by Ali Dean
The dance floor is packed with unfamiliar faces. Most of our teammates are here, but Mirage is filled with hundreds, maybe even thousands of people. The place is several stories high and we haven’t even left the first floor. I think the upper levels are VIP or something. It’s thirty minutes from the Cal U campus, in Santa Monica, and the scene is a little different than the typical college house party. I thought I’d feel overdressed in this sparkly strapless dress that barely reaches mid-thigh. For our birthday, I let Kick dress me. And do my hair and makeup.
I might even pass for hot instead of just “cute.” At Mirage though, it’s nothing special. All the women seem to be dressed to kill, and I think you have to a meet certain level of sexiness just to get past the front door.
I love dancing, but at a dance club, I have to make an effort not to accidentally make eye contact with creepers who take an innocent hip sway in their direction as an invitation for vertical dry humping. One of Kick’s favorite pastimes, actually, and I don’t hold it against her. She owns her sexiness in a way that I never will.
Instead, my eyes dart around the room looking for Julian. Julian Reed, captain of the men’s swim team, and the guy I’ll probably sleep with tonight. When I see his blond hair across the room, I’m not surprised to see another girl in his arms. It sends a twang of pain through me, but I wouldn’t call it jealousy. More like annoyance. We’re not exclusive. I mean, we’re in college. Everyone sleeps around in college. Maybe not as much as Kick does, but still, it’s the time in life to be a free spirit or whatever, and get lots of experience. Have fun. I know I’m not necessarily a poster child for wild and free, but I don’t need to be. I get to have regular sex with the hottest guy on campus, so I don’t really need anyone else.
Julian Reed grew up in the county next to ours in northern California and I’d had a crush on him for years. Before coming to college, I’d had maybe five conversations with the guy over a span of nearly a decade of going to the same swim meets as him. Still, I thought I was in love with him. I use the past tense because once we ended up at the same college, on the same swim team, some of the infatuation wore off. I think that happens whenever you get to know someone a little better. He’s got the California blond hair, blue eyes, year-round tan thing going on like me, but unlike me, he turns heads when he walks into a room. And he knows it. That’s the thing that gets kind of irritating. His arrogance can be a turn off sometimes.
But for some reason, he showed an immediate interest in me instead of Kick, which basically never happens. I’m not overly insecure, but I do wonder sometimes if his interest in me was only because Kick didn’t show him any and his ego was burned. I know the only reason she didn’t was because she knew I’d had this stupid obsession with him for years.
I try to act like Kick—like it doesn’t bother me that I sleep with this guy regularly and we’ve never been on an actual date—but it makes me feel kind of ashamed. As if I’m nothing more than a doormat. I don’t know why I can’t own my sexuality like Kick does.
My hips are swaying sensually to the rhythm of the beat as Kick and Beatrice are both doing the vertical dry hump thing with different guys. I’m debating whether to wait for Julian or call it a night when I catch sight of what can only be described as an athlete’s body walking decisively in my direction. My eyes meet the chocolate brown of his as he draws closer. Even though I think he’s staring right at me, I fight the urge to look around to check if it’s me he’s coming for, or someone else.
That’s the only way to explain how this guy is walking – like he’s coming for me with a specific purpose in mind. I don’t even consider doing my usual head-duck-and-slip-away move like I normally would in this situation. But this situation isn’t normal, because by the time he reaches me, I’m barely breathing anticipating his next move.
He stops inches away, and I can’t raise my eyes to meet his. They’re stuck on his broad shoulders and muscled arms, then sliding down to his trim waist, and jeans that barely hide the firm muscles underneath. A strobe light passing by reveals caramel skin. He’s solid and strong without having that overly-muscled look. My lips curve up slightly as I wonder what he’d look like in a Speedo. I’d know if he was a swimmer though, because it’d be him I’d have been crushing on for years, not Julian Reed.
Wait. What? Whoa.
