The air is smoke, cheap perfume and sweat. Bass rattles the walls. Somebody’s laughing too loud near the stairs. The room is crowded in that Hell way, bodies pressed together like the whole county is trying to forget itself for a few hours. Neon throws color across faces, making everybody look a little sinful and a little unreal.
I can taste moonshine on my own breath. It’s sharp and sweet and mean. It burns the back of my throat and turns my thoughts into loose change rattling in a pocket. My cheeks are hot. My skin feels too warm for my bones.
I’m not scared in the dream.
I’m fearless.
That’s what alcohol does, it hands you a version of yourself who doesn’t know better and tells you she’s brave.
Oaks is by the edge of the dance floor, broad shoulders, hard jaw, watching the room like it owes him answers. He’s got that calm on him, that control, like the chaos can’t touch him unless he allows it. His wedding ring catches the light when he lifts a drink to his mouth, and something inside me doesn’t care. Something inside me sees the ring and takes it as a dare.
I move toward him like I’m pulled.
Like gravity changed its mind and decided I belong to his orbit.
He looks down when I get close, eyes dark, expression carved out of restraint, and the look on his face makes heat bloom low in my belly like a match struck in dry grass.
I smile up at him like I’m sweet.
I’m not sweet.
I press my palm to his chest, feeling muscle under cotton, feeling the steady thump of him, and I lean in too close. Too familiar. My mouth moves like I’m going to say something smart, something flirty, something normal.
Instead, I laugh, loud and messy, and the sound comes out wrong because I’m too far gone to hold it pretty.
His hand catches my wrist.
Not rough. Not gentle either.
Controlled.
“Slow down,” he says, and his voice is a low warning dressed up like concern.
I don’t slow down.
I step closer anyway, crowding him, forcing his space smaller, and the dream-version of me likes it. She likes the way his body goes still. She likes the way his eyes narrow. She likes the way he looks like he’s fighting himself.
I sway to the music like I know what I’m doing. I don’t. I’m clumsy, drunk, bold in the worst way. My hips move too close to his. My laughter is too loud. My hands don’t know whereto go so they go everywhere, up his arms, over his shoulders, sliding across the front of his shirt like I’m tracing ownership I haven’t earned. Cupping his bulge like I have the right. Making a pleased sound when I find him hard as a rock. A big rock.
I feel his breath catch.
That’s the hook.
The second I feel him react, I push harder.
In the dream I don’t have shame. I don’t have fear. I don’t have the good sense God hands other girls. I have want, bright and reckless, and I throw it at him like I’m trying to see what sticks.
“Oaks,” I say his name like it’s mine to say, like I’ve been saying it in private for years.
His jaw flexes.
“Brittany,” he replies, and my name in his mouth turns my knees soft. It ain’t tender. It ain’t romantic.
It’s possession fighting with responsibility.
My hands climb higher. I tug at his shirt, at the hem, at the collar, not actually undressing him, just making a show of it, making it obvious I’m thinking about what’s underneath. I press my body closer and move like I’m dancing for him alone, like the room disappeared and left only us and the music and my own bad decisions.
I hump him like a horny dog, rub my crotch on him, like I’m scratching an itch. Arch my back like a cat in heat.
