Let Loose for Me

by Coffman, Georgia

  Kendall remains silent.

  “What really got me to stay was when he said he knows people make fun of the Cowboys, but he’s always been a fan. Used to watch every game with his older brother before he moved to Michigan with his new wife.” I gulp, a new round of tears blurring my vision. “He seemed almost shy, vulnerable even. We made out in the parking lot before he insisted on being a gentleman and taking me home.” A single tear falls, as the night sky outside my window mesmerizes me. “It’s the little things, the little moments we shared, that used to keep me up at night. The ones we had before everything changed. Seeing him again just brought it all back.”

  “Oh, Emma.” She pulls me in for a hug and speaks into my hair. “I didn’t know any of this. You never talk about him anymore.”

  “I kept thinking if I never talk about him, if I never mention his name, I’ll finally move on. But then he goes and texts me.”

  She pulls back, reaching for a tissue from my nightstand and hands it to me. “What did he say?”

  “He said he misses me.” I exhale a blubbering laugh. “And, of course, I crumbled. Not a word since the breakup, and then the first contact he makes, I’m putty. I told you, I’m pathetic.”

  She thumps me on my forehead. “Stop saying that.”

  I rub my forehead, then eye her.

  Her furrowed brow is intense, like she’s trying to count her Macros in her head. “Don’t put yourself down. You’re not pathetic for being human and having feelings. Honestly, it’s nice to see you having a normal reaction instead of being so rigid. Like your old self is coming back. I was beginning to worry.”

  “Thanks.” I roll my eyes at her, but I know what she means. I’ve forced myself to constantly be busy to avoid my feelings, but tonight—tonight, I couldn’t take it anymore.

  “You remember what you did instead of wallowing back then? When you and Brant broke up? You put on a brave face, bought the yoga studio, and made a damn good life for yourself. Would you have done all that with Brant by your side? I mean, honestly, him cheating was a blessing for you.”

  My lips twist at her choice of words and the way her Southern accent is exaggerated, as the memories of a headboard banging against the wall fill my head. “A blessing? Are you kidding? I had nightmares for months.”

  “You’re right.” She sighs. “I sound like Maggie with her insensitive optimism. What a bitch.”

  I laugh lightly, remembering Maggie from our Sunday school. Everything to her was always a blessing. Your parents got divorced? A blessing. You sprained your ankle? A blessing. Your boyfriend cheated?

  A fucking blessing.

  “I pulled up his message over and over again, typed out a response, but deleted it.”

  “He’s engaged, Emma.”

  “I know that.” My voice is angry, but it’s misplaced. It’s not Kendall I’m mad at, but remembering him with his fiancée by his side, blood rushes to my ears quicker than when I’m on a roller coaster. With a deep breath, my whole body deflates as I let my anger go with every exhale. “I don’t want to hear from him. I don’t even miss him. I just miss being with someone. Having that closeness.” I laugh humorlessly. “Brant and I were supposed to get married, and then I run into him and some girl. She wasn’t even the one he cheated on me with. He threw away what we had for a nobody. What a slap in the face.”

  Kendall squeezes my hand, opening her mouth to say something but then shuts it.

  “I don’t feel like I ever got closure, you know? I never yelled at him, threw anything at him, and told him how he made me feel so fucking stupid. I never said anything to him, just packed my stuff up while he was at work and left.”

  “Will yelling at him help? Because I’ll go with you to his office. I’ll bring spray paint, so I can paint a dick on his car for being such a dick.”

  I crack a small smile at my friend’s support. The friend who is so passionate she busted her ex’s windshield because he broke up with her for being too needy, and that’s how she responded. I wish I would’ve done the same. I’ve been nothing but angry since the day I walked in, and then out, on Brant. “I just want to move on with my life. Really move on, instead of being on autopilot.”

  Kendall nods and pats my arm. Her eyebrows are furrowed in deep thought, and I can tell she doesn’t know what to say. There’s nothing to say, after all.