When my eyes finally meet his, there’s a smirk on his lips. I don’t even realize my body’s been moving this whole time to the beat of the music until he places his hands firmly on my hips and matches my movements. His hands feel like they’re searing my skin.
And for the first time, I totally get the urge to press my body against a complete stranger. Actually, it’s not even an urge, it’s a magnetic force because without even deciding whether it’s a good idea, I’ve moved closer until we’re chest to chest, my hips pressed up to his thighs, my arms around his neck.
I don’t do intimate like this with a guy who’s done nothing but smirk at me. But God, it feels so good. His hands slip lower, resting low enough to be inappropriate. All of this is inappropriate. I let my head drop back and close my eyes, tossing away the responsible voice in my head and letting myself just go with it. Ride this wave of… whatever the hell it is. Indulgence? Definitely. The word “free” flushes through me as my hips slide with his body, but it’s not quite that. If only because I know it’s temporary. It doesn’t even seem real.
He hitches up the leg between mine until my toes barely touch the ground. I’m writhing on him, the friction of his jeans rubbing me as we slide in a sensual rhythm. We’re in sync with one another, our movements smooth and fluid, and my body sinks deeper into his, the sensations overwhelming me.
The music’s too loud to hear anything, not even my own breathing. But my heart is beating with such force that I feel it in my toes. I want this to keep going, but as the beat shifts to a new tune, I sense my dancing partner pulling away and I let myself slide to the ground. He holds my elbows, keeping me steady until I’m balanced and standing on my own two feet.
We hold each other’s gaze for a few beats until he flashes that same smile that started all this. He leans down, and I think he’s about to kiss me but his hand grazes the top of my dress, and I feel his finger drop inside. He’s placed a piece of paper between my breasts. Okay, that was not what I was expecting.
“That’s my number.” His lips brush my ear as he says it, making sure I hear him over the music. “You should call me. I’m free tomorrow night.”
I’m practically panting, but he turns and walks away. My eyes follow the path of his departure, lingering on his butt, branding it to memory, as my legs struggle to keep me upright. I feel bereft from his absence, and he was only with me for one song. His presence succeeded in turning me boneless, melting into a puddle on the dance floor, while I wonder, what the hell just happened?
Twenty seconds is all I get to gather my bearings before Kick is at my side, pulling me behind her toward the ladies’ room. As soon as we’re inside and the noise around us dims, she’s holding my arms, interrogating me.
“Holy fuck, I think I just had an orgasm watching that, Shay! What the hell was that?” She’s stumbling over her words with excitement, grinning wickedly.
I snap out of my daze. “What? You watched that?”
“Um. Kind of, some of it. I doubt anyone else did. I was only paying attention because it was so unlike you. You do know who that was, right?” she asks incredulously.
“Who that was?” I echo, still finding it hard to formulate thoughts.
“Yeah, Shay. The hot dude you just ground your body all over out there. You never do that. And I figured you just went for it because you recognized him and, well, ‘cause he’s sex on legs.”
“Sex on legs? Is that even a saying?”
“Grandma says it,” Kick says dismissively.
“Well, if Grandma says it, it must be a thing.” I’m barely keeping up with the conversation, my body still buzzing with need.
“Anyway,
“Um, no, I didn’t really get a good look at him.” All I can think about is how his hands felt on my hips, his breath hot on my neck when he spoke in my ear, the throb still pulsing between my legs.
Kick purses her lips and I know she’s trying not to laugh. “Right. You did get a look at his body, though, right?”
“And his eyes. He has brown eyes.” I nod in mock earnestness.
“Oh, Shay, I love you.” She starts looking under all the stalls to see if anyone else is in here with us. “So, remember watching the Olympics this summer?” she asks as she pops into one of the stalls herself.
“Yes?” I’m not following.
“Remember watching track and field? The 100-meter dash?”
Oh. I can feel the blood draining from my face as my brain connects the dots.
“Yeah, that guy you just went all sex goddess on…” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Jett Decker. Olympic silver medalist. American record holder.”
