6

"Into the Night"
Carlos Santana feat. Chad Kroeger

Ring.

Derek sighed and leaned back against the headrest of the Prince. He knew exactly who that was.

Ring.

He seriously debated the pros and cons of answering it. If he did, he'd wind up losing his eyeballs because of how many times he'd be rolling it. If he didn't, he'd wind up with bleeding ears.

Ring.

No eyes or no ears?

Damn.

Ring.

He rolled his eyes. One. He bypassed the hello's and went straight for: "Don't tell me you're so tired that I'm gonna have to carry you out. Just because I call you 'princess' doesn't mean—"

"—that I should expect you to treat me as such," she finished in a reassuring tone that made his eye twitch. "That's not why I'm calling, Derek."

He tried to bang his head on the steering wheel as soundlessly as he could. "So what do you want, Spacey? I'm already out here in the parking lot, waiting for you and your jazz hands to get the hell outta there."

She tutted, but he wasn't sure if it was at him or at something else. "Teresa's encouraged me to branch off from jazz and try this new Latin dance workshop she's doing tonight, so I'm going to be a little later than normal. I called to say you can come in because there are chairs, hot cocoa, and fruits in here."

His head lifted at the same time his eyebrows shot up. "What? You mean you're not gonna bitch about me invading your personal haven that is the dance studio?"

"Derek, for the love of God, either get in here, sit out there for another hour and a half, or be forced to drive back and forth and waste gas."

He rolled his eyes. Two. "All right, all right," he groused, pulling the keys out of the ignition and kicking open the car door. "Don't get your panties in a twist."

He was halfway out of the car when he heard, "Don't assume that just because your panties get twisted around doesn't mean the rest of ours do, dimwit. It's your own fault that you get confused as to which holes to put your legs through."

"Casey, I'm fully capable of putting things into their proper holes."

She hung up on him.

He'd never been in a dance studio before. For one thing, exactly what was he gonna do in there in the first place? So he had some pretty low expectations because of the movies he'd seen them featured in. They mostly looked like dinky old rooms or ratty warehouses with a couple of mirrors, a bar to operate as a place to both stretch and hang one's shit on, and some middle-aged lady with too-perfect posture who barked out positions like a drill sergeant.

But since he hadn't exactly been having the best month, he should've suspected that he wouldn't be right about that image either.

He wouldn't go into detail because of fear he'd sound like some pansy-ass author who enjoyed writing about gleaming hardwood floors, wide open windows that let in beams of sunlight that rebounded off the mirror to—whatever. He wouldn't go through all that crap, but he would admit that this was a helluva nice place. A complicated-looking soundboard stood in the far right corner of the room, and further inspection led to noticing the speakers were hooked up at ever corner of the ceiling. There was a recessed kitchen area on the far left side of the room where a bar top looked out over the dance floor. There sat the hot chocolate and fruits.

Typical Casey to find the most kickass-looking dance studio in Kingston.

But the best sight had to be the rainbow of skirts that were all just ogling him. Like, literally rainbow. Orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. Green skirt (blonde, green eyes) grinned at him coquettishly, Blue Skirt (redhead, brown eyes) waggled her fingers in his direction, Indigo Skirt (dark brunette, blue eyes) went, "Hey, handsome," Orange Skirt (light brunette, green eyes) was practically licking her lips, Yellow Skirt (dirty blonde, blue eyes) gave him a thorough inspection as she circled him slowly, but it was Violet Skirt (platinum blonde, gray eyes) who actually recognized him.

"Well, well, well, if it ain't the famous Derek Venturi we've all been hearin' 'bout," she drawled in a Southern accent—an American.

Derek smirked. "Casey's been talking about me then?"

"Of course," Indigo Skirt said, tilting her head to one side. "We all know about her skirt-chasing cad of a stepbrother."

"And would you look at this," he said, walking forward to put his arms around Orange and Green Skirts' shoulders, "you're all wearing such nice skirts."

The girls giggled, but then a voice boomed from behind him. "Young man, you have been invited inside purely out of the goodness of my heart. I suggest you don't do anything to make me change my mind like distracting my dancers!"

Derek practically leaped away from the girls like shrapnel and turned to look at who he assumed to be "Teresa." That was the biggest shocker of his day—the woman was, like, ninety years-old.

He was too busy wondering how the old woman managed to walk two steps let alone teach a dance class, so he didn't notice Casey come up behind him and knowingly hiss in his ear, "She's seventy-four, Derek."

He scoffed as he turned to face her. "That's what she tells you."

She rolled her eyes at the same time that his own dropped to her skirt. Red. He reached out and tugged on an inch of the ruffly material.

