“The face-to-crotch collision?”
“That’s worse.”
“A dick-piphany?” I offer.
“I’m going to walk into the ocean now.”
I laugh again, lighter this time, and perch on the edge of the kitchen island across from him. “Seriously, though. That was really good. You’re naturally athletic. I wish I was more like that.”
We’re quiet for a moment. The song has ended, replaced by silence that feels charged with something I can’t name.
“Know what I want for you?” Taio asks, his eyes latching on to mine.
I’m tempted to make a joke, but the sincerity is scrawled across his face. “What?”
“I want you to be proud of being you. It’s okay to love yourself, Tweety. You have plenty of ammo. You just need to pull the trigger of self-awareness. Of course the internet is coming for you at every turn. We love to throw rocks at shiny things. To envy what we can’t have. To shun what feels unique. But the moment you stop giving a damn about fitting in their perfect little pop-star box is the moment you become unforgettable.”
Unforgettable.It echoes through my mind like a promise, or a curse. Jury’s still out.
“So,” I say, when I can’t bear the intimate silence between us, “what are we now?”
Taio’s expression shifts to something more guarded. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you just sweated on me a little while you were giving me a lap dance. Feels like we’ve crossed some kind of threshold.”
“I’m your bodyguard. Same as before.”
“Are you sure? Because you also just booped my nose with your dick.”
He chokes on nothing. “Can we please retire that phrase?”
“Never. It’s going in my memoirs.”
“Charlie.”
“Fine, fine.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “Bodyguard and pop star. Very professional. Except for the part where you dry-humped my face.”
“I’m going to need therapy after this.”
“Join the club.” I chuckle at his glowing cheeks. It’s sort of adorable to see such a large man brought to his knees by a little embarrassment.
He rises to his feet, creating a gulf between our bodies that feels wider than the actual steps he takes. The temperature in the room seems to drop as I watch him rebuild the fortress around himself brick by brick—bodyguard mode reactivating despite the fact we’ve just crossed lines that no employee handbook would ever condone.
“Listen,” he says, “about tomorrow night. The performance. I’ve been thinking.”
“Dangerous activity.”
“Maybe you should go rogue.”
I blink. “Go rogue?”
“One number. Just one. Where you don’t do the choreography. Where you just…stand there and sing. Let the music be enough.” He shrugs. “Give yourself one moment in the show that’s just for you. Something you can actually enjoy without worrying about hitting marks or looking like a…”
“Like a fish on a dock?”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“But you were thinking it.”