  No words or gestures can fix what he did.

  But talking about it with my best friend relieves some of the edge.

  When Kendall walks back into her own room, I hear her and Sebastian’s muffled conversation; we share a wall, after all. I change for bed and lie back, wide awake, their hushed tones still audible.

  I sigh and reach for my phone, remembering Ty texted me in the middle of my Brant rant.

  Ty: I thought I asked you not to wear anything too sexy! Couldn’t take my eyes off you all night.

  Ty: And I knew red would look great on you.

  Ty: Please don’t still be pissed.

  Emma: Well, I am pissed. Stop toying with me.

  Ty: I’m not… I’d just like to know you better.

  Emma: I don’t think you could handle me. I actually have a brain, unlike the bimbos you take home.

  Ty: Sounds like a nice change of pace then.

  I shake my head, spent from the night, from thinking and talking about Brant. He’s in the past, and I need to start thinking about my present and future.

  About finding myself again.

  Setting my phone aside, I lie back and drift to sleep with a brief nightmare of a headboard banging against the wall. The rhythmic knocks ingrained in my memory.

  The moans. The slapping sound of wet, naked bodies. It was disgusting, but at the same time, difficult to believe it was Brant.

  The nightmare reel is on replay, but it doesn’t last as long as usual. The images fade as I fall into an even deeper slumber.

  Dreams of Ty take over. His hands on my hips at my yoga studio. The feel of him underneath me when I fell over.

  When I felt everything harden.

  I wake up, my cheeks on fire as if Ty’s sitting in the room with a giant smirk.

  Even alone in my bedroom, I’m embarrassed by these thoughts of him. No matter how much fun we’d have, or how drawn I am to his eyes and sexy muscles, I can’t go there.

  Ty’s physique matches his personality. Everything about him is huge and brash. He’s obnoxious with his large and sculpted muscles, like the gym is his home. Like he entertains his guests with dumbbell curls and offers them protein shakes for dinner.

  He oozes sensuality, not marriage vows.

  I’ve always made sound decisions. I even had a plan when I moved out here—I didn’t come willy-nilly. I had school and a part-time job lined up.

  But Ty would not be a sound decision.

  No, letting loose and living wildly with Ty Alesana is something I most certainly would regret… right?

  CHAPTER 17

  Ty

  I run my hands down my sweaty abs, sticking my tongue out at the brunette in the first row. She claps along to the music, biting her bottom lip and giving me sex eyes. I wink at her, then move to the far edge of the stage to focus on another. I’m an equal opportunity dancer, after all, so I like to share the goods.

  “Shake your ass this way,” a couple girls holler, while others giggle and scream, “Take it all off!”

  My heart throbs as I dance to the music, my muscles aching from intense workouts the last week. I’ve been lifting heavier and working harder, trying desperately not to think about Emma and her pursed lips.

  Her damn ponytail.

  The way I react to just a flip of that ponytail—it’s not normal.

  Since our double date debacle over two weeks ago, I told myself I pushed her too far. She’s not interested.

  I told myself I don’t care. I don’t care how frustratingly hot she is when she’s flustered. Or how good she feels pressed against me.

  I don’t beg. Even when I was a teenager�
��a lanky, lonely teenager—I never begged for female company. I’ve always been more dignified and prideful than that.

  There are plenty of other girls who find my charm irresistible, my abs too delicious, my sense of humor too refreshing. I’m like Lucifer Morningstar to them. They can’t help themselves when it comes to me.

  I should be focusing on those girls, like the ones in the front row reaching for me as though we’re not at least four feet apart.

  They’re the kind of girls who can keep me busy, make me forget, distract me like a bottle of Jose Cuervo can’t. It’s worked for me all these years, and I will not get sucked into a challenge because Emma’s mouth is too tempting, even when it’s spewing insults.

  “Yeah baby!” I wink at the woman hollering for me.