"What is this?" he asked, masking the lump in his throat like the expert he was. "There's enough fabric in this to mummify the entire student population of Queen's."

She shot him a withering stare and smacked his hand away from her skirt. "It's part of the class, genius. It's Latin dancing, remember?"

"Yeah, I remember," he said, tugging on her skirt again. "I don't understand why you gotta have a class about it, though. It's easy. Just shake your ass and—voila!—Latin dancing."

She smiled in spite of the fact that she punched his arm. He glared at her playfully and let her lead him to the kitchen and push him onto a barstool. Then she walked—no, wait, strutted—back out onto the floor. "You can wait there until we're done. Don't get in the way, don't distract the dancers, and for the love of God, please don't start throwing things."

He jerked his hand back from the fruit tray and grinned at her. She knew him too well, and because he knew her just as well, she tripped upon seeing his smile—just like he anticipated. She righted herself, glared at him, and then turned away in a huff.

"All right, all right, simmer down, girls," the dancing dinosaur called out, patting the air to quiet them all down and making her (extremely slow) way to the soundboard.

There wasn't any sort of frantic rush to get into place before the music started. The girls moved fluidly, as if walking was choreographed too. And yet there was definitely an awkward moment when Green and Violet Skirts tugged Casey from where she stood in the middle of the floor to the side closest to Derek. His eyebrows shot up as Casey pointedly turned away from him, practically glaring at her reflection in the mirror.

Derek's temper flared unexpectedly, and he suddenly felt the extreme urge to start pegging Orange and Violet Skirts with some fruit chunks—screw Casey's explicit instructions against doing so.

However, he was jolted out of his strategizing when Teresa turned a switch on the soundboard, and the music thumped out of the speakers—something involving Spanish guitars.

And then it finally dawned on Derek why Casey was steadfastly refusing to look at him. She wasn't pissed that her friends pushed her away from the middle. She was pissed that her friends pushed her in front of him.

The way they swished around made him pretty sure they were flamingo—flamenco—dancing, but they didn't have the castanets. And he was pretty sure flamenco dancing wasn't that…sensual. It was a rainbow of bizarre, kaleidoscopic combinations of flamenco, partner-less tango, and ballet—but all thoughts of chucking fruits flew out of his head as soon as that red skirt began to sway.

He'd seen Casey dance before—obviously since he lived with her for the past four years and had personally danced with her for that one competition. Of course he was familiar with her dancing.

But this was just…different.

When she danced before—jazz, ballet, or whatever—she was like a river. Her blue eyes held the passion, the force, the current. The passion was focused and fluid in her movements, and since Casey was all about restraint, jazz and ballet were her forte. They were controlled outlets for her passion.

This time, however, she was all raw, sensual fire—smooth and graceful just like a flame. Every swing of her hips, every whip of her head, every clap of her hands…

Derek's knuckles were turning white because of how hard he was gripping the edge of the counter, his eyes locked on her and drifting back and forth with every sway of her hips. His jaw clenched tighter every time she drifted closer to him, but at the same time his eye twitched every time she glided away.

By the time the music ended, he hadn't even realized that he was breathing as hard as she was until she walked up and demanded what his problem was.

"Nothing," he choked out, releasing the countertop and flexing his fingers. "I'm fine."

She reached forward over the bar and pressed her palm against his forehead. "D, you look like you're running a fever. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yeah, Case, I'm fine." He couldn't even look her in the eye.

She narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion and walked over to the fridge and threw him a water bottle. "Advil's in the cabinet if you need it. We'll be running through some other dances, so just sit tight, okay?"

He gulped as his mind went straight to hell as her words spun around in his mind, reforming different phrases and making him break out in a sweat.

"Do you have lice?"

Derek yanked his fingers out of the knots they'd made in his hair. "What?"

"Because if you have lice, you need to get out of here right now," Casey said adamantly, frowning in either worry, frustration, or exasperation. Or maybe all three.

"I don't have lice!" Derek snapped irritably. He was on-freaking-edge.

"Well, you've been sitting there with your hands in your hair for the last ten minutes. You're making me really nervous."

Derek glared at her and leaned back against the barstool, trying to exude as much of his normal lackadaisical attitude and failing horrendously. "I'm fine."

She grabbed another water bottle from the fridge and took a few sips. "Derek, you don't look fine. It felt like you were running a temperature, and now you've got your hands in your hair like each hemisphere of your head is housing a lice colony. What's wrong?"

"Casey, for crying out loud, I'm fine. I'm just…"

She stared at him imploringly, urging him to continue. "Just…?"

"I'm just tired," he croaked, hopping down from the stool. "You done?"

"Yeah," she answered, eyeing him skeptically. "Let me just go…grab my stuff, and we'll get out of here."