Um. What? Just when I thought this night couldn’t get any more unbelievable. I lean back against the bathroom sink, gripping the edge for support. My legs are suddenly shaky, partly from the lust still zinging through my body, and partly from shock.
“You still there, Shay?”
“What do you mean, sex goddess?” I ask just as another girl walks in and gives me a weird look. “Isn’t that how everyone is dancing out there?” It’s like asking for confirmation I was only trying to copy the cool kids. Except Kick knows me better. I wasn’t faking a thing.
Kick walks out of her stall. “That’s what you wanted to ask me? I’m glad you didn’t try to deny it. I totally saw your face and there’s no way you weren’t about to – ”
I cut her off before she can say more. “I’m not denying it.” There’s no way to deny I just had a life-altering experience of sorts. I’ve never been so turned on in my life. Or out of touch with reality. And now I know it was with Jett Decker. The guy I was ogling on national television just a few months ago.
“So why’d he leave? Is he coming back?”
I shake my head at her questions because I don’t know the answers.
Kick eyes me as she washes her hands, sizing up my mood, my emotions, doing her usual attempt at reading my mind. Since I can barely register my own scrambled thoughts, I doubt she’s getting anywhere.
“Let’s dance some more,” she says with a nod, having reached a conclusion.
I agree with a shrug because I’m not capable of making any decisions right now. When we head back out to the dance floor, sex on legs, aka Jett Decker, is nowhere to be seen. Pretty sure the paper between my boobs was his goodbye.
“Hey, birthday girl.” Julian’s voice is at my neck and he tugs me back to his chest. This is exactly the attention I wanted only a few minutes ago, and now it seems… inadequate. Disappointing.
I move with him as he holds my hips, but I’m not into it. The piece of paper tucked into my dress is all I can think about. Jett Decker gave me his number. For a booty call, obviously, but still… He made it so simple, so easy, to follow up with him, and I don’t even have to worry about what it might mean. When something like what just happened goes down, it’s obvious why he left a number. He’s not looking for a date or a girlfriend. He wants to finish what we started.
Which begs the question, why did he run off? Why didn’t he try to finish it tonight? And what about getting my number? Why leave it to me to make the decision?
“God, Shay, you look smoking tonight,” Julian says in my ear, but his words barely register.
Julian spins me around to face him as a new song picks up, but now that we’re face to face, I’m finding it even more difficult to be in the moment. This is how things started with Jett, but the hands low on my hips aren’t his, and I don’t want to settle for anything else right now.
“Ready to get out of here?” Julian leans down to ask at the same time he pulls me close enough to feel his own readiness. But it doesn’t give me the thrill it would have earlier in the night. Before I had Jett Decker’s hard body against mine.
Julian must take my hesitation for acquiescence because he begins to pull me away, telling me he’ll get an Uber as he slides his phone out of his back pocket. That’s when I put my hand out to stop him. “Julian, I’m just going to sleep tonight, okay?”
He flashes me an incredulous look. “Are you feeling sick or something?”
Shrugging, I glance around for Beatrice or Kick. “Just tired, I guess.” I’m not in the mood for Julian tonight, and it’s the first time I’ve turned him down. It’s not as if he wined and dined me, so I shouldn’t feel bad, but I do. A little. He looks confused and disappointed, but not angry. Would he be mad if he knew the real reason why I didn’t want him tonight?
Most of all, does it matter?
“What do you mean, you’re not calling him?” Kick pokes her head around the wall of our tiny kitchen, one finger pointed at me, the other holding a spatula.
It’s noon, and she just woke up. I’ve been up for three hours doing homework. With nearly thirty hours a week either in the pool or the weight room, I spend almost all the rest of my time in class or doing homework. Once or twice a month I rally to go out on a Friday or Saturday night, but I can’t afford to sleep in the next day like Kick. Beatrice hasn’t even come home yet.
