by Lily Foster
As I make my way to my friends, pressing myself between writhing, sweat-slicked bodies, the thumping beat of the track lulls me. I’m shaking my hips like Shakira, and don’t even realize it until Pilar starts whooping and the others join in and grab me into a sweaty group hug.
“I’m so glad you made it!” she yells over the music.
“Me too!”
Sounding downright genuine, Simone says, “And you look hot.”
I breathe a sigh of relief when I see the dress she’s wearing is similar to mine. I never questioned my fashion choices before, but now I’m pretty much always second-guessing myself.
“I like your dress,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes and leans in so I can hear her. “We look like twins. Next time we’ll have to coordinate better.”
And when she pulls back I see that she’s smiling. Aw, see that? She’s not a bitch after all.
Simone takes one of my hands and Pilar takes the other, and soon we’ve formed our own hot little threesome. The vodka has definitely worked its magic. I feel free and uninhibited, and I throw my head back and laugh when I notice that people have made a circle around us.
The strobe lights flash on and off, changing colors and making the people around us seem as if they’re disappearing and then reappearing over and over again.
The way we’re moving makes it impossible to really study anyone, but I can register eyes that express interest and some that are predatory. Out here I don’t feel like a helpless minnow surrounded by sharks, though. No, when I’m dancing I feel powerful.
Chapter Seven
Leo
What am I doing here?
That’s what I’m asking myself as the driver pulls up outside the abandoned warehouse Max has assured us is the hottest new club in the city.
One Friday night a month I allow myself some downtime. One night a month away from my job, my research, my home, my daughter—from the responsibilities that sometimes feel like they’re weighing me down.
I wouldn’t change a thing about my life because of Olivia, but still, sometimes I feel like a hamster running on a wheel.
So anytime I’m somewhere I don’t want to be, when I feel like I’m wasting my time? I resent the fuck out of it.
But tonight we played cards at Max’s house. When the weekly game is held at my place, it’s cards, beer, game on the television in the background and that’s it. Max is single though, and he makes no secret of the fact that he finds my life boring. He’s always angling to get everyone to make a night of it when he’s hosting, and while a few of the guys are always up for an all-nighter on the town, I typically bail.
Our friend Jonah announced halfway through the game that he just bought a ring for his girl, and then proceeded to pull the two-carat rock out of his pocket to show us. So that’s how Max guilted me into this.
I tell myself I’m having one drink and then calling myself a cab as we enter the dimly-lit space that’s loud as hell. This was never my scene, even for that brief period of time when I was young, single and believed I had the world by the balls.
And as I sip my whiskey, only half listening to my friends’ conversation, it’s not hard to recall why I always preferred townie bars. I like drinking beer, listening to good music and watching whatever playoff game happens to be playing on the big screen television. I don’t like it here. The guys are all dressed like Armani models, while the women look like painted versions of their real selves complete with fake eyelashes, hair extensions and fake tits. And while I used to like to dance, I hate the thumping techno crap that’s playing in this place.
Max abandoned the rest of us within ten minutes—surprise, surprise. I can see him out there now with some woman. No, make that two. I’m not old, I’m only twenty-nine, but I feel like I’m fifty all of a sudden. I’d like nothing more than to enjoy this whiskey from the comfort of my own home, sitting in my worn, oversized leather chair.
“You think I’m making a good decision?”
It takes me a second to realize that Jonah is directing this question my way. “About what?”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “About getting married.”
“Sure. I mean, do you love her?”
“Yeah.” He nods once and smiles. “I do. But it’s a big step. I can’t really talk about it with Max even though he’s my best friend. He just doesn’t get it. He likes Lauren and thinks she’s cool, but he doesn’t get me wanting to spend my whole life with just one woman. I know with you…Your situation was complicated and all, but what’s it like, marriage?”
I take a long pull off my drink and Jonah mistakes this for anger. “I’m sorry, man. Shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“No, it’s all right. I just…Maybe I’m not the right guy to be asking. My marriage was…” It was, it was—it’s something I still can’t bring myself to talk about. “But I do know happily married people. My parents are married thirty-two years and they’re still going strong. Like two halves of one good, solid unit. It exists, you just have to find the right person, I guess.”
Find the right person. Who am I to be doling out advice? I don’t know shit. “Want another?” I ask him as I turn back to the bar.
“I’m good,” he answers, and a moment later he taps me on the shoulder and points towards the door. Two girls come walking in, and the one who makes eye contact with Jonah looks as hopeful and sparkly as a brand-new penny. “That’s her.”
I can’t help but smile when I see the looks that pass between them. It is out there, I guess. As pessimistic as I may be, I do believe in true love. Just my crap luck that I didn’t find the right girl.
I excuse myself and go to the bathroom when Lauren’s friend starts making a play for me. I’m just not in the mood. I tell myself I’ll say my goodbyes and then head home, knowing I’m more than slightly buzzed already. All this marriage talk had me swilling drinks at a way faster pace than normal and I’m feeling it now.
