Sexy off Stage (The Messy Friends #2)

Chapter 1

I’m still dancing to the beat of life, but I can’t hear the song anymore.

There is no clear rhythm to move to, and the ache of moving anyway is burrowing down into my bones.

I no longer know the ending, and I don’t even think I’m enjoying the performance.

After three years of achieving my dreams, I have to wonder if I still live for the applause.

The rawness of having your passion slowly carved out of you leaves an ache that throbs with every thought. Driving home to San Francisco in this state, my chest is vibrating while my mind races as fast as the cars I stare at out the window.

My best friend, Farrah, unaware of my suffering, talks about all the Christmas gifts she got for her new husband, Errol. Mariah Carey plays for the fifth time since we started this drive, and this hellish repetition of holiday songs seems fitting.

“I feel like you aren’t listening to me,” Farrah says, her head turning in my direction.

I tuck my braids behind my ear, then shift so I can face her.

“Sorry, girl, I can’t stop thinking about everything I’m leaving behind in LA.”

“Only temporarily. You’ll be back soon, performing for all the biggest pop stars and doing the damn thing.”

That same reassuring smile she has been giving me for weeks since I told her I turned down a contract makes its appearance. She’s trying so hard to understand this sudden shift. I can’t explain it to her, because I haven’t fully come to terms with it myself.

“Yeah, maybe. In the meantime, I just want to enjoy this break,” I say while turning the music down. I’m done with the holiday cheer.

“You know you don’t have to come back, right?”

If only it was that simple. If I walk away for too long, I might not be able to return at all. The name I’ve built for myself, and the connections I’ve made, are all a moment’s notice from slipping away. That’s how fickle Hollywood is.

“Two years ago, I was in the same place as you. I literally had no idea what I was going to do next. Now I’m a booked actress and stylist to the stars. All because you convinced me to move to Los Angeles and step outside of my comfort zone. Things will work out for you, too.”

“I hope so.” I rub my face so hard I’ll be surprised if I haven’t erased my freckles. It does nothing to ease the tension in my shoulders.

I try and change the subject, and she gives me the grace to let it happen. Answering in a robotic way frees me to think things over, as I wonder if maybe Farrah is right. Maybe I will go back and love it again.

Ever since I was little, I knew I was going to be a famous dancer.

No one could tell me, a too-tall, plus-sized Black girl, that the world wasn’t going to love her one day.

I let that confidence, hard-earned and very tested, push me through dance classes, auditions, and a move to a different city.

Feeling it slowly leach out of my body with every opportunity makes me more insecure than I have ever been before.

If things don’t change soon, I don’t think I will even know who I am.

At first, things started out great. I was landing gigs and performing on tours and in videos.

I was building a name for myself. But then one day, I started to lose the excitement.

Everything felt like a job, and the sacrifice of being on the road for months didn’t seem worth it anymore.

I couldn’t even say what happened to cause things to go downhill.

It’s just like that sometimes. The plans you make don’t always fit the way you feel.

At some point, things are always going to change.

I just never expected them to go in this direction.

Now, for the first time in my life, I’m standing still, and I need to find something that moves me again.

We pull up outside my dad’s place, bringing me back to reality.

Looking at the street where I learned to do everything from walking to driving, an ease settles in my gut.

The townhouses spaced tightly together on sloping streets are so different from LA.

In this quieter city, my mind may get the chance to rest.

Farrah says she will call on Christmas, and I wish her luck with spending the week with Errol and her parents. She smiles her full smile, her curly hair bouncing with her nodding head. She says thank you, then she drives off.

“Dad?” I yell when I step through the door.

Plopping my duffel bag down on the hardwood floor, I move to go look for him. Scratches and scuffs from the years of us living here mark the wood forming my path.

As I pass by the living room, where the furniture hasn’t changed since I left for college, I call out to him again.

“In here, Monty.”

I rush to the kitchen and run right into his arms. He lifts me like I’m still five and spins me around.

His strength is impressive for a sixty-year-old man.

When he puts me down, I look up at his face to see that the only lines there are smile ones creeping in the corners.

His dark skin, something I envy, still looks smooth and polished like fine wood.

“Welcome home, baby girl.” He hugs me again for good measure before leading me to the dining room table.

Looking around, I really am home. It still smells like lemon cleaner, and the walls are that same old forest green. Even the knick-knacks he leaves about are in the same places.

