Pix grabs my arm and yanks me in like she’s afraid I might float away. “I love this song!” she cries, bouncing on the balls of her feet, like the bass is wired straight into her veins.
She’s said that about the last three songs.
And meant it every time.
Lights strobe overhead, white and neon, flashing so fast the room fractures into moments instead of seconds. Dry ice smoke slinks across the floor, while stray balloons knock into our feet, kicked loose by the crowd.
Pix spins, hair flying, laughter bright and reckless. She throws her hands up and pumps to the beat, all loose limbs and pure joy, and when she crashes into me, I laugh so hard my face actually hurts.
I haven’t felt this free, or this drunk, in I don’t even know how long.
She spins away from me, then twirls back in, slowing just enough for our eyes to meet.
Then she kisses me.
God, can this woman kiss.
It’s fiery and intoxicating and just crazy enough for me to hold her face in my hands. She’s so fucking delicious.
It lasts until “Gone Gone Gone” comes on.
Then all bets are off.
“Help me.” She giggles.
“Huh?” What’s she trying to do?
Oh.
She’s already lifting one foot, then the other, and suddenly, I’m on my knees, undoing the delicate straps of her heels while she laughs and clutches my shoulders for balance. One shoe. Then the other.
We shove them aside.
“Better?” I ask, brushing damp bangs off her forehead, my thumb brushing her lips. She’s warm there.
“Almost.”
I know what she wants. Without thinking, I lift her, easy and sure, and set her on the table. She squeals, and dancing like the room belongs to her.
Like nobody’s watching.
When everyone, in fact, is watching.
Joy spills out of her from all sides as she belts lyrics that don’t match the song in the slightest.
I’m still shirtless.
At some point, it stopped feeling weird and started feeling inevitable.
When she said, “Show me Manhattan,” I almost told her it was getting late.
Almost.
It’s our fourth club of the night. A blur of neon and bass and bad decisions, powered by zero regrets and even fewer fucks. Hardworking, adulting, grieving dad needs a night off. Just one.
Another woman stumbles into me, hand brushing my chest like it’s an invitation.
“Hi,” she purrs.
