by Sunniva Dee
I’ve got some shimmering lotion in my beauty bag. I haven’t used it while I’ve been on tour. It’s for emergencies, like this one. If I mix it with regular lotion, it makes my skin look lush and golden and edible.
I want to be edible.
This time, I’ve brought my suitcase instead of an overnight bag to the hotel room. I spread it wide on my bed and start lining up skirts, pants, and hot pants. I have plenty of sexy clothes I never use. The hot pants look great with fishnets but aren’t practical. They’d be effective in terms of getting attention, but I don’t want it to be complicated for him to undress me.
Jeans, my tightest pair in a washed blue color, make my butt and thighs curvier than they are. Emil has complimented me on those before. Then my attention darts to my three Gypsy skirts. They flare out like bright flowers on the comforter, and I know that’s where my real choices lie.
My newest skirt I found in a village of a town out west. The colors teeter between aquamarine and jade, and it’s beautiful with erratic layers of gradually fading fabric. There are drawstrings at the bottom so I can hike the hem up on the sides. The result is a skirt that fills in, a slimmer hippie version of a ball gown, which gives my waist a taut, narrow appearance. The top is easy—a black, silky singlet that molds over my strapless balcony bra.
Tonight, I pile on Romani jewelry the way Chavali would have done, the way my mother would. I picture my plague-ridden ancestors heaping their jewelry on like I do. For centuries, we’ve stared into mirrors, preparing to fight for our man. I’m just another Gypsy woman caught in the web, repeating, following the dark trails of the plague to save myself.
My makeup is black and causes my irises to glisten. In the mirror, I look unstoppable.
The shoes I select aren’t the sexiest ones. These are back to my roots, wine-red pumps, high-heeled with a laced-up band across the arc. They could double as flamenco shoes.
In the full-length mirror, I look like my ancestors. I look like a woman on the warpath.
I suck in a breath and mouth the truth to my reflection:
It’s for the good of the both of us.
I have never looked better.
Rustic walls, a high ceiling, and a discretely patterned carpet welcome me as I glide into the ballroom. The venue is packed with guests who aren’t our typical fans. Business suits mingle with designer cocktail dresses that are elegant in a quiet fashion. The women are coiffed with flawless up-dos, their makeup as discrete and sophisticated as their outfits.
I locate Bo by the bar. More formal than usual, he wears a black dress shirt open at the collar and dark slacks. Nadia’s on his arm. She looks pretty as always with a small smile on her face, nodding at a gesticulating businessman. He ends up pulling a grin from Bo, which isn’t the easiest thing to do.
The band is spread across the locale, mingling politely in more formal wear than I’ve ever seen on them. I stand out. I might even look like the entertainment.
Between hundreds of decked-out guests, Emil is the only one who doesn’t give a damn. He’s still wearing the green Fender T-shirt and hasn’t changed out of his bloody jeans. When he notices me, I lift my head high, because for a second, his gaze flashes out approval.
With a whiskey clutched to his chest, he returns to his conversation, laughing hard with a few suits and more than a few women. They clink glasses while I rake two fingers through my hair. Alone at the center of the room, I consider my next move.
“Hey. Aishe.” I turn and find Troy there. He’s absolutely gorgeous in a white dress shirt and matching slacks that offset the dark gold of his skin. His dreads are collected in a loose band midways down his back.
“Hey. Wow, you look awesome,” I murmur.
“Well, ditto. Let’s just say you made an entrance.” There’s quiet humor in his safari-greens as he does a half-swipe of the room with them, indicating my audience. “Do you want a drink?” he adds.
“Please, yes.” I can’t concentrate on beverage choices. I’m not here to booze up, but I realize it would be socially smart to tote some alcohol. “I’ll have… whatever red they have.”
The room thumps with Clown Irruption’s music. It’s low enough for people to talk but high enough to dance to. A handful of elegant couples sway on the floor. I weave between clusters of people as I press toward Emil and his group. The line to the bar isn’t long, so I have to hurry while Troy gets my drink.
I poke Emil’s opposite shoulder, causing him to turn in the wrong direction. When he finds me, I wave, mouthing, Hi.