When I get back to where we were standing, the others are gone and it’s just Max with two girls. Not the ones he was dancing with before. He hands me another whiskey and I groan. “I have to be up at the crack of dawn, Max.”
“Live a little, Grandpa.” Turning to the girls, he says, “Ladies, this is my friend, Leo.” He doesn’t bother to introduce them by name because I’m sure he doesn’t know them.
“Hi, Leo. I like that name,” the one closest to me says.
She doesn’t offer her name in return and I don’t really care. She’s attractive, I guess. Any other normal person would say that she’s hot—I know this—but I’ve been having a hard time mustering up anything close to interest or initiative in that department for some time.
The other one already has her arms wrapped around Max’s neck and she’s whispering in his ear. When the music changes, though, she pops her head up like a poltergeist and screams, “I love this song!”
“C’mon,” she corrals the rest of us, “we’re dancing to this one.”
I have no idea what this song is. To me it sounds like all the others. But it must be popular because the floor is packed. Whatever, I’m lazy now and let her lead me out onto the dance floor as Max’s babe takes him by the hand and does the same. It takes me a minute or two to get into it, but my new friend is bumping and grinding enough for the two of us right off the bat.
I find that I’m not loving this, but maybe I am liking it a little. I’m taking in everything around me and remembering the way I used to be. I take in the scent that is unmistakably feminine, losing myself in that combination of sweat and heat and sweetness. And now she’s got her arms wrapped around my neck and her body pressed into the grooves of mine. I like the feel of it, but it’s like an out of body sensation, like it’s a memory.
This girl is yelling above the music into my ear. I can’t really make out what until she says something about Cirque de Soleil and then laughs as she looks to the group of people behind her. She must have thought that’s where my attention was focused, and
while it wasn’t before, it is now.
There’s eight, maybe ten of them clustered together. The women are mostly long and lean, a few are curvier, and the guys aren’t dressed like the finance bro set. No, they’re more artsy. And once you look, you can’t look away because these people can move. I get what this chick was saying, they do look like performers, but she said it as a dig, like there’s something staged and ridiculous about them.
I see nothing but sex.
I see bodies moving in perfect rhythm.
I see sweat rolling down one girl’s neck.
I see hips pressed back against her man’s eager dick.
Oh, that’s my girl pressing her ass against my dick, but I’m not eager for her and don’t want her thinking that I am. I go to move her forward, gently, and turn to make my way back off the dance floor. I don’t want what she’s offering. Nothing good will come of it. She looks back to me pouting as I mouth the word sorry.
I get one step away then two. Wading through the crush of bodies is like trying to race walk in chest-deep water. I’m passing by that group when one of the girls trips over herself and falls right into my arms.
“I’m so sorry!” she calls out over the music.
“It’s all right. You steady now?”
She smiles and laughs, has that same purity and happiness radiating from her like Jonah’s girl. She’s tall, maybe five-eight or nine, but I still tower over her. I’m smiling for no reason whatsoever as I turn to go, but at that moment the music changes again and my tipsy dancer raises my hands in the air and then proceeds to do something that looks like a pole dance with me acting as the pole. I had no interest whatsoever in my last dance partner, but I’m finding this girl’s act hot as fuck.
Speechless, I move along with her and rake my eyes over her body. Her legs are long, exposed in all their glory by the short dress she’s wearing. The fabric hugs her body tight, shows off her pert tits and her round ass.
She’s moving her head from side to side, eyes closed, lost in the music in a good way. I put my hands on her hips, follow her motions and then can’t help but draw her in closer. She responds by turning slowly, and unlike before, when this girl’s ass is pressed up against my crotch I find that I’m not inclined to protest. Not even a little. She takes my hands from her hips and guides them over her belly and lower before arching back and lacing her hands around my neck.
“You like that?” I lean down and ask her, knowing she can feel me hard against her backside.
“Yeah.” It comes out on a raspy breath. “Feels nice.”
It feels more than nice on my end. I haven’t been this turned on in God knows how long. High-quality porn with the volume muted is the closest I get to real live action nowadays, so having this beautiful woman’s body pressed up against mine is sensory overload. Every time she shifts her hips I feel like I could blow.
I lean down again, nuzzle into that spot below her ear and breathe her in. I love the scent she’s giving off, can’t get enough of it.
When she shifts her long hair to one side to give me full access, I pull her in closer, grind myself against her ass and lick the side of her neck like an animal. And thank fuck she likes it because I’m torn between my desire to bite her earlobe and wondering if I’ve lost my damn mind. I want to be with this woman more than I want my next breath.
Chapter Eight
Skylar
He just licked my neck. And not like a little slip of the tongue. The man flat-out feasted on my skin from my collarbone up to that spot right behind my ear.
I’m too drowsy and he feels too good for this to raise any concerns. I’m loving the way his big body envelopes mine when he holds me, love the rough calluses on his hands, and I’m flat-out ready to strip him out of his shirt so that I can get a better look at the ink that’s covering the corded muscles of his forearm.
I want to turn and face him, to see his face, but he has me locked tight against him now and I don’t want to do anything that will interrupt this perfect moment.