  I squat on stage, touching the ground with one hand while the other runs through my short black hair. The ladies love this move, just as they love dark chocolate. I’m the bad boy they all fantasize about, and they come to our show for their fantasies to come true. If only from afar. But I do the honors for a lucky lady or two after the show. Or three, one time.

  I lie flat on my stomach, then hoist myself up and into the worm, moving backward before I stand with the rest of the dancers. Leo watches me out of the corner of his eye, that weird expression on his face again.

  Exiting the stage, I furrow my brows at him. Now’s not the time to ask him what crawled up his ass and stayed there. We have half the show left to perform.

  For now, I tell myself it’s because Sebastian is dancing less and less. His last show is coming up in a few weeks.

  During my solo number, my signature caveman performance, I walk toward my usual type—loose and hot—with suggestive eyes and attitude. I spot her in the middle row of tables, her lips pouting in a duck face like she’s about to take a cheesy selfie. I normally wouldn’t think twice about her. I’d walk right up to her and get an inch from those pouty lips like I was about to kiss her, then pull back at the last second and pull her up on stage with me.

  But now… now I can’t get Emma’s face out of my mind.

  I change course at the last minute and go for an older woman, probably mid-forties. Her friends catcall as I lead her onto the stage and set her in a chair. Smiling at her wickedly, I strip my fur vest and yank off my pants down to my leopard Speedo.

  The crowd goes wild.

  All eyes on me.

  On my abs, my moves, my tattoos stretching as I dance on this woman. She hides her face but peeks around her pinky finger as I dip low, my hands running up her thighs suggestively. Her hands fall, seemingly of their own accord, and her lips part.

  Hook, line, and sinker.

  These women are mush in my presence, with my movements. And I’m like a king among them. Something I never thought of myself as a tiny teen.

  All I’m missing is a crown, but Leo says I don’t need any more emphasis on my God-complex than I already have.

  I hike my foot onto the arm of her chair and shake my barely covered dick in her face, her blush obvious under the bright spotlights. I know she wants to touch it, to touch me, and it wouldn’t be anything new for me to take an older woman up to a room.

  But my dick deflates the longer the song continues. It feels like it goes on seven minutes too long, and I’m drained by the end of it, none of which has ever happened to me. This is my time, my moment on stage, where I feel the most alive. Where I’m not drunk or humping a random girl I meet at the show, on the Strip, or even the fucking gas station when I’m buying a Monster.

  I’m off my game.

  When the song does finally end, I kiss her cheek before guiding her offstage, then run to the back and bury my face in my hands as Jordan’s music comes on.

  “Long night?” Leo places a hand on my shoulder.

  “You know me, man. Always a party, always a pussy to wet my dick. My charm is too much for the ladies.” I try not to grimace at my robotic, self-deprecating tone.

  “Right.” He studies me curiously. He’s always been able to see right through me, even if I wasn’t so obvious. “Can you squeeze in some practice time tomorrow, or will you be off gallivanting with said pussy?”

  “I’ll be there. We said three?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be there,” I repeat, confused by his faltering smile. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Aside from your performance just now, not really.”

  I exhale, unable to argue with him there. Leo sees everything. Knows everything. And he knows my performance was lousier than when I first started when I often tripped over my own two feet.

  He slaps my shoulder again. “The ladies don’t come out to see us half-ass anything. They don’t call us the best male revue show in town because of what just happened. No, they’d take the title away if it was based on that performance alone.”

  “I know,” I mutter, my chest sinking. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

  “You always do.” He says it kindly, more out of concern since I’ve always been able to make this dance thing work no matter how much I had on my plate, until now.

  I’ve never had a woman frustrate me to the brink of insanity. To where I can no longer do the things I’m normally good at—sex and dancing. And drinking. I haven’t even been drinking much, either, not with all my traveling to LA these days.

  “Listen”—Leo shifts—“not to add more to your plate, but I need you to run the practice tomorrow.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I have to go help Sebastian with some hotel stuff, something about the loan paperwork, but I’ll be back in a couple days.”

