Endgame (The Atlanta Boys)

11. Dakota

11

DAKOTA

How can one woman own so many clothes yet have no clothes at all? Or at least it seems that way. I’m shuffling through what I’m hoping to be clean laundry for something remotely sexy to wear to Delta tonight.

The battle will be against myself on whether I can actually muster up the energy to care enough to try tonight. That’s why I’m doing this—I need to make some changes.

I doubt a therapist would say looking for a distracting lay is the best option for me to reach ultimate healing , but that’s all I’ve got at the moment.

It didn’t take much convincing for Navy to agree to be my wing woman. We operate efficiently as a team, Kodi + Navs, against the world.

Sadly, she’s bringing Luke. Not that I have anything against the guy, but something seems off about him. That feeling where you can’t put your finger on it, but your gut is telling you it’s there.

They’ve been together forever, and I still don’t know a thing about the guy. Whenever he’s around, I can feel the entire vibe shift. Navy starts acting less and less like herself, which says about how he “tames” her bold personality. I hate it. Not only is she the kindest person I’ve ever known, but she’s incredibly loyal and loves big.

All I want is for her to be treated with the same love and respect, for someone to cherish and spoil her. She deserves it.

I know she’s not whipping out baby names and searching for forever homes with the guy, but he seems pushy to lock her down. I don't know. It could most definitely be in my head, my protective side rushing to the forefront.

I finally decide on a pair of skin-tight, leather straight jeans, a black lace corset top, and my black and white Dunks. I feel cute, sexy, and confident that my feet won’t fail me.

Comfort—you’ve never let me down.

Deciding I’d rather not spend hours doing my hair when I’m going to sweat the second I enter the club, I let my natural beach waves hang down my back in a messy and mussed way. I spritz some texturizing spray on the ends and the roots to give it that volume that brings out my sassiness.

I’m on the prowl tonight.

As long as there are no feelings involved with said stranger, I’ll get my dose of physical touch and be on my way.

Back to the land of the numb and broken, that is.

I contemplate letting Navy in on my plans in case I become a liability. We wouldn’t want the Striker’s newest photographer showing her itty bitty’s in public and causing a scene. Modesty does not faze me when tequila enters the chat. I think better of it, though, and vow to myself that vodka is the only drink on the menu tonight. No one gets to worry about me.

I’ll save the guilt for the morning after.

It’s time to cleanse the effects of my ex and Mr. Ocean Eyes from my system and have a carefree night.

I’ ve got some stress to relieve.

Turns out I am most definitely not on the prowl tonight. I’m not entirely sure I have game at all.

How does prowling even work? I’ve been so out of touch that I don’t know where to start.

Are introductions too formal, or do I stand around, look pretty, and wait for the men to come to me? Hell, if I know.

My look of confusion is likely not doing me any favors. I’m lucky if I get the bartender to notice me for my drink order, let alone a man wanting to jump my bones and clear the cobwebs.

I’ve been told before that my resting face is intimidating and does better work at scaring men away than drawing them near.

I can already feel my bed calling my name.

I’m about to order my second vodka soda when Navy slides up behind me from the dance floor. She comfortably grabs my shoulders and leans to the right side of my head, pulling my attention from my drink. She’s glistening in sweat, but that does nothing to dull her fit of choice. Navy is wearing a tight red mini dress with a cowl neckline, showing some of her tan cleavage, and slinky gold heels.

My best friend is a beauty.

She stands tall at five eleven with legs for days and bright chestnut hair that reaches the middle of her back in large bouncy curls. I always tell her she’s the red-headed Tori Kelly of any man's dreams. Her bright emerald green eyes look like they’re made of mermaid scales—they’re hypnotizing.

She’s God's favorite.

She’ s a knockout in every sense of the word, yet her humble spirit is her best quality.

I’m seated on a black leather bar stool, fighting my lower back discomfort by sitting as delicately as possible. The club is a place I’ve never felt too comfortable, most likely being the reason for my instability. I feel out of place, but that’s the point, I guess. Even so, with Navy attached to me like a koala, the uneasiness of my nerves begin to settle. Always keeping me on my toes, Navy falls into a fit of giggles, jumping around like she’s excited about something.

She’s drunk.

“Kodi, you have to come out and dance with us. I told Luke if he gave the DJ twenty bucks to play our song next, I’d make it worth his while once we got back to our place. His dick can hold off for a couple of hours, though. I wanna dance with my best friend.”

How can I possibly say no to her?

I think she needs this night as much as I do, and the chances of me meeting a guy nestled in the corner alone are slim.

Chuckling to myself, I throw back the last sip of my vodka soda and summon up as much energy as possible. “Let’s turn some heads, Navy girl.”

Her grin tells me she’s down with my suggestion as we walk hand in hand to dance the night away.

Navy has managed to convince Luke to drop sixty bucks on songs from our favorite playlist. As much as I doubt my ability to let loose, I feel sensational. I’ve always loved dancing. Music is therapy for me. My body is in tune with the bass, hips rhythmically gliding in slow motion to the song's beat. I feel free . Like my life is on a sabbatical, and I can breathe again.

My body also seems to be the master of betrayal because suddenly, my senses are at attention—I feel him. The feeling is foreign but recognizable, maybe because it was the moment I felt something other than numbness.

Lately, that’s been a difficult task.

I’m looking in my peripherals, trying not to search for him without making it obvious. I wouldn’t want to give Callaway the satisfaction of knowing my body recognizes him.

The club is dark and moody with spotlights and bouncers parked out in every lit corner, the darkness making it difficult to see. I’ve met the guy twice, and it’s not like he would notice me or even care if I was here. The plan was for me to meet someone new, not ask questions or take names but to have the best orgasm of my life and be on my way—a time to be bold.

I turn my body to where Navy and Luke are shaking sheets on the dance floor and find a blonde guy with loose, curly hair dancing next to me. He’s tall and sort of cute, but not what I would usually go for—conveniently lacking tattoos and a Jeep.

I’m in no position to be picky, so I make my move.

At first glance, his eyes take in my ample cleavage, and I know I’ve got him. He casually moves closer while swaying to the beat of the music.

“Birthday Sex” by Jeremih cuts through the speakers, and my body hums with anticipation. Blondie curls around my front to position himself so that his right thigh wedges between my most sensitive place. I drape my right arm over his shoulder and let the music take over. The guy isn’t a terrible dancer; he’s just doing nothing for me. I’m right back to the problem I always face—feeling hollow.

I intentionally try to tune out my mental noise. There’s no way I’ll be able to let myself be taken by the guy if I have my head up my ass. He’d feel like he’s screwing a corpse.

I throw my head back and keep my eyes closed as I slowly start to roll my hips.

Think less about the pain, Dakota.

Let yourself feel something. Anything.

Drown out the noise.

I’m doing my best to get lost in the music and focus on his hands caressing my thighs. My hair grazes my back as I arch into his touch and feel my body come to life.

If he would slide his thumbs a little bit closer.

Maybe this is the awakening I’ve been searching for.

As if hearing my thoughts, my eyes barely open before they connect with the brightest ocean blues from across the room.

Time stands still.

Callaway leans against a wooden pillar next to the lounge bar with his hands tucked into his front pockets, beaming heat at me. I can’t tell much of his expression from here, but his eyes read like curiosity. He’s probably wondering how long it will take me to bitch out blondie here and run in the opposite direction.

He wouldn’t be wrong. Those are my thoughts exactly.

However, I didn’t come here to flirt from afar, so if he wants to stand there and watch, then so be it—time to give him a show worth paying attention to.

Let’s hope this works in my favor.