She barks a laugh. “I should have known that would be what you were most concerned with.”
“Hey, I’ve got to take care of my woman.”
“Is that what I am? Your woman?”
Before I have a chance to answer, the phones ring in both rooms. We both make a what-the-fuck expression and go to answer them.
It’s TPYCD staff—they’re calling for all contestants to meet in the ballroom for a mandatory briefing on the rules.
After three hours, we’re finally being released, but as we try to make our way out we get stopped by a zealous camera crew.
“Look! It’s the stripper and the ballerina!” the TPYCD bloke with the microphone says enthusiastically. “I saw you guys dance in LA—freaking brilliant—the both of you! Can we do an interview with the two of you right here, right now?”
I check with Em, who nods excitedly.
“Absolutely.”
We spend the next hour delving into our backstories—individually and as a couple. We talk about how we met, what dancing means to us, what we hope to get out of the competition, and what we think we bring to it.
When we’re finished I ask, “When will the interview air?”
“Next week during the highlights, on the first show of the season.”
Good. That gives us some time to deal with the ’rents if after these next four endless, sleepless, torturous days we make it through.
Because the hotel restaurant menu offers mainly caloric sauces and fried foods, Em and I go grocery shopping and stuff what we can into a cooler and the room’s two mini fridges. We have a light dinner and, afterwards, when she goes and takes a walk to call her mum and Vi, I get to thinking and call room service.
Tonight, being our last night of freedom before the morning solos, and possibly twenty-four-hour practice days after that, I decide to make good on a promise—
And lock our adjoining door.
That way she can’t get in.
’Cause I’m a nice guy that way.
I jump in the shower.
Once I’m finished, I wrap a towel around my waist, cue “My House” by Flo Rida up on my laptop and wait for her knock.
Ten minutes later—
“Stone?” She slaps the door with her hand. “Why is this locked?”
“Ask to come in nicely.”
She pauses. “Um, okay. Can I come in?”
“Say please.”
“Please.”
I hit play on my laptop, unlock the door and pose with my arms held up over the doorway, flexed.
“You can open it now.”
When she sees me she asks, “What are you doing?”
“I told you if you came to my house…”
“You’d answer the door like a proper host—wearing nothing but a towel.” She nods with a huge grin.
“I knew you’d remember.”
I give her a private dance and serenade. When the chorus hits and Flo sings, “Welcome to my house,” I change the words to the next line and croon loudly, “Baby, take your clothes off.”
She chuckles, snags hold of my towel, and says, “Let me show you how much I appreciate your hospitality.”
That’s when she loosens the fold, drops it to the floor, and wraps her glorious, beautiful lips around my cock.
“Oh fuck!”
“A proper host deserves a proper gift,” she mumbles as she licks up and down my shaft and cradles my balls.
I’m a goner.
She spends a luxurious amount of time making mouth love to the behemoth, and we are both so grateful. Soon she begins a transcendent sucking rhythm and I achieve rapture.
We relax on the bed while I pop the champagne I ordered and put on my ‘Hanging with Em’ Spotify playlist.
“I like how you can go from listening to Flo Rida to Randy Houser. I think you’re sometimes a country boy at heart.”
“Versatile. All music is cool.”
She smiles at that, but then her gaze falls to her nearly empty flute glass. I refill it and ask, a little worried, “What’s going on, Em?”
She toys with the rim of the glass. “Me being in the competition aside,” she begins, “what happens… if you don’t make it into the top twenty? What’ll you do then?”
I nod. It’s a valid question and one we haven’t discussed.
“I’ve been thinking about the future a lot lately.” Especially one with her in it. “I’m going to go home, level with my family, drop my hours working at the agency to half-time, and apply to either California State or the University of Cali as a dance major. I owe it to myself to keep moving forward. I also happen to live in the filmmaking capital of the world—I’m going to hire an agent and audition for every dance part that comes along. Then next year, depending on how things are progressing and where my career has taken me, I may hit up the TPYCD competition again.”
“Are you worried because dance isn’t a sure thing?”
“Life isn’t a sure thing, Sunshine.”
She falls quiet again, as if she’s digesting everything.
I’ve tried to show and express how I feel about her with everything I’ve done, but I haven’t come straight out with it. I’ve never once told her how deeply I really care.
I sound sure of myself with everything else—maybe I’m fucking chicken shit—I just want to hear her say she’s staying in LA. I’ve been waiting for her to announce that news for weeks. But she still isn’t sure.
Part of me wonders if maybe she’s waiting for me to tell her how I feel before making her decision. The other part of me doesn’t want to put extra pressure on her—her dad’s already doing enough of that, and I haven’t wanted to make her feel like she has to choose between the two of us.
Now here we are, talking about the future—and whatever happens tomorrow, this week, or this year—I know I want Emelie Cartier by my side.
I wonder if something came up when she called her mum. “Did anything go down with your phone calls?” I try.
“No. Mom is fine and keeping the secret. She’s also keeping Dad off my tail by telling him to chill out and that I need this time away.” She shrugs. “I’ve just been wondering what you might do. I like your future plans. It’s about time you go after your dreams again too.”
