10. Lizzie
10
LIZZIE
I sit up, leaning on the headrest of the couch as I stare at my roommate in the kitchen. “He was gone when I woke up. Left a quick note saying he had an emergency and would be back at some point. There was a number on the note, but when I tried it, it didn’t work. I waited for hours, but he never came back.”
“Oh, honey…”
I groan in frustration and flop back onto the couch, putting one of the couch pillows over my face. “I was totally ditched, wasn’t I?”
“I don’t know about that. Most people who run after a one-night stand don’t take the time to leave a note. And if they did, they definitely wouldn’t say they were coming back. Maybe he just wrote the number down wrong or something.”
“Yeah, right.” Pippa is never one to tell me what I want to hear. In fact, she usually goes the opposite direction and is truthful almost to an annoying degree. The fact she doesn’t think Dillan outright ditched me does make me feel better. Deep down, I didn’t think so either. It comforts me to have my feelings validated.
“His handwriting was pretty terrible,” I admit. “I could have read the number wrong.”
“Where’s the note? Maybe I can figure it out.”
“I threw it away.” Peeking out from under the pillow, I catch sight of Pippa’s disapproving stare. “I’m sorry! I had a pissed-off moment. I thought I was being ditched, so I tossed it. I also tried a few different combos of numbers and none of them worked.”
“I can’t fault you for that, I guess.” She takes another spoonful of cereal while I stew in my mixed emotions. “So, what’s your plan now?”
“Take a long hot shower, change into sweats, and throw myself into sewing.”
“That’s your answer for everything.”
“Sewing helps me think and calms my nerves,” I remind her, hauling myself off the couch. “Oh, by the way, we’re going to have to change the furniture around. That’s the excuse I used to get away from Mrs. L.”
“You mean you’re going to have to move the furniture around,” Pippa says as she sets her empty dish in the sink on her way to her bedroom. “I’ve got some research to do.”
“Research?” I frown. “What are you talking about?”
“We gotta look up Dillan and find a way to contact him,” Pippa calls from the other room.
“Pippa, please don’t. You really don’t have to bother.” As much as I would enjoy seeing Dillan again, the more I think about it, the more I’m content to just enjoy the memories of our night together and move forward. If he did ditch me—and he likely did—it would be so awkward and embarrassing.
Besides, there isn’t much room in my life for anything other than work these days. I’m doing everything I can to save money so I can open my own dance studio. Adding a romantic relationship of any kind into the mix would just complicate things. During both subway rides, I had plenty of time to think the situation over and have already made peace with the fact I most likely won’t be seeing him again.
W e had fun together. We enjoyed each other’s company. The sex had been mind-blowing. It’s a shame it won’t turn into anything else, but I’m not going to dwell on it. If anything, the night was able to provide closure on a chapter of my life that had remained open for far too long. Not to mention, the fact that I’m a burlesque dancer working in a place that used to be a really notorious strip club would scare him off anyway. At least I’ve spared myself the humiliation of him looking me in the eyes and then giving me some BS excuse as to why we shouldn’t see each other anymore. A doctor and a prima ballerina might make a good match. But a doctor and a woman who earns her living standing on a stage with nothing but a few strategically placed fabric pieces? Ugh, no. Probably not.
P ippa emerges from the room with her laptop tucked under her arm. “You may not be curious about him, but I sure as hell am.”
“Isn’t this being a little stalker-esque?”
“It’s not stalking, it’s researching,” Pippa corrects, waving her hand in dismissal. “It’s not like we’re going through his online profiles to see where he is at any given time. I mean, we would, but we don’t have his number, so we don’t have much to work with here. We’re only looking up his name. Everybody looks people up on social media nowadays.”
“Doesn’t make it any less weird.” I cringe at the thought.
“Then you don’t have to do it.” Pippa sits on the couch I’ve just vacated and opens her laptop. “I’m perfectly happy to do it for you. Now go take a shower.”
L eaving her to her own devices, I do what I’ve been wanting to do for hours: take a hot shower. It’ll be no use to even bother arguing with my bestie anyway, because I know it won’t accomplish anything. For once, the building’s hot water doesn’t run out, so I’m able to stay in there longer than I normally would.
The water cascades over me, and it’s a refreshing break from the turmoil of the morning. The daydream blurs with reality as the water’s touch mimics his presence.
