Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Someone bumped his shoulder, jostling him from his thoughts. Tate blinked the fair into focus with a muttered apology. He glanced around at the bright, blinking lights and the crowds of townsfolk. Shit, he’d wandered halfway through the fairgrounds without paying a lick of attention to where he was walking.
Where was the damn funnel cake booth? He’d had a craving for the stuff since he’d seen the first fair flyer a few weeks ago. There was not much better than some warm, fried, sugary goodness.
As he glanced around, movement from a stage to his left caught his attention. Performers moved all over the stage, but what had him walking closer was the music that seemed so out of place for a state fair. Behind him, obnoxious carnival music blared from the rickety Ferris wheel, while in front of him, something slow and elegant played for the performers he now realized were ballet dancers.
What an odd thing to have at the fair. Last year, the main event was pig races, and this year a ballet? Maybe someone was trying to class up the place. Tate snorted. They’d have had better luck getting lipstick on those racing pigs.
Still, he took another step closer to the show out of what he’d later call morbid curiosity.
The stage, like everything else at this hick fair, had seen better days, made of rusted metal with what looked like plywood layered on top. Rows of folding chairs held maybe fifteen scattered audience members despite the crowds at the fair. It seemed like most people were as confused as he was to see a ballet performance at the county carnival. Either that, or they were too busy puking their guts out on rides.
Or getting blown like Randy.
Girls who seemed to be around his age danced across the stage in pink tutus with flowers in their hair. They pranced and leaped on the tips of their toes with identical smiles plastered on their faces. Tate watched for a minute before boredom set in. As he was about to resume his search for a fried treat, a new dancer practically floated onto the stage.
Tate froze.
His skin prickled, starting at the nape of his neck and spreading through to the tips of his fingers.
Air whooshed out of his lungs like it did when Randy socked him in the gut.
The guy on stage danced with a fluidity that almost seemed fake like a person shouldn’t be able to move with such grace.
Grace? When the hell had he ever used the word grace?
When the male dancer leaped, his long legs extended as straight as an arrow. When he twirled, Tate held his breath, sure no one could possibly spin that fast and that many times without toppling over.
This was the first ballet Tate had seen, and his brother and friends would rib him to no end if they saw him gawking like a fool, but he couldn’t turn away. He couldn’t even blink for fear of missing a second of the guy’s routine.
Sweat broke out across Tate’s brow as he watched the play of muscles in the guy’s bare chest while performing a move that required a flexibility Tate couldn’t fathom. The dancer’s lower half was covered by a pair of light gray tights that were so fucking snug he could make out each individual ass muscle as the guy danced.
Or he could have if he was looking.
But he wasn’t.
He especially wasn’t looking at the way those tights cupped the guy’s crotch.
No fucking way.
Tate swallowed.
Fuck, I’m looking.
Staring.
His heart raced.
Completely transfixed.
The dancer held a final pose, and the sparse crowd cheered. Tate should have clapped, but he still couldn’t move. If it wasn’t for the fact he stood seventy feet from the stage, he’d have sworn the dancer’s gaze met his.
His gut tightened.
God, he couldn’t fucking breathe. Nothing in the world had captured his attention the way this dancer had. The entire fair could erupt in flames, and he’d never notice. It felt like live wires were popping and crackling under his skin, making him crave something he couldn’t put his finger on.
He swallowed a painful lump down his arid throat.
The guy’s body was like marble, crafted to perfection—smooth, hairless planes, rippling abs, sculpted arms, and that muscular ass. Were he closer, Tate wouldn’t be able to keep from reaching out and touching—
Oh fuck.
No. No, no, no.
His stomach cramped. Forget the funnel cake. He couldn’t eat to save his life right then.
I can’t be. It’s not possible.
The weird feelings were nothing more than admiration for someone who worked hard at their impressive skillset. A skillset Tate would never have but could appreciate the sacrifices it would take to get there.
No way in hell was he attracted to the guy on stage. This was probably from all the girls in their tight costumes. He tried to shift his attention to one of the perky ballerinas, but his damn eyes wouldn’t cooperate.