I can tell by her expression the cogs in her mind are still turning.
“I’m excited and nervous about tomorrow for you,” she continues. “You’ve worked really hard to be here. This is your goal, and I want nothing more than to see you achieve it. I believe with all my heart you’ll make it into the top twenty. You really are that good. Once the world sees you dance, Stone, you’ll become a sensation.”
I glide my thumb over her pretty pink cheek. “Thank you for believing in me.”
“I never expected this summer to have the twists and turns it has.” She smiles. Her eyes are sleepy. She sets her glass on the nightstand and lays her head on my bare chest. Her soft hair cascades over my skin and the sensation is delicious.
As she falls asleep she mumbles, “How are you feeling?”
Certain is a good word. Like I’m certain I always want to wake up next to her in my bed. Certain I don’t ever want to let go. Certain…
The next morning, Em and I get to the auditorium and take our seats. She clings to my hand and keeps whispering, “You’ve got this.”
She’s wearing a maroon babydoll dress with matching panty-like boy short bottoms beneath. She looks like the best kind of dream.
I’ve decided, whatever happens, this afternoon I’m telling her exactly how I feel. It isn’t fair to hold it back—to either of us. She needs to know. It’ll give her all the information she needs to make the pressing decisions weighing on her mind.
The judges come across the stage—Sir Alastair, Babycakes, Ripped and two TPYCD All-Stars from former seasons—and welcome us while reminding us that this is the Hunger Games of the dance world and that, of the nearly two hundred dancers sitting here now, only twenty will go on tour for the season
.
Everyone looks around, sizing each other up, wondering who’ll be on the butcher block. It’s pretty fucking sobering.
The first twenty dancers perform the same solos they danced in the first audition. Four are sent home, the others are safe.
For now.
They call Emelie up next.
Oh shit! Here we go! I think. We both make our way to the stage to dance our routine to “Pillowtalk.”
Sir Alastair looks thrilled to see us. “Ah, the stripper and the ballerina. I’ve been waiting to watch the two of you take the stage together again. I realize you’re both dancing separately for the competition, but honestly, you’re probably my favorite dancers here. You were both absolutely bloody breathtaking in Los Angeles—as soloists and partners. Now the entire world loves you. You’ve quickly become America’s sweethearts, and this season’s TPYCD greatest hopefuls. That’s already a lot of pressure riding on you, and you haven’t even made it into the top twenty yet. I look forward to watching you pull it off.”
I feel my brow crease as I’m trying to figure out what the hell he’s talking about. I get the stripper and the ballerina part, but the rest? Looking over at Em for some kind of mental clarification, she seems just as confused as me.
“Take your positions.”
I push it out of my thoughts. There is only Emelie.
“Start the music.”
I’m pretty sure I can credit those months of stripping for sex-thirsty women with making me tough—the judge’s critical eyes don’t rattle me much.
Blocking out everything else, I make sure she shines.
Of course, she does. Her performance is magnificent. The judges are beaming as we finish.
When the applause wears down Sir Alastair asks if I can switch gears and perform my piece. I answer, “Absolutely.” The music is cued and I dance like my life fucking depends on it.
The crowd cheers and I wave my appreciation to both them and the judges before taking my seat next to Em.
“You nailed it!” She’s jumping up and down and hugs me when I fall into the seat next to her.
“Thanks, Love! Holy shit, that was fun.” I’m nearly breathless. “You were fucking dynamite!”
“Aww.”
Then she kisses me, and it brings everything in me up to the surface. I’m more nervous to tell her that I want her to stay in LA than I am about moving into the next round.
“When this is session over, Sunshine, I need to talk to you.”
“Of course.” She giggles lightly. “You can hardly escape me. We sleep in the same bed.”
“Yeah, we do.” Hearing her say that feels incredible.
We focus our attention on the next eighteen dancers until we’re all called to the stage.
Sir Alastair calls out four dancers and sends them home. The rest of us have made it through to day two.
Emelie screams and leaps into my arms.
The entire auditorium erupts into a riot! Dancers are running around hugging each other, screaming, talking to camera crews, crying… you name it. It’s freaking crazy.
I maneuver Emelie so she’s riding me piggyback-style and carry her out of there. I’ve got to tell her, and knowing her like I do, I believe that she feels the same for me.
I’m so fucking happy right now! It feels like every wish I’ve ever had is coming true.
We get as far as the lobby, both of us laughing, when she cries out, startled—
“Holy shit!”
“What is it?”
“My mom!”
Chapter Twenty-one
Emelie
Shit hits the fan
(Figuratively and literally)
My mother spies Stone and me in the crowd, rushes towards us, and pushes us off into the nearby staff lounge where the scent of microwaved burritos hits me hard.
“What are you doing here?” I can’t even believe I’m really seeing her. “Oh my God, you came to watch us perform!” The realization comes over me and I throw my arms around my mom.
“Emelie,” she hisses like it’s crucial we stay quiet. “Your father is here.”
“What?” Every giddy bubble inside me pops. “Why?”