God, I’ve missed this. I’ve missed being touched, missed being worshipped the way Tyler all but knelt before me. I imagine it’s him behind me for a split second but then decide I like the anonymity of this stranger’s touch better.
But I’m not too far gone to know that this is not my reality. I’m torn between my desire to just let go and the warning bells starting to go off inside my head. That voice is telling me that I don’t do stuff like this. I don’t hook up with guys I don’t know. I don’t let unfamiliar hands dig into my hips and then roam north to skim that sensitive spot just below my breasts. But oh my, I think as I drop my head back and succumb, it feels so, so good.
The music changes to some fast-paced EDM track, and while the people around us pick up the tempo, I stiffen just as he steps back. I should turn around, say goodbye or thank you or something, but I don’t. I slip through the crush of bodies, grab my bag, walk as quickly as I can to the exit and escape.
The cold air hits my face, my arms, my legs. It’s started to mist a little but the icy droplets give me some much needed relief.
I’m praying that he’s not right behind me as I call for a car. Not because I’m afraid of him—I mean I should be but I’m not—but because I can’t face the person I was with him back there. She was bold, sexual, adventurous. And while it was fun to walk on the wild side for a hot minute, I don’t feel comfortable in that skin.
I’ve never been so happy to see my dorm, to clean the makeup from my face, to don my flannel pajamas, slip underneath my down comforter and fall into a dreamless sleep.
I silence my alarm and then shut my eyes against the memory of last night. I’m smiling to myself and cringing at the same time.
I’m not even the slightest bit hungover, so nothing about last night is a blur. And while I’m a tad embarrassed knowing that my new friends witnessed my dirty dancing routine, I’m giggling to myself more than anything. My dance friends aren’t exactly prudes, and training with a partner kind of desensitizes you to the feel of skin on skin. They won’t care. At most, I’ll have to suffer through some harmless teasing. And that guy? I’ll probably never see him again. No harm, no foul.
I may never see him, but lawd, I’m thinking of him. In the shower I let a soundtrack play in my head as I move the way I did last night.
Under the spray of warm water I let my hands roam where his did, from my hips to my ass to my breasts. I put the brakes on us last night, but now I’m fearless. Now I rest my head back against the tiles and I pretend.
I let him take what he wants and let him give me what I need.
Chapter Nine
Skylar
I’m the only student working in the office.
The position is split between several work-study students, and while kids are coming in here at all hours looking to speak to an advisor or to get answers to questions I generally can’t answer, it’s not really a place to meet people.
I’m thinking this as I look at the four walls, replaying Miss Dawson’s words. I need another part-time job. Maybe waitressing. I have experience with that. Maybe I can find a spot where the tips will be so good that I’ll able to leave this job where I make next to nothing.
Eight hours. I barely make enough money to keep myself stocked up on shampoo and tampons, forget about new clothes or luxuries like a salon haircut.
There’s a big bulletin board on the wall in the waiting room with all sorts of announcements, and since I’m never really that busy, I’ve got plenty of time to study it today.
My responsibilities in this office are limited to filing papers when the secretary asks, which she doesn’t do all that often, and handing out course catalogs to the students and parents who come in. So I take my time scanning the concert flyers, the guide to campus mental health services, the ads looking for math tutors (not my subject) or foreign language tutors (definitely not my subject).
My eye catches on one post that’s handwritten in bold block letters. You can see the
ink has bled through the paper, making it seem as if the words were written with a heavy hand, or by someone who was seriously stressed out. I put my hand over my mouth, stifling a giggle as I make my way through the list of qualifications for this babysitting position.
-A minimum of two years’ experience caring for a toddler.
-3.5 GPA or higher.
-Must be Red Cross CPR certified.
-EXCELLENT DRIVER WITH NO HISTORY OF ACCIDENTS OR SPEEDING TICKETS.
All caps for that last item. Whoever wrote this means business. And then right above the tabs with the phone number to call, you get one last parting shot:
-Must meet ALL qualifications (no exceptions) and must be able to start immediately.
I wonder when this was put up, and with a satisfied smirk I notice that not one single tab has been ripped off.
Babysitting? It’s more like an ad for a position in the president’s security detail, complete with background check.
And while I happen to tick all the boxes for this type-A, neurotic potential employer, I have no intention of applying. Everything about it screams miserable helicopter parent.
No thank you.
I’m still smiling, scanning the board for something worthwhile when I feel a tug on the hem of my skirt. I look down to see the most adorable little thing looking back up at me.
I crouch down to her level and give her a big smile to calm that bottom lip of hers that’s quivering. “My name is Skylar. What’s your name?”
“Libby. I can’t find my daddy.” She starts to cry when she adds, “He told me don’t walk away.”
“It’s ok, Libby. I’ll help you find him.” She nods and tries to smile through her tears. “Let’s see…Which way did you come from?”
She looks back and forth like I do. The halls aren’t crammed or anything, but there are a fair amount of people. I look down to see her still looking back and forth. She has no idea. I scan the hall again for a frantic parent but don’t see one.