“Oh looky, the crew’s here too,” he introduces me. “Peeps, this is Aishe. Aishe, this is the gang from Radio Rush, Chicago. They play the coolest music. Clown Irruption, for instance. The mix that’s on right now is theirs.”
They nod, happy with the introduction. I put my hand out and smile as they shake it. One of the guys holds on longer than necessary, his hand soft with more padding than Emil’s. I slip free of his grip. Brush dust off Emil’s shoulder though there’s nothing there. He chatters on, not noticing, but the women crowding him do. It’s what I need, for them to see that he’s spoken for.
Get off my property.
Troy joins us. Passes me a glass and gets a brief nod from Emil, who’s moved on to describing the fans’ reaction when he pulled the trigger onstage that first time.
The radio staff guffaws, while I use the moment to make room for Troy at my side… by sidling closer to Emil. We’re in a tight clique now, at the edge of the dance floor. I sip wine. Don’t speak much. But I caress Emil’s waist now and then to let him know I’m there for him.
I check my watch. Eleven fifteen. Knowing Shandor, he’ll come by looking for me as soon as he’s back from packing up the arena. Hopefully, I’ve sorted things out with Emil by the time he appears and we’re not even here.
“Beautiful girlfriend you have,” a lit-up businessman with a full head of Mozart hair says to Emil.
“Thanks,” Emil replies. He’s in the middle of a story, but he must realize the guy’s talking about me.
Me, Aishe, the closest Emil has to a girlfriend.
I’m getting antsy. We’ve stood here with people circling in and out of the group for twenty minutes. Shandor will be here soon, and nothing’s happening. Troy’s been pulled into another cluster, four women of whom one seems to have caught his attention. I squint, staring at her, because it’s been a while since I saw him flirt openly with someone.
Troy tosses his head back, laughing at what she says. She’s delighted. I can see why; Troy will snicker and joke around, but he isn’t the belly-laugh kind of guy that Emil is in the right mood.
I’m on borrowed time. By the time Emil excuses himself for the restroom, it’s almost twelve. There can’t be much left for Shandor to do at the arena. He’ll be here too soon, popping his head in and judging, trying to get me out of here. If he does, I can’t make a scene. My plans will have to be changed again, and I’m not sure what options I’ll have left.
I wait until Emil has left the room. Then I scan the surroundings for Troy. He’s on the phone, alone by the far wall, a finger in his other ear.
As fast as my pumps can take me, I scurry after Emil, hoping Troy doesn’t look up from his conversation. The hallway outside is empty. I walk on quickly and find the men’s room two doors down around the bend of the corridor.
I angle the door open carefully. Emil is at the urinal, head bent and alone. I let the door slide shut again, waiting on the outside. I don’t have to wait for long.
“I’m heading to bed,” I murmur, leaning my head against the wall as he comes out. He stops, tensing before he swings to me.
“Hey, I didn’t see you there. Well, goodnight then.” He crosses his arms like he never folded me inside of them.
“I’m putting in that round of white laundry first though. We’re leaving early, so I bet you won’t have time to do yours in the morning. If you pass me what you’ve got in the room, at least I’ll take care of that for you.” I blink, inno
cent, sweet, as alluring as I can be without giving away my game. I’ve never been a manipulating person. I am now.
His exhale is long as he finds the floor with his stare. When he looks up, there is no trust in his eyes. He relents though and waves me along to the elevator.
I’ll earn his trust back later.
Once I’ve earned him.
I kiss him in the elevator. Pushing my body against him like I wanted to in the dressing room. I register no surprise from him. His mouth moves slowly against mine, his tongue meeting and massaging my own.
Finally, I think.
We get off on the second floor though I know his room is on the tenth. He walks ahead of me down the corridor, and I slip my hand inside his. “What are we doing here?”
“Vending machine. Getting soda.” He isn’t in a hurry to get there, and he doesn’t look at me as we walk. I’m just glad he leaves my hand in his.
Emil leans against the vending machine, gulping down half the Coke. “So you’ll just pick up my laundry, huh?” he asks.
I shrug against him. “Only ever what you want.”
