Woo, now I'm lost. xD Been writing two chapters for LVDA, and now I'm working on TCUASP. xD Lololol hope you guys enjoy, and keep your fingers crossed!

Thanks to anon for the correction; I seriously needed that. *peace, sister/brother* Thanks to MrsChickHicks, too, for reviewing the last chapter. :)

And guys, remember to review so I can go on! Impending block is impending! Dx

Chapter Ten

(Margo's POV)

That night, Rip and I are invited to a mini-party, as well as all those invited to the RSGP and passersby are included in the party. It's free drinks for passersby, but a small admission fee is required because, well, you're not invited. Marlene's editor and Lewis' girlfriend are there as special invites, and more people are there than in the guest list. The venue is at Wheel Well, so if you want to go in but don't' want to pay, then go home, because drinks are limited until they use the admission money to buy some more.

"Do I get to talk to people?" I tease.

"Of course," he says, smiling as I do.

I go in a vanilla dress shirt I've been saving for a special occasion with a brown sweater vest that has an argyle pattern. My long sleeves are rolled to about three-fourths of my arms. Black pants and one-inch-high, peep-toe heels of the same color finish my ensemble. Rip goes in a pale gray polo and a sweater vest of his homeland's colors, along with black pants and dress shoes. I've fixed my 458 about an hour and a half earlier, starting about twenty minutes after I've thought that I've nothing to do aside from fixing him up. I let Rip take him out for a spin, and that's when we head for Wheel Well already.

As we get out of the car, he tosses the keys to me. The night is chilly, but gives me a few minutes to warm up just beside the car. We enter arm in arm, and I greet my cousin first—my goal is to greet everyone there—before I return to the gang for some fun.

I decide I can let myself loose with a can of beer as Jeff offers me one. I side by the American bachelor, and on my right is Rip. Anyone volunteers to tell jokes, a story, or start a happy discussion where the rest of the gang can put in their opinions. In a hyper mood I can almost think faster and call out more confidently.

As Latin music plays, Carla starts swaying provocatively, and the men—well, the bachelors for the most part—hoot as they eye her. Well, who can blame them; she's in some get-up that's not really fit for this weather. As she dances towards my boyfriend, the men are going 'ooh' and are laughing as they try provoking my anger and jealousy. I roll my eyes as I take a sip of the beer in my hand. But as a slightly tipsy Rip takes her hand and a tango-like instrumental hits, the men get excited over my reaction. The music hits its last more, and Rip brings her close with an arm around her waist and a small on his face as he looks down at her. The others clap, but I raise my can to my lips.

I did just that because I can feel a wave of jealousy in my belly. But why should I be jealous?I mean, I've declared Rip mine, but why do I get the feeling he's holding back? That's when I find the answer: he said he doesn't really dance, and now he's doing some adaptation of a tango.

The two settle back in line, and Rip's arm is around me once more. I want to shy away because I'm frustrated, but I don't. I don't want to give him the impression I'm mad or spoil his evening. (I'm that soft.)

And then, a long-favorited song fro swing is on the speakers, and I instantly sway to the beat. The intro is long and exciting, and it builds up to a tango-like riff with trumpets and percussion. The song depicts romance and a sexy feeling and nothing else.

Suddenly, my can is out of my hand and I'm pulled on to the dance floor. AS the lyrics, melody and beat hit my ears in its beautiful first verse, my mind hits seventh gear and I'm dancing learned steps before I know it. The crowd is yowling encouragement as I twirl and step in my leader's arms. I give voice to my enjoyment as laughter and smiles, my earlier frustration forgotten. I'm dazed by the music and the beet that I don't really know who I'm dancing with. It's only until the music ends that I realize I'm dancing with Miguel. Everything comes back to me, and I think of a move that'll throw Rip off-balance. I'm influenced, so it doesn't really matter.

My forefinger traces from his neck to his stomach, and everyone hoots as I get back in line and drink. Suddenly, my right arm is pinched, and I look to Rip and see him glaring at me.

"I thought I get to talk to people?" I ask.

"You said 'talk', not dance," he growls.

"Look who's talking," I retort. He doesn't reply, but I can hear a rumble in his throat.

Irritation sparks in me. "What is it you want, Rip?" I ask. "Do you want me to stay home and shut my griping while you have fun? That's extremely unfair you know."

"But you were dancing—"

"And you led Carla onto the dance floor, didn't you?" My voice is raised above the din in anger, and the line of men and women look to us. "If you really think about it, I think you're flirting with Carla, too. Does that make any sense to you?"

But I don't move from my spot as I drink. When I finish the can I ask Guido for a coke. I want to be in a righter state of mind from now on and I don't know why.

The men then scatter to find places to sit together and to find other people to entertain, and I side by Carla at the bar and we talk. At least I'm sober enough to think straight.

"So, what's with you and Rip?" I ask. "I mean, I'm just asking."

"I understand your concern, and I am sorry," she says. "But there's nothing going on between us," she adds, and sadness mottles her flat tone.

I examine my soft drink before I speak. "Pretend I'm not his girlfriend. Pretend my boyfriend is…Jeff." She laughs at the choice of name, but I just smile and wave my hand and say, "Whatever. Just pretend."

