Page 86 of Playing the Backbeat

And that night, as I lie in bed, I realize I’m falling. Falling for the man only a few doors away. He’s set the tempo in a steady rhythm. One I never imagined I’d play. And he was right. It makes me want to dance…with him.

Chapter thirty-eight

Dylan

“Dylan, stop fidgeting. You’re giving me anxiety,” Dee insists from beside me.

“That makes two of us.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re not serious.”

“Maybe you should sit on my lap. Might make me feel better.”

She laughs, then remembers where we are. Looking around to make sure no one heard me. “You’re going to get us caught before we even leave Columbus.”

My knee continues to bounce as I pull the seat belt strap tightly against my hips. Again.

She doesn’t miss the movement, her brows furrowing. “You’re actually anxious.”

I let loose a breath. “A lot of people have flying anxiety. Perfectly normal.” The plane lurches forward, beginning its trek to the runway. I love Bec and Aiden, but this trip to their joint bachelor-bachelorette party might kill me.

My stomach pitches, and I swear to fuck, if I lose my lunch all over my lap next to Dee, I’m going to lock myself in the bathroom until we make it to Mexico.

“I don’t care about a lot of people, I care about you,” Dee whispers, her hand finding my thigh, giving a reassuring squeeze.

I focus on the feel of her palm, the pressure of her touch, and take a deep breath. Then I picture her perfect tits bouncing as she rides me into oblivion. I laugh, imagining her face if only she knew what I was thinking.

“What are you laughing at? Are you actually scared, or are you fucking with me?” I laugh harder. “Dylan,” she scolds, but there’s no venom to it, and she starts to laugh with me, her hand leaving my thigh to slap at my shoulder. I grab her hand and put it back on my thigh, not willing to let go of her just yet.

“I’m scared. But I pictured a certain someone’s certain somethings jiggling around above me…and it helped. It was a nice image. Very calming. Or at the very least distracting.”

“Tits. Tits are getting you through takeoff?” She can’t make it through the question with a straight face, and she bites her lip, attempting to look annoyed. And failing.

“Who doesn’t love a good pair of tits?”

“A great pair,” she corrects.

“A perfect pair,” I agree.

The older gentleman on my other side clears his throat and adjusts in his seat. With a lot of fanfare.

“Maybe we should stop talking about tits,” she whispers. “Here.” She slides a hand into her purse, handing me a piece of gum before unwrapping one for herself with one hand, because I’m not giving up her other hand, still situated on my thigh with my hand over top of hers. “It’ll help.”

“I thought this was debunked,” I say.

“Then why are you chewing it?”

“So I have minty fresh breath when you take me to the Mile High Club.”

“As if.” She scoffs. “I’mnotinterested in doing acrobatics above a pooper.”

I nearly swallow my gum, coughing into my fist. “Jesus.”

“Besides, I can’t end up on the no-fly list. I still have a lot of the world to see.”

“Oh yeah, where do you want to go?” I ask.

She rests her head on my shoulder, her gaze locked on the window as we roll down the runway, speed increasing. “I want to go everywhere. I’ve seen so little. I don’t want to be too far from the people I love for too long, but I want to see more.”