Derek suppressed a relieved groan and followed her out of the kitchen.

"Bye, Derek!" the skirts chorused, waving at him innocently.

He glared at them for good measure—and they knew exactly why. Sneaky, conniving little demons who practically paraded Casey in front of him like—

"I hope you didn't mind having to sit through that," Casey said, bending down to pick up her bag. And then she scoffed. "But you're Derek Venturi. Watching a bunch of girls dancing in front of you is hardly an ordeal. You can thank me by buying me dinner. What do you say?"

She straightened up with a smile, and his jaw clenched. He was gonna have a serious toothache tomorrow. All he could do was nod and silently follow her out of the building. That was a bad idea too because she was still wearing that red skirt. He brushed past her and led the way to the Prince.

She continued to babble on and on about something that he couldn't even hear over the roaring in his ears, but as soon as he got into the car and turned the key in the ignition only for nothing to happen, the roaring vanished.

"Shit."

Best month ever.

"Language," she snapped warningly as she hopped out of the car. "Pop the hood."

He gawked at her. "What?"

She leaned against the car and shot him a longsuffering look. "Pop—the—hood," she repeated bracingly.

"What'cha gonna do, princess? Kiss the Prince and make it all better?" he mocked with a sneer.

She shot him another withering glare, and he popped the hood to make her face disappear for a few seconds.

This was gonna be a difficult night for him.

"Try turning the wheel and turn it on again," she ordered from behind the metal panel.

For once, he obeyed. Nothing happened.

"Is the car in park? If it was shut off in gear, it won't start."

"Yes, McEngineer. It's in park. I'm not an idiot."

"Could've fooled me," she retorted. He walked right into that one. "It can't be the battery since we just changed it last week," she continued. "We might have a bad ignition switch. Turn the car on, but don't start the engine. Are the warning lights working?"

He obeyed for a second time. "Nope."

"We now officially have a bad ignition switch," she announced, closing the hood and walking around to get back into the car to grab her phone out of her bag. "We're gonna need a tow service."

He stared at her as she dialed. "How did you—"

She gave him a knowing look as she held the phone to her ear. "It pays to be a keener, Derek."

Fifteen minutes later:

"Regardless of whether or not it pays to be a keener, it would've paid off more if you were a legit mechanic. Now we're gonna be sitting here for three hours," Derek grumbled, reclining his seat and folding his arms behind his head.

"As if it's my fault that all the services are booked right now! As if it's my fault that a bunch of people all decided to get into a car accident tonight!" she shot back.

"Ever heard of the butterfly effect?"

"If you're gonna bring up the butterfly effect, then you could very well be the source of our problems!"

Derek scoffed. "Like I could cause that kind of pain and destruction, Klutzilla!"

"Obviously you have never seen Thompson High girls fight over you," she pointed out snidely.

He froze and gaped at her. "I wish! Why didn't you ever tell me when a catfight was going down?"

"Der-ek!"

"Oh, come on, Case! You should've seen that coming. What normal guy wouldn't wanna see a bunch of girls fighting over him?"

"A respectable gentleman."

He rolled his eyes and snorted. "A 'respectable gentleman' is just a perv hiding under a mask of propriety. You're better off with a real guy."

"Your definition of 'real' is vastly different from the actual definition, Derek," she reminded him patronizingly.

He sat up and narrowed his eyes at her. "Real—existing or occurring as fact; actual rather than imaginary, ideal, or fictitious. I know exactly what real means, Casey. And in context, your 'respectable gentleman' is the very opposite of real because that guy is just acting under the pretenses of being raised with particular manners whereas I give it to you straight. What you see is what you get—no pretty packaging or misleading descriptions."

Her eyes were wide and her pink little mouth was shaped in a perfect O.

Oh, shit.

"Besides," he said, frantically trying to reel the conversation back to familiar territory as he resumed his reclined position, "the car was running earlier when I came to pick you up. But who was it that had to stay behind another hour?"

Casey managed to snap out of her Derek-induced shock. "Oh, yes, because my decision to join an extra workshop was what caused the Prince's ignition switch to malfunction. Of course. Your logic is sound, Venturi."

"We should just hitch a ride home with one of the Skirts."

"Skirts?" she echoed, frowning.

"The other dancers," he clarified patronizingly as he mimed swinging an imaginary skirt around his hips.

She rolled her eyes. "We can't just leave the car here. Look, let's just go get something to eat. You didn't eat anything in the studio for some bizarre reason, and I'm starving. Let's just walk to that pizzeria down the block."

He frowned at her in shock. "Aren't you gonna say something about staying with the car in case they're able to send someone over early?"