“You must be Stone.” My mom reaches around me to hug him. “So nice to meet you, and I’m so sorry it’s like this.” She turns her attention back to me. “I tried to stop him, sweetie, and I tried to warn you, but you must not have checked your phone last night or today.”
She’s right. “I haven’t. But I don’t understand. How does he know I’m even here?”
“Oh, honey, the two of you are all over YouTube and every other social media site! The stripper and the ballerina—just Google it—you’ll find it. Someone even has a fan website up and a Facebook page dedicated to the two of you.”
I snatch her phone from her hand and start searching.
“That’s what Sir Alastair meant.” Stone goes pale.
“You two have become the face of America’s favorite love story. You’re extraordinary dancing affair has been broadcast all over planet Earth!”
“Our audition clip from LA has over twelve million views,” I marvel in a quasi-mix of awe and terror. “We’ve gone viral.”
I can also see that people have linked up video clips—of Stone performing at Foreplay, me in New York, the two of us in Long Beach at the pier, and even him dancing and me kissing him at the coffee shop. Luckily, I don’t see the one where I’m Stone’s recipient of an accidental orgasm—thank the stripper gods above that my face wasn’t recognizable enough in the shadows and it was hidden by Stone’s face—or else I might have had to change career tracks and gone out for adult films.
“Honestly, you can’t go around telling stories like this… then dance like that… and not expect to be sensations. You’re the heavy favorites! America’s newest sweethearts! I’m so proud of you!” She smiles glowingly while oozing with great love and pride. “But your father is going to kill you both when he finds you.”
I hand her back the phone and straighten my spine. “It’s okay, Mom. I should’ve leveled with him weeks ago. Just… bring me to him. I’ll deal with it.”
“Emelie, your father being here isn’t the only bad news I have.” She pinches her face in a pained expression. “He has Viktor with him.”
In the next moment, a monkey—yep, the actual furry little animal—wearing a red striped vest and a small, old-fashioned bellhop’s hat scurries into the room and jumps up onto a table. A sweaty, red-faced, out-of-breath, and obviously frustrated man comes running in after him.
“Come on, Pongo. If you go back with me like a good little monkey I’ll give you this yummy banana.” The man, who’s dressed in a green uniform, pulls a banana from his jacket pocket and dangles it like a carrot in front of a donkey.
The monkey hops up and down making this screeching OOO-OOO-AAHH-AAHH racket. Then he poops right there on the table, picks up the pile in his hand, and slings it at the guy.
“Guess the little bugger doesn’t want your banana,” Stone quips.
The poo flies through the air. The trajectory is pretty high, and some of it splatters into the ceiling fan above us. We all shield ourselves from the umm—shit storm.
At this point, the guy lunges at the monkey and secures it with a harness.
“Sorry about all this,” the man says. “We’re filming a movie down the street and he got away from me.” Then, just as fast as they arrived, they’re gone.
“I’m telling you, I saw them come in here,” my dad argues as he and Viktor crash through the doorway.
When my dad’s eyes land on me, I wish I could disappear.
“There you are!” my father accuses. He’s so angry, the veins in his neck stretch and pop while his face twists and contorts. “I knew you’d try to warn her,” he barks at my mom. “And you!” He directs an expression at Stone that threatens great violence. “YOU STAY AWAY FROM MY DAUGHTER!”
Stone winces.
“Daddy!”
“Don’
t Daddy, me,” he scolds. “Oh yeah, I’ve seen it all. All right here on this… Face-Tube!”
My dad never has been able to grasp the use of social media or the internet. Except when it comes to his sports sites and emails, he’s lost.
I can’t look at him. Instead my gaze falls to the white linoleum staff lounge floor and the monkey poo slung across it—it’s a stark contrast; white and dark; clean and dirty; poop and not poop. After everything my dad has seen and read, with the added snarky and rude commentators’ opinions… I feel helpless to fix this.
“Sir, your daughter is and has held herself as an upstanding woman… despite my behavior.” Stone tries to defend my honor.
“YOU DO NOT GET TO TALK ABOUT MY DAUGHTER!” Dad roars, and I swear our hair blows back from the amount of hurricane wind he produces.
Viktor stands next to my father, his spine perfectly straight, a satisfied expression painted over his smug face.
My dad continues, “I’ve seen the videos of you dancing and taking my little girl up on that… that…” he sputters, “stage!”
“Frank!” my mom hisses.
Dread washes over me. Oh my God, he saw the video of my very public orgasm? No, wait! My face was hidden, so he couldn’t have recognized me! I’m freaking out! What is he talking about then!?
He holds up his phone with the video playing to prove his case. The video is from the last time Stone performed at Foreplay, when he sat me in the chair onstage, danced, and stripped specially for me.
Whew, that was close! I can breathe again. Funny, a few weeks ago, the fact that my dad had seen the vid he’s showing us now, would’ve horrified me. Now, not so much.
“The whole world has seen it!” my dad shouts, ignoring my mom. “And don’t think Violet is exempt from fault, either! I’m sure she was the one who talked you into all of this in the first place. I should never have agreed to you going out to California.”
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