“Georges St. Pierre is the best fighter in the universe!” he squealed, releasing his grip on my thighs.
“St. Pierre!” I roared, and dangled him higher. “Say Tag Taggert is the best fighter in the universe.”
“Chuck Liddell is the best fighter in the universe!” he cried, wheezing.
“What? He’s old news!” I protested, though I’d do just about anything to get Liddell in my gym.
“Tag Taggert is the worst fighter in the universe!” Henry was laughing, a full-out belly laugh, and his face was as red as his hair. I flipped him upright and he swayed on his feet, still laughing. I steadied him and gave him a fake glare.
“The best. The best fighter in the universe. You hear?”
“Ronda Rousey is the best fighter in the universe,” he gasped, still-giggling, not giving in.
I hooted, throwing up my hands. “You might have me there, kid. Speaking of gorgeous, badass females, where is Silly Millie?”
Henry froze, listening, and then pointed at the floor. Now that I wasn’t making so much noise, I could hear the bass thumping faintly from the basement.
“Downstairs? Show me the way.”
Henry turned and padded through the foyer, across the kitchen and dining room, and into a large laundry room. It was neat and organized, like the rest of the house, and I took note of Millie’s Braille stickers on the laundry baskets—a big white one and a bigger red one. I’d never been in this part of the house, and when Henry pointed at a door and immediately retreated, I decided he wasn’t interested in whatever Millie was doing downstairs.
The door opened above a narrow flight of stairs that immediately made me nervous and dizzy. I didn’t like the idea of Millie navigating them, and images of her tumbling head over heels seared my brain before I forced them back. Millie had grown up in this house, she’d probably been up and down these stairs a million times, and she wouldn’t appreciate me going all caveman over them. Still, I clung to the railing as I descended them gingerly, wondering at my sudden light-headedness. The music was so loud Millie wouldn’t hear me coming, but as I reached the bottom of the stairs, the music ceased abruptly, and someone started clapping and whistling. I halted, surprised, still hidden around the corner.
“Do I look ridiculous?” I heard Millie ask. “Can I pull it off?”
“What are you talking about, Amelie?” A female voice answered, and I recognized Robin’s voice from the night at the bar. She had that valley girl vibe to her voice that seemed to be prevalent among so many American women. I like, totally hated it. But Robin seemed nice enough.
“You are pulling it off! Like, several nights a week, in fact!”
“But I’ve never attempted this move. I can’t tell how I look, how my body looks, when I do it. It feels like I’m doing it right, but . . .” Millie’s voice trailed off.
I peeked around the corner, extremely curious. Amelie was facing me, leaning against a tall pole. She was wearing little, black Tag Team shorts and a tank top, her hair pulled high on her head, her feet bare. Robin’s back was to me, thankfully, and I watched as she took Millie by the wrists and pulled her forward.
Robin moved Millie’s hands up and down her own body matter-of-factly, allowing her to feel the softness at her waist and the roundness of her hips and her belly.
“That’s more action than I’ve had in months. So pathetic,” Robin said wryly, releasing Millie’s hands, and I smiled, liking her a little more.
“Now feel your own body, Amelie” Robin insisted, stepping back, and Amelie obeyed, running her hands down her chest, over the swell of her breasts, past her flat stomach to rest on her slightly flared hips. Then she cupped her butt in her hands and snickered, “I didn’t grab your ass, Robin. Come here.”
“Ha, ha. Keep your hands to yourself, Grabby,” Robin laughed. “I’ve got to draw the line somewhere. But you can feel the difference, can’t you? I’m lumpy. You’re curvy. I’m soft, and you’re sleek. You look the way you feel, Amelie. You have an amazing body. And when you dance, no matter what move you’re doing, if it feels right, I can guarantee it looks right, too.”
Robin rose another notch in my estimation.
“Really?” Millie asked.
“Really,” Robin answered.
Amelie swung herself around the bar a couple times, almost absentmindedly, her ponytail swinging as she hoisted herself up, executing a perfect split before she wound both legs around the pole and dropped upside down. She handled being upside down a whole lot better than Henry did. She trailed her arms over her head, felt the concrete beneath her palms, and released the pole, scissoring her legs back to a standing position, like she could do back bends in her sleep.
“I wish I could touch Tag like that. I wish it was okay to ask for things like that. I mean, I’ve felt him smile . . . but I want to feel the rest of him.” Millie blurted, as if confessing something that had been bubbling over.
I bit my tongue to keep from gasping and wondered how in the hell I was going to get out of this situation without embarrassing everyone involved.
“Amelie! You naughty girl!” Robin squealed.
“I’m not trying to be, Robin. I know he has strong arms. I know he has dimples in his cheeks and a cleft in his chin. I know he has a slightly crooked nose. I know his body is hard and his lips are soft. And I know he has big, calloused hands.”
“Stop it! I’m getting turned on and depressed,” Robin groaned. “Amelie . . . I think Tag Taggert might be the kind of guy who likes women. Period. You know? And you’re beautiful . . . so obviously, he’s going to like you. But . . . that’s not the kind of guy who’s going to make you happy in the long run.”