"You're just gonna force me to leave it anyway," she said blandly. "At least we'll just be gone for half an hour."

He smirked and sat up again. "Your logic is sound, McDonald."

He slung an arm around her shoulder as they walked out of the warm atmosphere of the pizzeria. He didn't do it to seduce her to shield her from the cold October night or whatever. He just…did it because he felt like resting his arm around her shoulder because she was…just the right height for him to do so.

Plus, it elicited this reaction from her: "Der-ek!" she protested, shrugging away from his arm and cringing. "I don't want the smell of your armpit on my shoulder!"

He laughed and nudged her with his shoulder, knocking her off balance a little. Of course, even a small nudge like that meant the potential threat of doing a complete face-plant against the pavement. So his hand immediately shot out to wrap around hers to steady her.

And it was the damn conservatory again.

"Thanks," she said breathlessly, gripping his hand and adjusting her skirt self-consciously.

"Well," he said with a smirk, "haven't we been here before?"

She looked up at him with raised eyebrows. "Cruise Reference Number Three?"

He shrugged. "What? Now it's a bad thing to reminisce?"

He turned her around a little so he could set his hand on her waist.

"Derek, what are you doing?"

He hushed her, frowning. "I'm full and that means I'm happy. I'm happy and that means you should take advantage of the fact that I'm not squirting super glue in your hair or something. And seriously? I think it's pretty obvious what I'm doing. You've been taking dance lessons since you were two days old, right?"

He took a step forward, and her training kicked in so that she took a step back in reply.

"Derek, you're trying to dance with me…on a sidewalk."

"Would you rather I be ramming your head onto the sidewalk?"

"Der-ek!"

He grinned as she laughed. She finally decided to hell with it and rested her hand on his shoulder. The smile on her face vanished, though, when she saw his grin had morphed into his famous smirk.

"Oh, no, Der—"

He didn't even let her finish his name before he yanked her into a lively rendition of their dance from her grandmother's lodge. She had the exact same laugh and grin as he pushed and pulled her around—only this time, she laughed harder and grinned wider because they looked like two absolute lunatics dancing like maniacs on the sidewalk. The people who dodged them either pointed and laughed or frowned and quickened their pace.

When he accidentally stumbled backward on a crack in the concrete, it was Casey who yanked him back and righted him. When they finally looked at each other, they burst out laughing and had to hold each other to keep from falling over. Their laughs eventually subsided into a comfortable silence. She held his hand and wrapped one arm around his shoulder, pulling them chest-to-chest as they swayed back and forth.

"It's good to see I didn't lose you there, D," she said, patting his back gently.

"Oh, come on, Case. I stumbled. I didn't cause some sort of domino effect and somehow wound up taking down the entire city with me," he chortled, wrapping an arm around her waist and squeezing her hand.

She jabbed her knee against his, somehow smiling and grimacing at the same time. "I don't mean that, jerk. I'm talking about you in general. I've been worried about you ever since Marti's accident."

He flinched and made a move to step out of their little dance, but she kept a firm hold on him, refusing to let go of whatever moment they'd been having. "I'm fine, Spacey."

She squeezed the back of his neck. "You can fool everyone else, Derek, but you can't fool me. You're a good actor, and you can play things off very well. But you're just not good enough."

He glared at her, and of course, she glared right back.

"You were fine back home, but as soon as we got to Kingston, it's like something changed. It wasn't…obvious or anything, but after being around you so much, it wasn't hard for me to see it. I'm pretty sure your teammates would've figured it out eventually. You're still…yourself, but it's…muted. And that's saying a lot considering it's you. You're not okay, D. You don't have to lie to me."

"I lie to you on a daily basis," he said seriously, looking at a point somewhere above her head, "when I let you out of the house thinking you look like a civilized human being."

She smirked and punched him right in the chest before sighing and resting her head on his shoulder. They continued moving back and forth, shifting their weight from one foot to the other.

Casey knew exactly how to push his buttons. She knew just the right things to push him over the edge. She knew exactly where the line was, and she made it very clear that she had no qualms about crossing it.

But it was times like this and when they were sitting outside the hospital that he knew she knew when it was an opportune moment to cross that line and when not to.

He was just so over this pretending shit.

"How is it you can see stuff like that, but you can't see the most obvious things?" he asked after a couple of minutes.

"What's obvious?" she asked, lifting her head off his shoulder and looking up at him with those bright blue eyes.

"That the fever I got was because of you. That I kept yanking my hair out because of you. That I am dancing on a sidewalk because of you."

Her eyes were wide as she swallowed nervously.

He smiled—not smirked. "For a keener, you're really stupid."

Then he bent down and kissed her.

No more pretending.