"Well," she says slowly, still smiling, "I've always liked Rip. He's quiet and sweet, and can be the life of the party when he's comfortable around people he knows." I nod mindlessly because she's right, to the last detail. She's looking in Rip's direction as she speaks, affection flooding her gaze. "I mean, he's the only one that's…different."

That makes me think twice about him. He's the first guy to befriend me, ilk I'm someone he can welcome and not someone he can make fun of. He's the first guy I like that's ever made me feel good about myself. I know I'm blushing as I think of the the better things he has to offer. But I ask something out of the blue.

"How about anything negative?" I blurt. "I just want your opinion."

She stares at me curiously, then furrows her brows thoughtfully. "He can be overprotective, I guess," she muses. "I mean, from what I've seen."

I nod sadly. "True dat," I murmur.

"I'm sorry, mi amiga," she relates.

"I'm sorry, too."

She wonders why.

"I have Rip," I say plainly, but there's no triumph in my tone.

She shrugs. "It is fate, I guess."

I smile gratefully, and she returns it before asking her own question. "What's with you and Miguel?" she shoots back, still smiling.

I blush thickly, and my skin is tingling. I look down in shame and she laughs.

"Can't say?" she suggests.

"I cannot say," I agree, and sigh. "Rip isn't so…outgoing. He's too much concerned with me being loyal to him. But Miguel…Miguel is just…." I give up. I can't explain it.

"I can't disagree he's amazing," Carla says, my head jerks up. But she's not gloating. "Yet, he's not my type."

I almost breathe 'Thank God', but I don't. I know it's wrong to feel relieved the Brazilian doesn't like Miguel, but the response is automatic.

Suddenly, there's a small sound where the men are seated, and Miguel and Rip are on their feet, glaring daggers at each other.

"How dare you say that about her!" Rip roars.

"Don't you deny it," Miguel snarls, a smile on his face.

"But it's not true!" Rip's mad face contorts to one of pleading.

"Yeah, right," he smirks, arms over his chest, and looks at Carla. "Why don't you tell them? They've got your full attention."

As Rip looks from me to Carla to Miguel, I wonder what has happened. Genuine alarm makes me move forward to side by Rip.

"Rip?" I ask softly. "What's happened?"

He looks at me, a hurt look on his face as he scrutinizes my expression. I'm staring up at him with big, worried eyes, the feeling growing as every second passes into history.

"Go ahead, Rip," Miguel goads him gently. "Tell her."

"Tell me what?" I ask, glancing from him to Rip.

"Tell you," Rip says, his arms encircling my waist, "that I love you so much, that I can't seem to take my eyes off you…." His voice trails off as he kisses me, and the table hoots as partly drunk men watch.

But I push him away. "What's going on, Rip?" I ask sternly.

"Nothing is wrong," he says softly, warm green meeting worried brown. "Just some dare they asked me to do."

"Really?" I ask, my brows raised. "What does 'it's not true' mean?"

I'm glad I'm sober. Because I wouldn't have caught that line if I were influenced. He stiffens, and Miguel guffaws.

He turns away. "It's nothing," he says.

"Rip, what's going on?" I ask, voice catching.

I can feel myself crying now, because it's one thing not to trust me with other men. It's a whole other issue if he can trust me with secrets.

"Nothing," he says. "Please, just go and have fun; I don't want to spoil your evening."

My eyes are hurt, and I can't see they are. But as I scrabble for something to say something hits my mind: maybe he needs his personal space. After all, telling secrets takes some time. I nod, first slowly, then more prominent as I grasp the idea that he must want his space.

"Alright," I say, and move off. Carla takes my wrist for a moment, and I look at her, trying to swallow the shrinking lump in my throat. "What?"

She's searching my eyes, then lets go of my wrist. "Never mind," she says, and continues to drink.

I move away from her, coke forgotten, and slip outside to slip into the car. At least the keys are with me.

I stay there in the driver's seat, and run my hand over his pristine dashboard, his sleek black steering wheel, the leather on the door, the controls on the armrest. My 458 Italia, having a 4.5 liter V8 engine that can go up to 200 miles, a 7-speed dual-clutch transmission, and 570 horsepower. I've tuned its camber myself. The winglets in the front are in the height of its time. Its brakes are no longer of your usual steel or titanium, but of sharpshooter ceramics, and its suspension is double-wishbone, set with Ferrari's own traction control systems left in previous years of Formula One, now integrated into its sports and grand touring cars. It's quiet in the cabin, like my Dad's old Subaru SUV, but you can hear any imperfections in the engine or the beautiful and scary revving of it behind your head. From 0-100 kilometers is 3.4 seconds. The trunk is big enough for me to hide from Francesco, although I'm not sure if the key will work inside. His LED headlights work better than bulbs in the dark. He most certainly is a handsome car in his time.

With this car I don't have secrets locked away in my heart, like kisses with Rip in or out of him, or stories red in the AC, or nursing him and myself back to health. In a heartache or in a high, I've almost always shared it with this car.

I think of every little detail this car has, because I don't know what else to do. I'm too dismayed to go back and party. I don't want to confront Rip in front of everybody. My cousin will only give me a lecture on loyalty and space. I'm kind of mad at Carla for vying for my boyfriend. Francesco and the gang should be real drunk by now. Mia and Tia are surely singing again. Miguel is out of the question. All that's left is this car.

Aaaand that is another chapter left at that. :)