nico’s harem.
I expected to get another chuckle from the lady-antics ; instead felt a bolt of fury. Nico was now surrounded by at least fifteen women; two of whom were pulling his shirt from his pants; he’d grabbed their wrists. He was no longer smiling. He did not look amused.
Before I fully comprehended my intent, I was across the dance floor. I used no subtlety to push through the crowd of crazed women. At five foot four, I could (wo)manhandle these females in a way that would be forgiven—with hair pulling and scratching and smacking and eye poking—in a way he could not.
There were a few exclamations of: “Hey!” and “Ow!” and “What t he—?” and “My foot!” and “That’s my eye!”
I ignored their screechy protests, but —despite my aggressive attempts—an impenetrable barrier remained. Through the crush of bodies I could see that more women had placed their hands on him, squeezing his bottom, grabbing his tie. They’d tugged his jacket back by the collar in an attempt to pull it off.
The dark frown marring his features mirrored my own.
“Get the hell off of him!” Frustration made my hands shake.
Only one woman seemed to hear my shouted command , and she merely smirked at me.
I glanced around the room expecting to see other outraged faces and was astonished to find —among those who were paying attention to the great wall of women spectacle—only expressions of amusement. One person even had their phone out and was apparently either recording or taking pictures. I thought about asking Sandra and Micah for help, but, before I could turn, I witnessed one of the women snake her hand around and try to grab Nico in the crotch.
His dark frown turned furious. He looked murderous.
I gasped. I struggled to find words that would make them stop before he used physical violence and chaos descended.
I needed to do something shocking, something no one could ignore. I could only think of one thing.
I found the nearest chair, climbed on it, and yelled at the top of my lungs, “THE CHILD IS YOURS!”
Everything stopped.
Well, the music continued, but everything else stopped. No one was dancing; everyone was looking at me—including the pile of grabby females, including Nico.
I took a deep breath. His gaze tangled with mine , and I saw the precise moment that he comprehended my words. Before I lost the crowd’s attention I climbed from the chair and charged through the circle of still-stunned women.
I reached for, grasped Nico’s wrist, and pulled him through the parted red lipstick sea. I marched him off the dance floor. He gently slid his wrist out of my grasp then enclosed my hand in his. I didn’t know where to go. He must have sensed my hesitation because he soon took the lead and his pace immediately quickened.
W e were near running when he
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