With my eyes closed, the sensation intensifies. It feels almost real, his touch, his presence.
He pulls me against his body. I welcome the roughness. I welcome the passion and the heat and everything that comes with it. The way he plucks me up, like I weigh less than a feather, and pushes me against the shower wall, his mouth assaulting my neck. He’s inside me quicker than I can blink, invading me, stretching me, making me scream out his name.
“Stay still,” I hear him say in his deep growl. I nod, unable to speak.
Unable to open my eyes.
“Stay still I said.”
“I can’t.”
Every single time with him is full of heat and passion. Every single time is rough and leaves me aching for more. Every single time, I kiss his jaw afterward and mouth the words I can’t say aloud just yet. Or ever. Because it’s just sex.
We’ve made no promises.
But it sure felt like there was something there for him too. But maybe I was just hoping a little too hard.
I keep my eyes closed, the water continuing to run down between my legs.
Every time, the second he touches me, it’s like electricity runs through my veins. Every kiss is hotter than it had been that night. Every brush of skin burns me. Every moan is magnified until it’s deafening, until there’s nobody else in the world besides us. Every orgasm makes me feel like I’m ascending into Heaven. Every time our eyes lock, I feel safer than I ever have before.
“I’m going to fuck you until everything else fades away. Until there’s nothing but us. You and I.”
He takes me in the shower, under the spray of hot water, pushing me firmly against the wall with his body as his hands tease me, his cock thrusting in and out of me, bringing me to orgasm after orgasm, until we’re both spent and hoarse, huddled together on the shower floor.
When he brings me into a hug and kisses me lovingly, still inside of me, I’m certain that I see Heaven. Or Hell. Or wherever one goes when they feel this much pleasure flooding their system at one time. It’s magnificent, wherever I’m heading. I never want to return to Earth.
But, of course, I’ve got to.
My body is still limp as I come back to myself. When I get up, my legs feel like jello, and I stumble for a second, before I can hold my weight again.
Then I take the time to let go of the night before.
I’ve got too much going to let my feelings about the subject fester and grow. All things considered, the night was amazing, and I decide to hang onto the fun and pleasure I felt. I won’t think of it with regret or as a mistake, but as one night with an old friend.
Everything else I let wash down the drain, so by the time I step out and wrap a towel around myself, I’m refreshed and ready to move on.
I t’s important to focus on what matters now, not what could have been. I’ve got other dreams, too. Such as my job. Sinner’s Lounge is one of the hottest places in the city, and I’m lucky to have landed a job there. Although, given everything that happened at the place a few months ago, maybe luck had nothing to do with it. A night life magazine dubbed it a “bumpy past,” but trust me, it was way more than just bumps. A shootout resulted in a couple of deaths, apparently getting rid of some bad guys, but unfortunately, an innocent person lost their life too. Pippa was concerned when I told her I got the job, but I assured her that working there isn’t particularly dangerous anymore. Along with their renovations and reopening, they’ve done a massive security upgrade. They’ve got multiple bouncers at the door, plus a private security team.
The most important difference, however, is that Sinner’s Lounge used to be a strip joint and is now a burlesque club. Stripping and burlesque share a few similarities: both require the utmost physical control. Contrary to popular belief, a professional strip dance is an acrobatic performance—just like a burlesque routine. One of the reasons I adore burlesque is the clothing, with its 1950s touches, and the overall meticulous presentation. Additionally, in burlesque, there’s no need to remove all clothing, which appeals to me. Not because I’ve got any hang-ups about my body, but because I’ve always held the belief that revealing less adds a touch of allure. And let’s not fool ourselves; a well-danced burlesque performance is pure seduction.
Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it plenty of times that I should opt for a gig as a cleaning lady instead of displaying my body “like this.” From my parents, for instance, who severed almost all contact with me because they believe that dancing on a stage is akin to prostitution. They (and plenty of others who came in and out of my life) didn’t understand that I can no more give up dancing than I can give up breathing. Heaven and hell, I can’t even do the most mundane things without incorporating a few dance moves. Cha-cha-cha while cleaning? A couple of taps under the table during sewing? Perhaps a solitary tango in the shower? That’s my thing. When I’m not dancing, I’m thinking about dancing.
