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His brow furrows as I keep advancing.
“And fourthly.” Fourthly was a thing, right? Oh well. “Stay away from me. Far, far a-fucking-way. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to hear you. I don’t even want to smell you.” And your stupid mouthwatering smell of clean laundry and Gucci Black. “Do I make myself clear, Nixon?” I tilt my head to the side as if talking to a small child.
“Yeah, Monroe, we’re all clear here.”
Smiling, I say, “Good.”
“So, we're really doing this?” he asks, a blank stare on his face.
“Oh, baby. You bet your beautiful ass we’re doing this. You made this bed, now you have to sleep in it,” I reply in a sugary sweet voice before turning around. My heart is breaking, I hated fighting with Nix, but to be enemies was a damage my heart and mind couldn’t comprehend.
Before I make it to my car, Drake sweeps me up, pressing me to the hood, trailing kisses down my neck. I lock eyes with Nixon as Drake devours me. His jaw clenches, and I smile. I can feel the pain turning into fire now. I’m livid. No, I’m deadly. And if Nixon Jacobs Masterson doesn’t watch out, I’ll burn this whole world to the ground… just to watch him break.
Just like he broke me.
* * *
Finishing my dance for the tenth time doesn’t make me feel any more confident. I’m so close to saying to hell with the whole entire dance. “How about now?” Emerson asks with a hopeful smile.
“I’m just not sure how I’m supposed to perform this in front of people, you know?”
She thinks it over and I see when the metaphorical light bulb lights up. “I have the perfect idea, but we have to ask your mom first.”
“And my dad?” I ask, because he’s super grumpy and wants to know every move I make in life.
She shakes her head fast, grimacing at the suggestion. “Nope. Just your mom.”
* * *
“You want me to let my daughter perform at your strip club?” my mom asks, eyebrows high, her brown hair up in a French twist, nails tapping against the counter.
Emerson scoffs. “You know damn well I don’t own a strip club.” She levels my mom with a glare.
My mom sighs, looking over at me. Her honey eyes narrow as she studies me. Then she sighs again and throws her hands up. “Why not, but,” she says, cutting off Emerson’s happy dance, “I get to come. The moms get to come.” Emerson jumps up and down, singing something about a girls’ night.
And that’s how I find myself on stage, wearing a crop top and baggy pants with my hair in loose curls. A spotlight beating down on me as the moms cheer in the front section of the audience.
Taking a deep breath, I get into position.