  “You’re going to LA?”

  His smile says “duh” without him actually saying it. “Why?”

  I can think of one big reason why, and she has an ass that’s made to be spanked and a high ponytail begging to be pulled. “No reason…”

  “Good. Let me know how it goes tomorrow.”

  I nod as Jordan bounces backstage, sweat running down his chest like he was sprayed with a water bottle for our annual calendar shoot.

  For the final number, we all run back out on stage. A backflip, squat, and teasing grin later, I’m back at the lockers changing into regular clothes.

  I pull my bag over my shoulder just when Leo rounds the corner. “What’s with the joggers? Are you going out in those?”

  I follow his gaze down to my black joggers, white sneakers, and red V-neck tee. “I’m not going out.”

  Leo pauses, his locker halfway open. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You always go out after a show. Strip club, hookah lounge, Pete’s—”

  “So what? I’m ready to go home tonight.”

  He shuts his locker and crosses his arms. “What’s up with you?”

  I push past him, not wanting to get into the gory details that a chick has my balls tied up and blue, not to mention the nightmares. Naomi. My cursed fate. “Nothing, man. Fuck. I just want to go home. I’m about ready to pass out on the floor right now as it is.”

  “Have you been sleeping enough?”

  “Of course. You know I can’t go without my eight hours a night. It’s part of my beauty routine,” I say sarcastically.

  “In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never gotten more than five hours of sleep, if that.”

  “Stop tracking my habits, bro. That’s fucked up.”

  He pins me with a stern expression. If this was anyone else, I’d be weirded out and annoyed. But this is Leo.

  He’s always been this way. Kind, caring, and wise beyond his thirty-one years. He’s intrusive and nosy with everyone, even though none of us know much about him. He’s Yoda when it comes to guarding his private life.

  Like when Sebastian decided to open his hotel and Leo invested. The jackass never mentioned his sizable trust fund that’s been left untouched since he was eighteen.

  If he didn’t have a small apartment and use coupons, I might even hate the bastard, but h
e lives a normal life. He even wears Nike on clearance.

  We make good money doing what we do, but I still live on a budget, like a few of the other guys. I splurge from time to time, but I don’t keep most of it. I help my family a lot, especially since my dad hurt his back and doesn’t work as much anymore. Leo’s offered his assistance on many occasions. Now I know why—he can afford it without blinking an eye.

  My shoulders slump, my bag falling off me. “Look, I’m fine. It’s just one of those weeks where the nightmares hit hard. They’ll pass.”

  His expression softens. Some of the showers turn off, the guys’ laughter spreading between us. Before they come out, Leo places a hand on my shoulder and says, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  I nod in appreciation, thankful for his pushy attitude. But his words also depress me, because there’s nothing he can do.

  Nothing anyone can do.

  No one can make the pain go away.

  No one can give me the closure I need, not at this point.

  My fingers tremble the entire way home, aching to text Emma. I need a light conversation because after Leo’s questions, I won’t be able to sleep. The memories of my sister will haunt me if I don’t lighten my mood.

  I hated not telling Leo the whole truth about what has me wound up, although I didn’t technically lie, either. My sleep has been shitty all summer.

  Once I’m parked outside my apartment, I pull my phone out, my thumb hovering over Emma’s name. I contemplate texting her to see what she’s wearing, ask her what her favorite sex position is, use a sexy emoji.

  But more than that—what pisses me off beyond reprieve—I want to ask about her day. Her fucking day! I want to know if she laughed today, if she slept okay last night, if she had a hearty dinner.

  I want to know if she’s gone out with Mason again. If she’s planning on going out with him again. It’ll crush me if she says yes, but I want to know.

  I type out several messages but erase them all because I sound like a whiny stalker. Instead, I go with my original plan and ask her what she’s wearing with a winky face emoji, even though I’m sure she’s just at home doing a crossword puzzle. She probably only takes breaks to shine her white sneakers too.