by Amelia Mae
“I’m in the matrix?” I say flatly, “It was all a big fucking dream?”
“No,” he explains, “You never had her, like the version of her that you fantasized about when you were a kid. You had Cora the way she is now, flaws and struggling career and insecurities and all.”
I feel anger boiling inside of me.
“I know that,” I tell him, my fists clenched, “Why does everyone think I’m an idiot? I don’t expect her to be the same girl that she was when she was sixteen. Am I the same guy I was when I was sixteen? Fuck, no.”
Dylan blinks.
“Sure, part of me got all ridiculous and wore rose-colored glasses and got stupid horny when I first saw her again,” I ramble, not caring if I make much sense, “But I got over that pretty quickly after the first time we slept together. She’s insecure and indecisive and at a really difficult place in her life. I see all the faults, Dylan.”
This isn’t the answer Dylan expected and it’s written all over his face.
“And you still want her?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him, “Fuck. I’m in love with her.”
Even more than I was back then.
I sigh. I feel lighter. Like it was good to get that off my chest.
“What do I do?” I ask.
“You need to give her time,” he says.
“How much time?”
“I don’t know,” he answers, running his hand through his blonde hair. “I mean, she’s gonna start missing rolling around with you in bed pretty soon.”
I scoff. True. But not the point.
“She needs to get through this next part on her own. She’s not gonna be okay with you barging in to solve her problem.”
I nod. He’s right.
“Okay,” he says, “Can we drop this for now? No more sounding like a fucking episode of Dawson’s Creek.”
I have a million more things I want to say, but he’s right.
The only thing that can fix this is time. I only hope that it can be fixed.
I look around for my Johnny Cash tee-shirt, I find that it’s missing. And there’s a lot of Cora’s stuff left behind. She probably packed it by mistake.
I picture her going through her things and realizing that she’s taken it.
I picture her wearing it. Sleeping in it.
And it’s the only comfort I’ll have for a while.
24
Cora
One Month Later
Dylan and my breakup hit the tabloids pretty soon after I left the tour.
I didn’t know how he was going to play this.
If I were him and wanted to both save face and ensure that I’d have lots of eager women lining up to ease my pain, it would have read something like: Cora Dwyer Goes Crazy and Leaves Heartbroken Dylan Cotter On a Tour Bus in the Middle of the Night.
Okay, that’s a little long.
The real headline read: Yeah, I Cheated.
He cheated. He cheated on his model girlfriend because he’s a manwhore and can’t help himself. He tells them that I was a great girlfriend. He takes full responsibility for the breakup.
It’s completely selfless.
Though, with that piercing fully healed, he’s now getting photographed with a new model or actress or beautiful woman on his arm every time he heads outside.
Plus, the band, the record sales, and all future tours are virtually unaffected, so Dylan’s not exactly suffering all that much.
And I’m glad.
Life has gone back to normal for me in some ways.
I’m back at the Caspiar Club. I refused the money from the band for the fake girlfriend gig. After all, I bailed on the last part of the tour, but they insisted on paying me anyway.
Aya continues to drag me to her pole dancing classes. She’s an instructor now. She’s really good and her students love her. The dance studio is where she belongs. I can’t say the same for myself, however. I’m hopelessly uncoordinated. But, still, I’m really happy for her.
I’ve gone back to acting classes, both for on-camera acting and for the stage. Better ones. Ones that aren't just in someone’s living room. I’ve done one short film and one commercial that’s been airing on a few streaming services. I’ve been on a load of auditions. I’ve even gotten a few callbacks.
But my big project is coming up.
It feels right. It was the first thing I did after leaving the bus that night.
Well, after checking into a hotel and waiting till morning, obviously.
I took a campus tour of New York University and got information about their graduate acting program.
When I got back to Los Angeles, I toured a few other schools too.
I spread the pamphlets out on my bed. UCLA. USC.
But my top choice is NYU.
Tyson’s words play in my ears. I would get two years of my life to focus on nothing but acting. I have no real responsibilities in my life at the moment, no kids or a husband or anything. And I have the money.
The time is now.
I chose NYU because no one would recognize me there. While, yes, it’s been awhile and the buzz for the video and subsequent attention for being Dylan Cotter’s now ex-girlfriend has died down, I do still get aren’t you that girl looks from people every now and again.
Not only would people not recognize me in New York, but those that do might actually consider my short stint as a video girl to be a bad thing. Like something that they could use to refuse to take me seriously. Like I was starting with a demerit.
And, call me crazy, but I like that idea.
To have to work extra hard. And prove everybody wrong.
I haven’t seen Ian.
I miss him all the time. There are days when I psych myself up to call, but just can’t do it. Or I’ll start to write a text, but can’t make my fingers tap the screen. It’s torture not hearing his voice. Not feeling his rough hands on my body. Not seeing the ravenous look in his eyes as he pins me to the bed.
