Preparations:
Cuban heels, two inches.
Latin pants with satin binding.
Gel, extra strong hold:hair combed to one side.
§§§
From behind the dark curtain, the crowd roared. The bright lights of the auditorium penetrated the thick claret velvet, giving it an eerie, pinkish glow.
He stretched out his hand. She willingly accepted, twisting on her heel and rolling into his arms; her canary yellow skirt billowing out around her. The feather trim rippled in the wake of her movement and the glittered sequins on the bodice twinkled in the filtered light.
"You ready?"
She nods.
§§§
One-two-three. One-two-three-
The waltz flowed so easily. His hand settled softly on the curve of his partner's back. His face wore the practiced smile of over 20 years of dancing. So gracefully, they moved across the polished oak floor, their suede soled shoes gliding easily across the glossy wax coating. Their steps were a mixture of calculated pivots on studied heels and well planned drags on practiced toes.
Easy.
Easy easy easy, he thought as he spun Milah around under the bright lights; those lights barely metered by the blue gel coating that had been provided to ease the glare.
A step here, a twist there. Motions he had undertaken a million times.
He could do this in his sleep.
§§§
It was time for the Latin American section: feathers and sequins and acres of exposed skin. His yellow sequinned pants hugged his lithe hips. His tightly fitted shirt was slashed to the waist, exposing a deep V of tawny skin and dark chest hair.
The sultry Latin beat lent itself to a variety of dances: ones that loosened the hips and swept away inhibitions.
But as usual Killian Jones stuck to his signature dance: the rhumba. The dance of love (aka, the crowd pleaser).
Across the room Neal Cassidy slid his partner across the floor. Tamara Winter: all state champion three years running.
Their only real competition.
Milah cleared her throat and caught his attention. He licked his lips and gave her a smile. Damn, she was a beautiful woman: chocolate eyes and creamy skin. But smile on her face was almost plastic. Her skin was layered in multicoloured glitter that caught the light and no doubt blinded some of the spectators. All part of the game, he thought.
And she was a good dancer and was a winner. That's all that mattered, right?
The beat began. His hips rocked to the music. Quick steps. His breathing rate increasing with every minute.
The lively rhythm was achingly familiar. Years of toil and practice had honed his muscles into a familiar pattern. Step step, toe. Step step, toe…
§§§
It was the last set of the dance. A minute or so to go. He rolled Milah into his arms and dipped her back before releasing his embrace and spinning her out.
The crowd cheered.
Then they were there.
Somehow Killian and Milah were pressed in the corner of the chequered dance floor.
Neal.
Their rivals had followed them across the floor - spreading out in a diagonal line that had Killian swearing under his breath as Milah pulled a confused expression -the cornered pair locked in a small space of less than two square feet.
They had no chance to win when cornered. With nowhere to dance it was inevitable.
Not if he could do something about it…
Gritting his teeth, he tumbled forward and dropped to his knees: sliding forward and gliding easily under Neal and Tamara's arms. He looked back. Milah was staring at him incredulously with wide eyes and an open mouth.
He held out his hand. She hesitated for a moment, looking around for some kind of instruction. Not wanting to waste any more time he leaned over his rival's arms and grasped her waist, tumbling her over the obstruction in a magnificent cartwheel.
Freedom.
With a flick of his hips and a roll on his feet he was covering the floor in quick steps to the hungry beat of his shoes. She tried to keep up as he started to leap forward, spinning in the air.
The crowd. They were roaring.
His chest swelled with pride.
More.
They danced in quick steps: he was barely touching the ground or registering the beat. Killian carrying Milah across the brown, glossy floor; tipping her into the air - the yellow sequins dancing in the spotlights, the beat of clapping hands filling the air.
§§§
Caked in sweat, his arm slipped around her waist as they bowed to the crowd. Around them the other dancers gathered. Milah refused to look at him. She was scowling.
On the stage across the floor, Mr. Bobby Gold, President of the Maine State Dancing Federation, tapped on the chrome coated microphone and gave a greasy smile.
"Ladies and gentleman, before we announce this evening's winning couple, we have a disqualified pair: Mr Jones and partner are no longer eligible after undertaking a series of illegal moves in tonight's competition."
Across the auditorium there was silence for a second, until a low hiss of boos and whistles began to filter though from the spectating crowd. Milah stiffened in his arms. He tried to pull her closer, but she shifted her shoulders and took a small step to her left before looking back to give him one, quick scathing glance.
Shit.
A/N - so what do you think?
PS - thanks for the notes about the formatting being messed up! I had internet connection problems and I've just been able to fix it! J x