Dancing on the Sand

Chapter 1

If Ryan Kidd had known what his boss was going to ask of him, he’d have laid his Harley Heritage Softail down on the Saturday morning drive to the Bucks’ stadium and broken a leg. Or two.

Let me get this straight, he said, still unsure he had heard correctly. It was early, especially for a Saturday, and perhaps he was still half asleep. You want me to dance. In a contest.

That’s right. Cutter Valentine leaned back in his leather executive chair and examined a thumbnail.

In public, Ryan continued, still in disbelief.

The Barefoot Bay Bucks manager nodded. Yep, he drawled. You’ve been drafted, so to speak, to be the team’s representative in the first Dancing on the Sand charity competition at the resort over on Barefoot Bay.

Casa Blanca Resort & Spa. Ryan had ridden by the entrance a few times and jogged along the beach road until it ended at the Casa Blanca property. It was pretty swanky. The sort of place he might have stayed if—

The competition is in a month, Cutter continued, interrupting Ryan’s thoughts. So we’ll work your schedule around that.

Ryan considered the proposal for a few moments. Well, okay, he agreed.

Okay? Cutter’s eyes widened. I honestly expected you to fight me a little more on this, not that you have much choice. Are you getting soft on me, Kidd?

I can boogie a little when necessary. And if I can do it at that fancy-schmancy resort down the road, why not?

Cutter’s laugh cut through the air. This isn’t boogie-at-a-nightclub dancing. It’s ballroom dancing. You know – tango, foxtrot. Ballroom, he repeated. Like that television show.

Well, hell. Ryan found himself in the middle of a full-blown whiskey tango foxtrot moment, and his stomach crawled halfway up his esophagus. A woman he had dated had roped him into watching the show with her. Ballroom dancing? Him?

Can’t someone else do it? I mean, I’m not one of the team’s stars. I just coach the pitching staff. No one’s going to want to watch me. Let Anderson do it. Or Flores. People know them. Lee Anderson was the Bucks’ top batter and Emilio Flores had a fastball that was approaching 95 miles per hour. Ryan expected him to get a call any day to move up a level or two in the Bucks franchise.

Named after his father’s favorite pitcher and nicknamed Whiz because of his high-speed 4-seam fastball, Ryan remembered his own call. The headlines in the local paper of their small town in west Texas proclaimed that Ryan Whiz Kidd had been drafted by the majors and would remain in Texas to play ball. His dad, Vince, still had a framed copy of that newspaper article hanging in his office at Kidd & Sons, the farm equipment dealership, which had been started by Ryan’s grandfather, Earl. A job Ryan would have retired his dad from except for—

I can’t afford to take anyone out of the lineup, Cutter countered, interrupting Ryan’s thoughts again. We have a big away series coming up and we’re short on players since Clark and Bowers got called up to the big show. I have to send a non-player to this shindig. You’re young, and you seem to have a following with the ladies, which should get you and the team some publicity in the contest. You could use that to your advantage in the popular vote portion of the contest.

And he had two left feet when it came to anything other than the Texas two-step. No native Texan could show his face in public without being able to do the two-step. His mother had taught him, pushing the living room furniture aside and coaching him every night after her job at the Clip & Curl Salon until he was proficient enough to feel comfortable asking his girlfriend to the junior prom.

Popular vote?

You get your friends and family and their friends and family to vote for you.

That sucked. It sounded more like a pyramid scheme than anything else. Ryan had a small family and an even smaller circle of friends. Oh, he’d had lots of friends during the heyday of his career, but once that was over, those friends disappeared, and he hadn’t even tried to replace them. Why do it if the least little thing made them go AWOL?

Maybe Ryan could convince another staff member to take this gig. Maybe someone from the business office. Surely they’d jump at the chance to go to Casa Blanca Resort & Spa. Hell, he’d pay someone if he had to.

What if I can get—

You’re it, Kidd, Cutter said, fixing him with a stare. It’s a done deal. I’ve already turned in your name to the contest coordinators. I don’t suppose it would help if I told you there was prize money. Ten thousand to split between the winning pair. And an extra seventy-five hundred to the celebrity contestant’s charity of choice if you win the popular vote. Does that sweeten the deal?

A broad grin split his face. Hell yes it sweetened the deal. Five thousand dollars was chump change compared to a Major League Baseball contract, but since he didn’t have one of those anymore, that prize money would be a welcome addition to his bank account. Assuming he won. And he’d find a charity to donate the other money to. If he won.

Just how does this voting stuff work anyway?

If I understand the memo they sent, there will be dance judges who pick the overall winner for the ten grand prize. That’s based on how well you dance. The other part will be done on Twitter, and the celebrity who gets the most votes from the general public wins the extra money. I’m sure the contest folks can explain it to you better. You do have a Twitter account, don’t you?

Ryan figured he was a long-shot for the based-on-your-dancing prize, but if he corralled the Bucks fans behind him he might be able to win that bonus. He’d have to dig up the password for his Twitter account and remember to tweet.

I’ll talk to the PR guys about tweeting for me.

Cutter shook his head. You have to do that part yourself. To keep things on an even playing field, there’s no corporate help allowed.

Damn.

Cutter dropped his gaze to the papers on his desk and picked up a pen, his signal that the conversation was over.

Ryan stood in the silence, mulling his fate, then took a step backward toward the office door.

Oh, and you’re supposed to meet your dance partner this morning at eleven o’clock at a place called Allegro, Cutter said, without looking up. It’s in town over the flower shop. They said to tell you to plan on being there for a couple hours. Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll be a whiz at this too. You’ll make us all proud.

Whiz Kidd.

The mention of his old nickname stung. The handle was a reminder of an existence that seemed a lifetime ago instead of just six short years.

Ryan forced a fake smile. Yes, sir, he mumbled as he left Cutter’s office, pulling out his cellphone to text Yolanda Akers and let her know he’d have to break their date for lunch.

Yeah, he should have laid his bike down and broken both legs because this was going to be a disaster of monumental proportion. Just like—

No, that was then and was best left on the front page of a long ago newspaper sports section. His father hadn’t framed that article; he had folded it and put it away in a box instead. All of that belonged in the past. Ryan just hoped his dancing debut wasn’t as disastrous as his baseball swan song.

Chapter 2

When Amara Perez entered Allegro , she saw her boss, Jasper Vonderleith, dancing around the room to an oldie by the Pointer Sisters. He sang along in a piercing falsetto and was nearly floating on air. When Jasper noticed her, he hurried to her side