He’s unreadable when we get out on the tenth floor. He isn’t as drunk as I hoped he would be. It worries me. Is he too sober?
I take my chances and glide my arms around his middle while he unlocks his door. He doesn’t pull away. It’s a good sign, I think. He’s just on the fence, I decide, afraid that he’ll hurt me again. He won’t. This time, I’ll hook him.
My sweet love fire.
EMIL
I tried.
I warned her.
It’s time.
AISHE
“Is this what you want?” Emil bellows, grabs me by the wrists, and throws me into the hotel room wall once we’re inside, his body following. “Huh? Is it?”
He grinds himself against me, the hard bulge evidence he’ll give me what I need right now, right here.
“You don’t understand, Aishe. It changes nothing. You can keep telling yourself I’m God’s gift,” he hisses, pitch lower as he bites kisses to my lips. “But I’m no one’s gift. I’m in a different place altogether and this—this! Is all I’ll ever have for you.” His crotch thrusts me against the wall, eliciting a fire I’ll find nowhere but in him, because—
What am I if I’m not with him?
I’d be back to existing, not living; back to gingerly drifting from state to state, country to country, giving up on friends and making new friends only to give up on them too.
I’m burning in ways I’ve worked my whole life not to burn, and if this is Emil’s last goodbye, then I am dead.
He rips the front of my top down the middle—I gasp—for a second, he watches my boobs quiver on top of my bra, but then he’s not careful—he shreds it off too.
“You,” he roars, disdain and heat in his gaze. “You never give up, do you? Why are you doing this?” He lifts me off the floor, and I wrap my legs around his waist. “Is it the same to you how I treat you? Are you the ultimate fangirl, Aishe? Tell me. Tell me!”
I shake my head hard, because I am so much more than that. Still, I’m not naïve enough to think Emil and I are on the same level. I can’t tell him how I feel. If I spoke the words in me, they would hit rock ground and shatter to dust.
Emil, the blond burst of joy I’d instantly liked, he was supposed to be my haven from the plague. How had I ever thought he’d be safe?
Emil is darkness when he tosses me on the bed. He’s thunder when he rips my skirt off and makes my panties follow.
“You’re so stupid. You don’t know me,” he growls. “Stubborn Aishe.”
You don’t know me either.
He rakes his hands up my body, and I arch the way I only do with him. No one is like Emil. If he disposes of me, I’ll be a pathetic human who has lost her only chance at love. There is only one soulmate, and Emil is mine.
I’m desperate, clawing him into me. He complies, diving in and devouring my throat, licking, lapping his way down until he has my boobs crammed so hard in his hands it stings. Then he buries so deep between them I can hardly distinguish his words.
“Stubborn. So stubborn. Run far away from me.” He lifts his head, blue eyes glaring into mine in the semi-dark. “You’ve got me so fucking wrong.”
“Emil. Cool it, man.”
The low, melodious voice reaching us from the seating area freezes me up. Someone’s in the room? All I’m wearing is a torn-asunder bra and a top that’s half off my shoulders. I make to cover myself, but Emil holds my hands down, leaving me exposed to whoever it is. Just…
I know that voice.
It’s Troy.
What is Troy doing here?
Above me, Emil breathes hard. Lust and frustration emanate from him as he floats his eyes from me to the silhouette by the window. “Shit. I know. She just—fucking pisses me off.”
“What is this?” I roll to get away—grasp the sheets—but Emil is stronger than me. Fear hits me. I tell myself there’s no need to be scared. Troy would never hurt me, and Emil… Emil I’d welcome no matter the circumstance.
“This is a bad idea,” Troy murmurs, standing. He steps toward the bed though, and I’m desperate to cover myself. I’ve never felt more exposed in my life. My legs, so bare—crap; the air is cold against the apex of my thighs. I’m not a blusher, but shame flashes over my cheeks when Emil clicks on a lamp next to the bed.
“Clearly, it’s the only way,” Emil mutters.
“I don’t understand,” I gasp, struggling in Emil’s hold. His stare is on me again, fingers digging into my arms before he shakes me against the mattress.
“You’re so fucking hung up on me, Aishe, all you see is me, and you’ve got to learn that me with you is not special—and that’s exactly why Troy’s here.”
