A wall of denim and leather under suits formed around the edge of the dance floor, then melted as each man found his girl.
James, six-foot-five with a shaved head and a tattoo of a snake curling up his neck, crouched down to pin a corsage on a tiny five-year-old in a blue dress.
“There you go, sweetheart,” he said, hands careful. “Don’t worry, I won’t stab you. Did my best practice on a pillow.”
She giggled.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Lily,” she whispered.
“Well, Lily,” he said, “I’m James. I’m here as your stand-in dad tonight. It’s an honor.”
Marcus, with a scar across his eyebrow and hands that looked like they’d broken more than a few things, held out his arm for Sofia, seven, whose real dad was in prison.
“You want to dance, princess?” he asked.
“My daddy’s in jail,” she blurted, because kids don’t do small talk. “He said he’s sorry.”
Marcus blinked.
“My little girl used to say the same thing about me,” he said. “I did some time too. I was stupid. Hurt people. But I loved my kid. Sounds like your dad messed up, not that he stopped loving you.”
Sofia’s shoulders relaxed.
“Do you think he’d want me to dance?” she asked.
“I think he’d want you to have the best time ever,” Marcus said. “So let’s make it worth writing home about.”
Thomas, salt-and-pepper hair tied back, danced with Jasmine, whose father had died in a car accident two years before.
“My daddy’s in heaven,” she said, looking up at him.
Thomas swallowed hard.
“So is my little girl,” he said quietly. “She was six. Leukemia. I never got to take her to one of these things.”
Jasmine slipped her hand into his.
“Maybe you can dance for both of us,” she offered.
He smiled through eyes that suddenly shone.
“I’d like that very much,” he said.
And then there was Sita.
Standing on Robert’s boots so he could shuffle her around the floor, his hands gentle on her waist, her head thrown back in laughter.
Every time the DJ changed the song, the bikers looked like they were being asked to solve algebra without a pencil.
The Hokey Pokey nearly broke them.
“Left foot in,” the DJ yelled.
Half the bikers put in their left arms. A few stuck both feet in and shook their heads, laughing at themselves.
The girls howled with delight.
The Macarena was a mess.
A glorious, flailing mess.
Big men fumbling through the moves, tiny girls earnestly trying to direct them.
“Other arm, Mr. Robert!” Sita cried. “No, other other arm!”