Of course, I don’t know if he’d even answer my call after everything we’ve been through.
It’s late.
I clean up the pamphlets, change into a tee shirt and slip into bed.
But, like usual, the second the lights are out and my eyes are closed, I think about Ian. My fingertips caress my stomach. I think about the first time we slept together and I how came on his face, spread out on the kitchen table. How he growled dirty things in my ear.
The throbbing between my legs intensifies.
My hand drifts lower and I start touching myself.
I think about us in his shower and his low, deep moans as I sucked him off, the water pounding his back and sluicing down his chest.
I find my clit and rub lightly. In my mind, it’s him touching me. His lips on mine, his hard, strong body on top of me, pinning me down, getting ready to fuck me hard.
Fuck, I miss him.
My phone rings.
Holy shit.
It takes me a second to remember what exactly a phone is and what I should do with it. I hit something that I hope will let me speak to him.
“Hello?”
“Hey.” Ian’s voice is deep and rumbly. “Did I wake you?”
“No,” I answer quickly.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.
“Not really.”
“Me neither.”
We’re silent for a second.
“It’s good to hear your voice,” I tell him.
“You too. How are you?”
“I’m doing well.” I pause. “I miss you.”
He sighs. “I miss you too.”
“What are you doing right now?” I ask.
“I’m in bed talking to you.”
“Is that all?”
“Is that all I was doing? You think there was some other motive to this call besides checking in on you?”
I was hoping so.
I know I have so many other, more serious things to discuss with Ian.
But… I… um….
Mercif
ully, he takes the reins and asks, “What are you wearing?”
I laugh a little. It’s the oldest line in phone sex.
But I answer. “Tee shirt.”
“Sexy. Is it mine?”
“Yeah,” I admit. I’d grabbed it by mistake as I left in the dark. His Johnny Cash tee shirt. The one he was wearing when I saw him play at the Anonymous Bar.
I’ve been sleeping in it. It might be creepy, considering that we’re not really together, but I can’t help it. I still want to feel close to him.
I inhale deeply. It still smells a little like him.
“What about you?” I ask.
“I was just about to go to bed. So, nothing,” he answers. Fuck, I can picture him grinning as he says it.
I settle deeper into the mattress and let out a shaky sigh.
“Are you picturing it?” he whispers, “Me, lying in bed, with my hand wrapped around my hard dick?”
My moan is enough of a yes. That’s a nice visual.
“You’re touching yourself,” he says. It’s not a question.
This time I manage to whimper out a yes.
“Oh, fuck, I want to watch you.” His voice gets demanding. “Take that shirt off. Run your hands over your tits. Like I would.”
I shudder as I obey, letting that low, commanding voice wash over me.
“Now me,” he says, “Tell me what to do.” His voice is shaky and breathy. He’s unraveling.
“Long, slow strokes,” I tell him, “Really give me a show.”
I’ve never watched a guy jack off. I’ve never wanted too. But I’d watch Ian. Especially if I knew he was thinking about me.
“Fuck, Cora,” he pants. He lets out a deep moan.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask.
“That time I fucked you first thing in the morning,” he whispers, “That fucking sex-kitten voice that drives me crazy.”
I rub my clit with my thumb and slip a finger inside.
“Oh God, Ian,” I manage out, through gritted teeth.
“The way you moan my name when you’re about to come. It’s so fucking hot,” he grits out. He stops saying words, just breathes heavily and grunts as he closes in on his orgasm.
“Fuck, I’m going to come,” I hiss, “Come with me.”
“Baby,” he gasps.
The second he calls me baby, I go over the edge. I pulse. I gush. I cry out his name over and over as I come on my hand.
He’s coming too. His breathing gets harsh and ragged. He lets out that deep, guttural sound that makes me want to come all over again.
We listen to each other breathe as we come down.
“Are you home?” I ask, finally.
“Why? Want me to come over?” he asks.
God, yes.
“I’m in the Bay Area,” he tells me, “Just for the night. We had a show.”
“Fuck,” I say, selfishly. “I’m sure the show was great, though.”
“Yeah. It was.” He takes a deep breath. “I want to see you. I think we have a lot to talk about.”
I nod. Then realize that he can’t see me nodding and finally reply, “Yeah, we do.”
“Are you free tomorrow?”
“No, I’m not,” I answer, “I leave for New York.”
“What? What’s in New York?”
I gather my courage. “I’m auditioning for NYU. For the masters program in acting.”
He’s slow to reply. But, when he does, he says, “Cora, that’s amazing.”
And I can tell he means it.
“I mean, I have enough money from the tour and it’s not like I planned to work at the club my whole life. The time is just right.”
“So you’d be moving to New York?” he asks.
“Well, yes, if I get in, I’d obviously have to.”
“Obviously.”
He pauses. We both know what question needs to be asked.
“What does that mean for us?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly, “If I get in…. I mean, it’s really selective… the odds are that I won’t…”
He cuts me off. “You have to go.”
