“Woo!” Hannah yells, giving her head a shake as the shot settles in. I think she’s about to say something when I watch her eyes double in size.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Hot.”
I laugh and turn to where her eyes haven’t moved. “Hannah? Are you gawking at a bunch of football players? You’re a married woman.”
I glance back to see her nod slowly. “I can look. No touchy. But look? Looking is good…”
“Very good...”
You know they must be hot when Shelby’s making note of it. Between living in Vegas and being a professional athlete herself—which means being around other athletes more than most—she’s basically desensitized to their good looks.
“Vegas! How we doin’ tonight?”
The crowd roars in response to one of the players on stage. And… hot damn… they didn’t make them like that when I was his age…
I know that’s possibly the oldest thing I could say, but it’s the truth. No way this man is above the age of twenty-five—and I’m judging that solely by his permed haircut that I know is in style these days with the younger generation that no way a millennial man can pull off. Sure, I wasn’t frequenting college bars at that age. Hell, I was celebrating my three-year wedding anniversary around then, but I still know that in no way, shape, or form, do I ever remember seeing anyone like that a decade ago.
He’s wearing a fitted T-shirt that shows every one of his defined muscles. He’s not overly built for his six-foot frame, but it’s the definition that has my head tilting for a better angle. He’s paired the outfit with well-fitting jeans and tennis shoes that I have a feeling cost an arm and a leg.
Sure, all of that is a hell of a package, but it’s more than that. It’s the dimple in his cheek so pronounced I can see it from the audience—which also makes him look even younger than I’m guessing he is. It’s the genuine smile on his face as he interacts with the crowd. It’s the way he carries himself like he owns the stage. This isn’t karaoke for him, this is his personal concert that we were all invited to.
And nothing is sexier than a confident man.
“All right now, I heard this song earlier and I can’t get it out of my head, so I’m going to have to sing it, if that’s okay with you guys?” The crowd explodes in cheers because who’s going to tell this man no right now? “The problem is, I need some help with this song. Who’s going to help me?”
“She is!” Hannah yells, pointing to me even though there are dozens of girls—and guys—jumping up and down, raising their hands like they want to be called on stage as the song begins.
“Girl, what are you doing?” I ask with a laugh.
“You’re going to go up there and help him!” she yells. “Remember that video I showed you today? That’s what you need to do!”
I think back through the six drinks I’ve had tonight to figure out which video she sent me, because Hannah shows me a lot of videos. But then I remember— it showed one of our favorite actresses from when we were children on stage, dancing with the band and singer who originated this song. The crowd went nuts as she danced around the stage, living her best life.
And that’s what I want to do, live my best fucking life.
I want to be the woman I used to be, and an even better version of it. I used to love to sing and dance. I was free. Extroverted. Not afraid to be in front of a crowd. Would dance on a stage on a dare.
Married me shrunk into myself. I forgot that I had a part of me that wasn’t tied into being Justin’s wife. That I was more than a breadwinner, and a housekeeper, and a once-a-month sex haver.
And it was shitty once-a-month sex.
But no more not taking risks. No more being a shell of myself. No more not living life.
And no more bad sex.
“Fuck it!” I yell as I slam another one of the lemon drops that’s sitting on the table. “I’m going!”
“Hell yeah, you are!” I hear Shelby yell, but I don’t turn around to see her or Hannah’s reaction.
No, I focus on the stage.
On the lights.
On the fact that I’m actually dancing my way through the crowd, not giving a fuck about anything.
On the man I’m now making eye contact with as I make my way up the stairs.