I’ve been a dancer for years, and Sinner’s Lounge is by far the nicest place I’ve ever danced. Not to mention the clientele lands on the rich side, which means huge tips. I haven’t been there for long, but with the money I’m making, I’ll be able to afford my own dancing studio sooner than anticipated.
That’s what I decide to focus my energy on: my dance studio.
It has been a dream of mine for as long as I can remember, and now that it’s almost within my grasp, I won’t let anything stop me from achieving my goal.
W hen I emerge from my bedroom dressed in comfy clothes with my wet hair in a messy bun, Pippa glances up from her laptop.
“Oh, there was one thing I forgot to tell you earlier. Rex came looking for you this morning.”
“Egoistical poser.”
“Yeah. He said you owed him money, and then something about his car being towed. I don’t know. He was babbling so fast, so I sort of tuned him out.”
“Crap.”
In addition to the “Rex situation,” I’ve got a competition at Sinner’s Lounge coming up in the next few weeks that I’m stressed about. Not just because I want to create the best choreography, but also because my outfit isn’t ready yet. I’m envisioning a 1920s-inspired black costume with a daring low back coupled with fringe, sequins, and feathers, and accessories like long gloves and beaded necklaces that capture the lively spirit of the Roaring Twenties. While I’ve nearly finished sewing it, there’s still that elusive element. Typically, my costumes evolve alongside the choreography, but this time, under all the pressure, the perfect idea hasn’t struck me yet.
The competition is to celebrate the official reopening of the club, which enjoyed a soft opening a couple of months ago. It’s not only a way to let the general public know that we are open for business again, but also to give the dancers incentive. Like I said, they have to make up for a “bumpy past.”
The winner will win five thousand dollars and their choice of shift for the following month. Both of those things I could really use. As a newbie, I tend to get the leftover shifts that nobody wants. If I could choose, then I could get earlier shifts and use the prize money and whatever I’ve got saved to start my dance studio search. Then I can dance in the mornings and run classes in the evenings until the studio gets off the ground. It’s a plan that I’ve put a lot of thought and effort into.
“I figured he was bullshitting,” Pippa gives me a knowing look. “Do you really owe him something? Do you need help?”
I refocus, realizing she’s still talking about Rex. “No, no, it’s all right. I had to borrow his car, and of course, it died, so now he’s blaming me for it getting towed. Granted, it’s my fault, but only slightly. I probably should have called him instead of just sending him a text.”
“Hey, don’t take on a responsibility that’s not yours,” Pippa scolds. “He better than anybody else knows how shit his car is. The old piece of junk. If he’s so worried about it, he shouldn’t have lent it out in the first place.” Pippa turns her attention back to the laptop. “If he took better care of his car, it wouldn’t die all the time. How is that your problem? After all the financial support you’ve given him over the years, he owes you money.”
Opening the kitchen cabinet, I begin pulling out the ingredients I need to make cookies. Ah, chocolate chips. Is one package enough? Hmm. I take the second one out too, just to be safe. The higher my stress level, the more chocolate goes into my cookies. At some point, I’ll bake cookies that are ninety percent chocolate. Thinking about Rex definitely makes my stress levels skyrocket. “You’re right, it’s not my problem. And honestly, I get helping with the towing fees, but apparently that’s not enough for him.” I pause, replaying her words in my head. “Wait, you said he came by this morning?”
Pippa nods.
“Dear God. He must have run over here the second he found out.” Incredulous, I grab the stack of mixing bowls from under the sink.
“Any excuse to muscle back into your life. Why did you ask him for the car, anyway? You know how he gets.”
“I know I shouldn’t have asked him, but I was desperate. I told him I’ll pay him back for the towing fees. He’s doing fine on his own now, anyway, so not sure why he needs the money right this second.”
“You know why he needs it.”
I sigh as I pull the eggs and butter out of the refrigerator. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”
“Say it out loud,” Pippa says, her voice sharp.
I’m immediately reminded of all the reasons why I broke up with Rex. In the beginning, we got along really well. He was sweet, charming, open-minded. He was cool with the fact that I’m a dancer at a former strip club, at least he was at first. No dumb jokes about bedroom acrobatics from him. And he was more generous than other men I’ve dated, even though his bank account wasn’t exactly bursting at the seams. I appreciated the way he cared. Supporting him here and there? That didn’t bother me at all. But as time rolled on, things shifted. Suddenly, he was all about the money. The generosity he once showed began to carry hidden conditions and expectations, and he began trying to steer things in a way that suited only him. Our relationship went from caring to terribly messy when he tried to mold me into something I was not. Hindsight is always 20/20, but even I’ve got to admit that my decision to be with Rex wasn’t a shining moment—unlike my decision to give him the boot: When he started making passive-aggressive comments about my dancing from the comforts of my couch, I put an end to it really quick. Needless to say, he didn’t take it well.
