Dolce (Love at Center Court #2) by Rachel Blaufeld

music fest dressed like a sex kitten and wanting to drink, dance, and maybe get laid.
    Again, that last part I couldn’t help, what with my Jersey upbringing and all. It was in the tap water.
    But the drinking and the visions of myself dirty dancing? I’d spent the better part of the last five years offended by my mom, disgusted with my sisters, and repressed when it came to my own desires. And why? Because women like Stanwick told us as feminists we should repress our sexuality and focus on being like men.
    Who thought about sex more than men?
    Me—right now. What the fuck?
    I smiled to myself. I even swore in my thoughts. I’d bet Blane would laugh at that.
    And there I was thinking about him again, the guy I’d run away from earlier in the week.
    “Okay, there’s Ryan,” Tess said. “I gotta run. Come by later.”
    Apparently I’d missed the entire walk and conversation. We’d made it to the foot of College Avenue where it ran into the other main thoroughfare through campus, and Tess hurried over to a rainbow-painted food truck. The van looked more like the piece of crap in Scooby-Doo than a restaurant on wheels.
    I closed my eyes tightly for a moment and tried to center myself. I breathed in deeply and let out a long breath, ridding myself of anything sexual before I headed toward the radio station’s setup. Sonny was standing behind the DJ tables, earphones cockeyed on his head as he flirted with a gaggle of blond girls. All of them were hanging over the table, purring compliments and taking selfies.
    “I’m here,” I said as I sneaked up behind him.
    “Look who it is . . . my intern. Ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I have to put this one to work.”
    I glared at him. “I think it’s time you quit that, Sonny. Seriously.”
    “It’s Mr. Boots to you.”
    “No, it’s not. You’re going to respect me as a person.”
    I wasn’t sure if it was the crowd in the distance or just the comfort of the public space that gave me a backbone, but I wasn’t letting him bully me anymore.
    “What? You put on a red ho top and grow a set?” Sonny peered up at me with blue eyes surrounded by ridiculously long lashes, which complemented his perfectly coiffed bed head. If he weren’t such a pig, he’d be cute.
    “That too. Cut it out. Now, tell me what to do since I don’t have a speaking role.”
    “Oh, I think you’re gonna get on the mic this weekend. This is too rich, this banter. But in the meantime, babe, go flaunt your bad self over by the giveaways table and entice people over. The guys are gonna go nuts for that shirt.”
    “Why don’t you put it on, babe?” I sneered.
    “A, because red isn’t my color. B, I don’t want to attract the guys. And C, you should’ve shown this fire weeks ago, girl. Stop being such a hermit and come out of your shell. I think you may have a chance.”
    Speechless, I simply stared at him for a moment.
    Holy shit. A compliment from the shock jock.

    I’d been busy for hours. The giveaway table never let up. Music blared from the stage as all the local bands got a turn to play for the audience.
    Now that night had totally fallen, Sonny was going on and on about the evening’s main act taking the stage. Dirty Soul was a local band that had gone big-time after signing a record deal with a national label. They also had a female lead singer who played the electric violin, Carrie Stanford.
    I liked them, and would have wanted to meet them or her. As of yesterday, I wouldn’t have asked Sonny. In my newfound assertive state, I was prepping to go over to ask when I heard a deep voice.
    “Hey, coffee girl.”
    I turned to find Ashton Denube standing alongside the table. He was wearing a dark gray Nike T-shirt, filling out every inch of cotton, and low-hanging jeans. His eyes jumped with curiosity as he waited for me to answer him.
    “Um, hi!” I said, forcing a bright smile to my face. “You want a prize or something?”
    “Nah, just saw you standing here and thought