I hiccough though I’m not crying. My eyes go to Troy, this beautiful, kind, stoic man who’s been nothing but a friend in the hardest moments throughout the tour.
This friend of mine isn’t wearing a shirt. The only thing hampering my view of a torso ripe with drummer muscles are dreadlocks that drape over tight nipples. Lounge pants hang low on his hips, revealing a curly trail that sinks beneath the elastic, and his eyes are a simmering green that’s entirely fixed on me.
Troy works to keep the heat out of his gaze, and I’m desperate for him to glue it to my face instead of to my naked body. He doesn’t hear my silent plea; leisurely, slowly, he lets it trace my skin. Emil slides to a side above me, leaving more of me to Troy’s perusal.
I whimper, mortified, and yet there’s a side effect; my brain realizes I’m being objectified, such a denigrating thing, but then my body begins to buzz under the double scrutiny. Remorse hits me as I realize that their attention is turning me on.
Troy’s gaze finds my barest, softest spot. Though he sighs like it’s painful, he makes no attempt to look away.
I pull in a harsh breath. Emil’s hand glides down my waist, over my hip, and to the inside of my thigh. “Shh, Aishe. Don’t be afraid. Troy’s here to help you,” he murmurs. “You’ll see. It’ll all be good.”
In a snapshot, I understand his intentions, but then it’s too much and my brain blanks, erasing further thought.
Troy stands tall above us by the bed, and my eyes draw to the lazy tent rising in his pants, a length and girth that make my lungs stutter.
He drops to his knees, a hand linking around my ankle and sliding down until he clutches my foot. He wriggles my pumps off. In small circles, he massages the muscles beneath the arc of one foot before he engulfs it with both hands.
“It’s just me,” he whispers, like he has seen me this way before, like this is commonplace. It isn’t commonplace, and he has never seen me without clothes.
I stop squirming. I don’t shout for them to stop or let me go. I could scream profanities, demand they both go to hell, but this is Emil. It’s Troy. And Emil’s mouth is sucking my protests away with kisses that aren’t raging anymore, kisses that are sweet, soft, urging me to go along with his p
lans for me.
“What do you want?” I form the question between Emil’s kisses.
Troy’s hands are warm when they travel up my calves, kneading. I feel myself jut upward. I try to hold back even as Emil caresses my breasts, mouth sucking on my throat.
“What do you think he wants?” Emil whispers, the way he says it causing heat to explode in my abdomen. “You,” he continues. “He wants you. Biblically. All the way, Aishe. Like any man wants a woman.”
Emil sits up as he says it, moving to a side and making room for Troy, who sinks down over me. “Mm,” Troy says, disagreement in his pitch. “I’m not claiming any rights. I’d like to kiss you though. Do you mind if I kiss you… here? I’ll be careful.”
There’s a small sob in my throat. It’s there because Emil wants to share me, and it’s there because Troy’s question sounds so silky, so seductive that the little nub at the core of my entrance starts to throb. I bite my lip. When I don’t make a move to get away from him, I feel Troy’s soft lips latch onto the inside of my knee and climb upward with torturous sluggishness.
I want to shut my eyes, block out the sight of what I’m letting happen to me, but when he’s so close I swell with anticipation, I can’t help peeking.
I jolt when his nose touches my clit.
“Ah, sensitive,” he says, and Emil, who has pulled my head into his lap agrees: “Yeah, she’s a fiery one. Doesn’t take much effort.” The matter-of-fact way he says it jars me, but it’s hot too; he’s stating a fact about my sexuality and liking it.
“Right, baby? You come fast?”
“Stop,” I manage, but my hips seek Troy and he complies, forming his mouth over my lips, kissing, sucking, and letting his tongue explore the folds hiding my clit.
“You taste as good as I imagined,” Troy whispers, breath warm against me. “Can I?” Two fingers prod at my entrance. My channel does a sweet spasm at the thought of them penetrating me, but I shake my head vehemently in Emil’s lap; one thing is to have my external parts being touched. My insides are for Emil only.
“Why?” Emil asks, voice low but demanding. “Are you not horny for him?”