“Kick, he shoved a piece of paper down my chest and said he was free tonight. Actually, it was a napkin with his number on it. It’s just for sex, and I have Julian for that. Besides, I have a paper due and we have morning practice tomorrow, so I’m not excited about a sleepless night.” Even if it is with Jett Decker. And even if I’ve never experienced such mind-blowing chemistry with someone. It was probably just the tequila anyway. It always makes me a little frisky.
Kick doesn’t respond right away, but I can hear her silent disapproval. She’s never been a fan of my non-relationship situation with Julian. I know she wants me to meet someone different, even if it’s only a booty call, but I don’t have it in me.
I’ll admit, though, it’s taken a tremendous amount of willpower not to at least Google Jett Decker this morning, stare at photos of him and read everything ever written about him on the internet. I knew I’d never get any homework done once I did that though. Calling him isn’t something I’m even considering, so I’m not really sure why I’m keeping his number if I have no intention of using it.
Kick’s heavy sigh tells me she doesn’t like my decision. “Just call him, Shay. Invite him over. Get him naked and have incredible sex. It’ll be a great study break.”
“Kick, I love you, but I’ll never be able to think about sex like you do. You can call him if you want,” I offer, even if it makes my stomach churn a little. Not because I’d be jealous or anything, but that’d be weird since I just had an intense dance floor experience with him.
“Well, it’s not like you’re in love with Julian, and you two do the booty call thing, so it’s really not all that different,” she tells me from the kitchen. The smell of bacon wafts over to me and my stomach grumbles in appreciation of its smell. I’m perpetually hungry. A bottomless pit, as my mother likes to say. We went to this swim camp one summer in high school and a nutritionist calculated how many calories we needed to consume based on our training schedules. Four to six thousand calories, depending on the day. Which is three times as much as most girls my size.
“Yeah, except I know Julian. We’re friends, teammates, whatever. Jett Decker’s a stranger.”
“That makes it even better!” she exclaims, and I guess, after what happened on the dance floor last night, I see her point. “I’m telling you, Shay, you two had seriously hot chemistry. It’s going to break my heart a little to see that kind of opportunity wasted.”
Giving up on getting any more work done while Kick’s in the kitchen, I follow her in there and take in the three skillets on the stovetop. Kick’s expertly slicing fruit and throwing it in a blender, all barefoot and wearing nothing but boy shorts and a tattered tee shirt. The woman might barely pass her college classes, but she’s got mad talent in a kitchen. And the pool.
“Wasted opportunity, huh? You sound like Mom.” Kick’s so different from our CEO mother, it’s laughable. The biggest thing they have in common is they’d both consider themselves feminists. Kick’s version means embracing her body and using it to get what she wants from guys. Mom’s version of feminism is a little more traditional – break the glass ceiling and all that, but without sleeping with people to do it. Not that Kick sleeps with guys to get ahead; no, my twin sister is all about having fun, and better at breaking hearts than glass ceilings.
Kick harrumphs at the comparison. “All I’m saying is, it’d be mind-blowing. I’m sure of it. Maybe good enough to finally get you to realize Julian’s not so great and you could do better.”
“I knew you’d go there eventually,” I say tiredly. Kick can’t deny Julian is hot because really, he’s one of those guys everyone can agree is exceptionally attractive, but she doesn’t like my not-quite-a-relationship status with him. “Is the bacon almost ready?” It’s sizzling on one of the skillets, with hash browns and eggs on the other two. Much better than the Cinnamon Toast Crunch I ate for breakfast earlier.
Kick puts the knife down and gives me one of her dramatic stare-downs. “You only get to eat some of this if you call Jett Decker.”
I gasp. “You’re threatening me by withholding your cooking?” I can’t believe she’s going there. She only does this when it’s something she really wants, like the time I won concert tickets to this band I’d never heard of before but Kick told me were the “next big thing.” She was right, of course. And refused to feed me until I gave her one of the tickets.
Kick lets out another sigh. “It’s just ridiculous to me that you won’t call him.”
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