Re: quicklog: connie and cris awkward blind date
Bring it, gringita. [He grinned. I ain't scareda you.
'JAM JAM REGGAE' was what the screen read, Jamaican colors, loud bass. Latino Heat stepped up to the plate. Stripped down to white t-shirt and jeans, he was as ready as he was ever gonna be to stomp, not dance. He'd shed his jacket—gray and limp—over the bar behind him, meant, he figured, to keep him and everybody else who played from falling off the platform onto their asses. Cris ran his palm over the facea his watch—habit—, even sucked on his bottom lip, as he concentrated on that fuzzy screen.
She said it'd be easy, and, well, he had good coordination. The guy wasn't actually worried and he didn't have no stake in winning, even as competitive as he was natural. Nah, this wasn't 'bout that. He'd give it a shot, course, 'cause everybody could tell when they were getting worked over and that didn't make nobody feel better. Pero, mostly, he was working on at least trying to help Connie feel better, as much as he could, being a parta the whole thing. If that meant getting her mind offa things, he'd do that as best he could. He knew she didn't care 'bout Sam's intentions, not right now, so there was no point trying to work that out.
Nah, the best thing to do was stomp on these arrows. Which, for the record, he managed pretty good, even if he was laughing 'causea how stupid this was. It was hard to embarrass the guy. Cris was a cop, a dad, and from the barrio. He didn't embarrass easy, and he didn't now, but he did find this all hilarious.] Why not just dance? [He asked between stomps that were a touch overdone.]