"Yeah, don't you just have to take off your clothes?" asked Hugh.
"They said I couldn't dance," she explained.
We all stared.
"Okay..." I wondered if maybe I should have read the mentor's handbook after all. "Let's see it."
"See what?"
"You. Dancing."
Tawny looked around the room in terror. "Here?" she squeaked. "In front of all of you?"
"If you can't take your clothes off in front of your friends," said Peter, "who can you take them off in front of?" I elbowed him.
"I can't," she whispered.
"Tawny," I barked. My voice held the authority of a drill sergeant. She jumped. "I am not making out with you until the end of time. You want to do this, then you've got to work for it. Now, take off your clothes."
"Oh," said Hugh. "I've waited ten years to hear you say that to another woman."
I found my stereo remote and turned it on. "Tainted Love" started playing.
"I can't strip to the eighties!"
"Tawny!"
With a terrified look in my direction, she moved to the center of the living room. At first, she just kind of stood there, and then, slowly, she tried to step in time to the music. I say tried because she was so off the beat, it was astonishing. I don't think I could have been that out of sync if I'd tried. Finally, she gave up moving her feet at all and simply focused on her upper body, swaying her arms and torso slightly. It was the most awkward, uncomfortable spectacle I'd ever seen.
At last, she decided she'd "danced" enough and began removing her clothing. She apparently couldn't multitask, however, and gave up all pretenses of moving to the music. Instead, she stood still and started unbuttoning her zebra-print blouse. Her fingers fumbled on the third button down, and it took her almost thirty seconds to unfasten it.
"Stop, please stop," I said, turning off the music. "Your goal is to take years off people's lives, but not like this."
"Was I bad?" she asked.
"No," I said. "You were terrible."
She stuck her lower lip out in a pout.
"Oh, come on," said Cody, ever the kindly one in our group. "That's kind of mean."
"Hey, I'm supposed to be a teacher, not a friend."
"The School of Georgina is a harsh one," intoned Peter solemnly.
"It's not that easy," Tawny said, looking at me accusingly. "If you really are my teacher, then show me how to do it."
Four faces watched me expectantly. I started to protest, then remembered that helping Tawny meant Niphon would leave Seattle that much faster. Getting up off the couch arm, I took her place in the center of the room.
"Okay, first off, you're missing two things. One, listen to the music and move with it. There's a beat. Find it. Move your feet and your body - your whole body - to it. Become part of it." Tawny's blank look told me I was getting too esoteric for her. "Then, when it comes time to take off your clothes, remember that you're not doing it to be practical. You're doing it for someone else. Make it dramatic. Make it artful."
I turned the stereo on and clicked to the next track on my mix CD. It was "Iron Man."
"Hey!" Tawny said. "How come you get metal?"
"Not even you can strip to Ozzy," scoffed Hugh.
I gave him a sidelong glance. "I can strip to anything, baby."
I started moving. For me, there was no thought required at all. I'd been a dancer since my mortal days. I loved it. There was no music. There was no me. We were the same being. My body flowed to its melody and rhythm, every one of my movements graceful and sensual. I didn't even pay attention to my friends. I just let myself get lost in the dance.
I didn't have much on to begin with. I had panties and a bra underneath the robe, but I intended to leave them on. I was close to my friends but not that close. But, I made the most out of taking off the robe, letting my hands slide over my silk-covered body. I slowly untied the sash, drawing the experience out, and finally let it slip to the floor. I took my heels off with equal deliberateness.
Literally never missing a beat, I told Tawny, "When you've got this down, we'll move onto lap dances."
I moved over to where Hugh sat on the loveseat and positioned my legs so that I straddled him while barely touching him. A stripper's art. I ran my fingers through my hair, my body still rippling like a ribbon.
"Hey, big spender," I said.
He looked appreciative but more amused than anything else. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a one dollar bill.
"Hugh," I said. "Don't insult me."
With a sigh, he produced a five and tucked it underneath my bra strap.
"Hey, Seth," Cody suddenly said.
I looked up and saw Seth standing in the doorway. When Tawny had come barreling through, I'd left the door ajar. A look of comic bemusement was on his face.
"Hey," he said, studying me. "So...you're paying for dinner?"
I crawled off Hugh's lap and pulled the five out of my strap. "Only if you want to go to Taco Bell."
Cody handed me a twenty. "Make it a Red Lobster."
My friends got up and moved toward the door, and I assured a distraught Tawny that I'd think of something to help her. Giving up any more attempts at manually getting ready, I shape-shifted into jeans, low boots, and another cashmere sweater. A three-quarter-length gray wool coat covered it all. I grinned at Seth, who was shaking his head ruefully. Compared to the other things he knew I did, an impromptu striptease was pretty low-key.
"And you thought I didn't earn my keep."
"No comment," he said, taking hold of my hand.
CHAPTER 9
"I don't understand this," said Seth good-naturedly. "I catch you stripping in front of other men, yet I'm the one who gets punished."
Clasping his hand, I led him onto the ice skating rink. Just like with dancing, I glided with practiced ease. Seth's movements were jerky and uncertain. Without my hand, I suspected he would have fallen already.
"This is good for you, Mortensen. You sit at a desk - or table or whatever - all day. This'll get your muscles working again. Get the old blood pumping."
His teasing smile turned into a grimace, his hold on my hand turning into a death grip. "There are a hundred other ways I could do that."
"But none as fun," I assured him.
Seth was brilliant and funny, but coordinated he was not. During the early days of our acquaintance, I'd tried to teach him to dance. It had been grueling. After a very long time, he'd learned the basic steps, but the process had never been easy - or, I suspected, enjoyable - for him. I'd let him off easy since then, only making him go out dancing once. He'd grown complacent now, which was why I felt this experience would be so good for him.
"Men were not meant to wear blades on their feet," he told me as we trudged further toward the rink's center. We were outdoors, at a small park, and our breathing made frosty clouds in the air.
"Women weren't meant wear to stilettos," I told him. "But you don't hear me bitching about it."
"That's different. They do great things for your legs. This? This just makes me look stupid."
"Well, then," I said. "You better learn. Time to take off the training wheels." I released his hand.
"Hey! What the - "
But I was gone, slipping away from his grasp with a laugh. He stood there frozen while I skated away, circling the rink in graceful loops and figure eights. After a few rounds, I skated back up to him, finishing with a neat pirouette. He hadn't moved from the spot where I'd left him, but he no longer appeared annoyed.
"Look at you," he said, touching my face. "Rosy cheeks. Snowflakes in your hair. You're the Snow Queen."
"God, I hope not. That's a depressing story. Hans Christian Andersen had issues."
"All writers have issues," he assured me.
I laughed and took his arm, leading him around in more awkward skating. My legs and feet protested the slow movement, but the rest of me was happy to have quality time with Seth.
"Speaking of writers with issues," I said. "How can I get in trouble for stripping in front of other men when you have a date with another woman?"
If not for the fact he would have fallen over, I suspect Seth would have elbowed me. "That's your own fault," he said. "You made me do it, so don't get all jealous now."