“I have to go. I need this,” I start, “But I need you too. I love you, Ian.”
“I love you too,” he says. “Fuck, I really wanted to do that in person the first time.”
I laugh. “Me too. Guess that wasn’t as romantic as it could’ve been.”
“I did just listen to you come. That was pretty fucking romantic.”
True.
"I need something, though,” he tells me, “I need to you tell me that you want to make this work.”
“What’s this?” I ask.
“I don’t need a label or a title. You don't need to call me your boyfriend. You can call me anything you want as long as you’re really mine. And I’m yours. No more of this friends-with-benefits bullshit. We’re for real.”
I don’t even have to think about it.
“I’m yours,” I tell him, “You’re mine. And this is very fucking real.”
25
Ian
I say goodbye to Cora and end the call and I feel better.
Then worse.
I really meant what I said. I don’t care what we want to label it, but I need to… I don’t know… feel like she’s really mine.
I need to do that in person.
And I can’t wait another few days until she gets back from New York.
I find my discarded tee shirt, wipe the sticky mess off my hands and chest, dig up my phone and book the first flight I can to New York City.
Immediately after the last encore, the band wishes me luck and I take a car to the airport. I’m in New York by sunrise.
Of course, in my haste to sweep in and make the grand showing-up gesture, I’d completely forgotten to ask Cora where she’s staying and when her audition is. I laugh to myself as I get in the cab and the driver asks me where I’m going.
I have absolutely no idea.
But I few seconds on my phone and I have a room at a hotel near the Tisch building at NYU and I’m able to charm/name drop to enough people to find out when and where the auditions are being held.
I take a seat in a small room amongst a few very nervous actors. Some are running through their lines. Some read through scripts. One woman just stares at a framed Pulp Fiction poster and looks like she’s going to vomit.
A few people stare at me. For some, it’s like they know me from somewhere. Others are trying to size me up as competition.
All that’s left to do is wait.
And hope I’m not too late.
After what seems like forever, Cora emerges from the audition panel room.
She’s a sight for sore eyes. Her hair is slightly shorter and she’s dressed in jeans, boots, a lavender blouse and leather jacket. She looks ready to kick ass and take names. She closes the door behind her and faces the room.
And a huge smile erupts on her face.
She doesn’t see me yet, but I see that smile.
And I’m so happy, I could die.
I sneak up behind her.
“So, I guess it went well,” I say, hoping I don’t startle her.
She blinks, surprised, but happy.
“Ian,” she cries, throwing her arms around my neck and pressing her body to mine.
I wrap my arms around her and hold her much longer and closer than is appropriate in a waiting room. Or anywhere in public for that matter. But I don’t give a flying fuck.
I guide her out of the building before we get any more unwanted attention.
“Let me take you to lunch and celebrate,” I tell her, “There’s a small pub on the corner. You can tell me all about it.”
She nods. “But this first,” she teases. She pulls me flush against her and kisses me in the way that I’ve missed so sorely this past month. I groan as I sink into her kiss.
Fuck, no one else kisses like Cora.
No one else even compares.
Her soft lips claim m
ine and her green-apple scent floats around me and the whole damn world stops.
She feels like home.
“Okay,” she says, “We can go in now.”
Still kind of spinning, she leads me inside the pub. We take seats at the bar and order beers. We clink pint glasses, celebrating Cora’s audition, the end of my tour, New York and the fact that we’re both in the same city in the same bar and can finally kiss like that again.
We’ve clinked glasses so many times that the bartender think’s we’re insane, but it’s too much fun to care.
“I have a really good feeling about it,” Cora says, “The interview part went well. I’m usually super stiff and awkward in situations like that, but the conversation flowed. I even got them laughing, which may or may not be good.”
“I’m sure it’s good,” I tell her. She’s adorable when she rambles.
“And the audition was… I don’t think I could have done better,” she says, her eyes full of hope, “They seemed impressed. They asked lots of questions. I just feel… I don’t know. I feel really, really good right now.”
I smile. The air feels lighter. It’s all I want. For Cora to be happy.
“Ian,” she says in a nervous whisper. “Thank you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “For what?”
“You don’t realize what you’ve done for me.”
I’m still confused.
“It takes a really tough man to lift up a woman like you did for me. To help me realize my dream. And to be patient with me and everything I was going through. You just… you have no idea how selfless you were. Are.” She gets a little choked up. “Thank you, Ian.”
I take her hand and kiss her knuckles.
Sure, we had our rough moments, but I love her.
And I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
“So… what happens for us now?” I ask.
“I was thinking about that too,” Cora says, “I can’t ask you to wait anymore.”
“Thank God,” I tell her, “This month has been hell without you.”
“I want to be your girlfriend. Like, actually your girlfriend. Like, have an official title and be a real couple and shout it from the fucking rooftops… God, I sound completely crazy, don’t I?”