He brings me eggnog before I even ask, and tops it up with some rum in my favorite mug.

“It’s good to be home,” I say, meaning it to my core. It’s good to see him and be back where I learned to love dancing in the first place.

He asks me about the drive, and we have an idle chat while we drink our first glass. When he pours the second one, his lips slowly curve down.

“What?” I ask, preparing myself for the worst.

“I have to work this Christmas.” Sighing, he runs a hand over his bald head.

“Are you serious?” I want to shoot up from the table and throw my hands on my hips, but instead, I settle for rubbing my face again.

“I know, I was told today. Someone got injured and they can’t do the drive. I’m the only trucker who doesn’t have young kids, so I volunteered.”

“You still have a kid, though, one who doesn’t have a mom to spend it with.”

His flinch is instant, as it is every time I mention that woman. The thing that haunts this home, her pale skin makes it fitting that we think of her as our ghost.

“I know it sucks, but I should be here for New Year’s Eve, and we can spend that together.”

A consolation prize in lieu of the big ticket item I have no choice but to accept it.

“Why don’t you spend the holidays with Farrah?”

I shrug, knowing that’s an option, then lean back in my chair.

“When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow, that way I can be there by Christmas.”

It’s only the twenty-second, so it must be a long haul for it to take that long. I breathe out.

“Okay, fine, it’s not like I have a choice.”

“I’m sorry, Monty.”

I know he is, just like he has been sorry every time he has had to do it before.

Being a single parent with bills you were supposed to have help paying, meant that he had to take any route or overtime that they offered.

I spent just as much time with my Nana as I did with him growing up.

Just so he could give me the life he promised me before my mother left.

I can’t help but admire him for that, even if it means I learned independence at the age of twelve.

“You can also spend it with Charlie, since he has no family.”

I lift one eyebrow, my mouth spelling out a silent oh.

“I know I’m not his biggest fan, but you still have him in your life, so what am I supposed to do?” He throws his arms up, his shoulders lifting as well.

“Right now, we are just friends, and he spends the holidays with his best friend Robin’s family.”

Technically, it’s true that we aren’t dating, even though we hook up every time I come to town. That’s what happens when your ex is the best sex of your life. He could be more if he weren’t always showing how immature he is.

“So are you seeing anyone else?”

I must look put out because he chuckles while shaking his head.

“No.”

He grins at this, clearly happy. His brown eyes are sparkling. “Well, maybe you can meet someone new and finally move on from him.”

“Why do you dislike him so much?”

I get up and refill our glasses again, this time without the rum. The heat of the alcohol creeps up my neck, making me take my sweater off.

“I liked him as your friend, but I don’t like him as your future husband.”

I sit back down and try to keep my face neutral. Not only do I not know what to say to the “future husband” comment, but my curiosity is piqued. He continues even before I ask.

“I want you to be with someone you feel like you need.” Reaching across the table, he grabs onto my hand.

His swallows mine, and I can’t help but look at his dark mahogany against my light brown. The heritage of my white mother shows itself even when I want to erase her entirely.

“Shouldn’t I be with someone I want? I don’t think I should need anyone.”

“And that right there is the problem. I want you to find someone you can’t live without. Sometimes I feel like you would be perfectly okay being alone.” He points one finger at me, the lecture starting up.

I take a long sip of my drink, needing a moment to digest what he is saying.

“I spoke incorrectly before. I do need you and Farrah. I just don’t want to need my partner. That seems unhealthy.”

If you make someone your lungs, then how do you breathe when they leave you? I still feel like I am using an inhaler every time I remember that I only have one parent.

“It’s not unhealthy. Why be with someone you can take or leave? Relationships are hard. Sometimes you won’t want that person anymore. Especially now with so many options. You need something more than that to keep you committed.”

I want to ask him how that worked out for him, but I don’t need to. His never remarrying says enough.

He, of course, has someone he thinks I should date, who happens to be coming over for his New Year’s Eve party. I tell him I will entertain the idea, even though I know that our tastes are very different. That’s good enough for him.

Like we always do, we talk until the sun sets, and then he has to end the night early to get a good sleep.

I head up to my old room and take in the comfort of being in this place that made me happy.

Looking around at where it all started does stir something inside of me.

The pictures of ballerinas on the wall. The dance competition trophies lined up on my shelf.

This is where I learned to love it all, so maybe being home will remind me why.