“I mean it,” Pippa insists.
“Because he’s a pushy showoff who just can’t stand anyone not bowing down to his nonsense. Plus, he’s a spineless coward, without a tough bone in his body.”
“Very good. A-plus. And don’t you forget it, you hear?” She gives me a hug and a kiss on my cheek. I love her. I know she’s right. I brought it on myself and should have kicked his sorry butt to the curb much, much sooner. But hey, shoulda coulda woulda.
The man of my dreams is a silent hero, someone who doesn’t boast about his deeds. His actions speak volumes, and that’s all that holds weight in his eyes. He’s courageous, bold, and his selfless demeanor goes beyond words. He’s someone who never expects anything in return, and generously supports my unconventional endeavors while giving me the freedom to pursue my crazy dreams.
Unfortunately, a man like that only exists in dreams.
Pippa snaps me out of my reverie. “What kind of cookies are you making?”
R ex (and Dillan) all fall by the wayside as I focus on the wonderful act of baking. By the time I pull the first soft steaming batch of chocolate chip cookies from the oven, Pippa has moved the laptop over to the counter to show me what she’s found.
“All right, so I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first? By the way, it smells delish.”
I set to work placing the freshly baked cookies on a cooling rack. “Good news.”
“Wait, really?” She looks up, surprised.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Weird. Most people want the bad news first…”
“Pippa Elenore Sanchez,” I say, rounding on her and waving the spatula threateningly when she doesn’t answer right away, “I swear to God, if you don’t tell me what you found and get it over with, I’m going to smack you.”
“That’s not my middle name.” Unfazed by my threats, Pippa swipes one of the cookies. “Fine, fine. All right. So, the good news is I found several social profiles for Dillan Maxwell on Facebook and a couple on LinkedIn.”
“What’s the bad news?” My heart starts to sink. “Oh, God. Please don’t tell me he’s married. He told me he wasn’t.”
“He’s not married. Well, I don’t know if he’s married,” Pippa explains. “The only profiles I could find with the name Dillan Maxwell don’t have profile pictures and are all set to private.”
I pull her laptop in front of me to check it out for myself. She’s right. As I scroll through the pages, I don’t see any that stand out or look like they could be him. Being the overachiever that she is, Pippa has even pulled up some old acquaintances from high school, but none of the profiles have any friends in common with either of us.
There’s no sense in Googling him because he just moved here, but Pippa does so anyway. There are a couple of Dr. Maxwells, but again, none of them are him.
“So, where did you say he lived before he came back to New York?” she asks.
“In Tennessee.”
“Oookay, a bit more specific? What town?”
Oh, geez. I hadn’t asked him that. “I don’t know.”
“Girl, the sex must have frozen your brain. Literally. Did you jump him the minute you saw him? Did you guys talk? Or hop right into bed?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“To which one?”
“To all of them. You know, Pippa, I think it’s for the best,” I say, pushing the computer away and returning to my cookies. “We’re just not meant to be. Not back then, not now. Besides, it wouldn’t have worked out anyway. I need a foundation that’s steady, unwavering, filled with consistent affection, and mostly, built on reliability. I don’t need anything in my life that isn’t permanent. The last thing I need is more complications or a guy that is too cocky for his own good, especially after Rex. Who needs men, right? Better to let it go and focus on what truly matters.”
Pippa studies me closely. “Are you sure? I can do some more digging…”
“You’ve done enough, really. Thanks for trying, Pippa. But I want it this way. I promise .”
That’s our code word: promise. As soon as one of us uses the word, the other knows they’re serious and to drop the subject.
Pippa promptly closes the laptop and pushes it away.
“All right then.” She nods. “I’m done searching. I was just trying to get you laid again. Sounds like he was the bomb. But if you change your mind, let me know.”
“I will. Now eat some of these cookies—otherwise, I’ll eat them all myself.”