33.0 #2
I straightened my shoulders, smoothed my dress, and followed the girls inside.
Neon washed over us in waves, the room humming with laughter and clinking glasses and bodies moving on stage. The air smelled like perfume and dollar bills — familiar and thrilling all over again.
Tati clapped her hands together. "Okay, ladies. Let's make this night count."
And for the first time in a long time, I felt like myself. Not the headlines. Not the scandal.
Just Amira.
Just Dream.
Just a girl out with her friends in the warm glow of Houston.
The second we stepped inside, it felt like stepping straight into a heartbeat.
Lights swept the room in pinks and purples, the bass thrumming deep in the floorboards. Tables were packed, dancers glittered on stage, and the air was warm with perfume, liquor, and the familiar thrill of a night that could go absolutely anywhere.
Tati tossed her purse onto a booth seat. "I missed you girls so much," she declared dramatically.
Mya snorted, sliding in after her. "This feels like the old days."
We ordered a round — lemon drops, because the universe knew we were nostalgic — and the moment the glasses hit the table, a server paused, eyes widening.
"Oh my God... I'm sorry but—aren't you..."
Before I could shrink, Heather leaned forward, all dimples and menace. "She's Amira," she said sweetly. "No drama tonight, thank you.
The server blinked, flushed, and nodded quickly. "Right—of course. My bad. Welcome in, ladies!"
Sam nudged my knee under the table. A quiet check in.
I nodded, exhaling. Not letting it ruin tonight.
Lemon drops arrived in a small circle of glowing sugar rims. I knocked back half of mine, the citrus burning sweet and sharp down my throat.
Warmth spread instantly — cheeks, chest, stomach..
The bass thudded through the floor, making the table vibrate. The lights flicked pink across the booth, turning everything glossy.
My phone buzzed.
Brooks.
I blinked at the screen, the alcohol giving each word a soft edge.
My lips tugged into a slow, tipsy smile.
I rolled my eyes — dramatic and lazy — and took another sip of my drink.
Sam nudged me. "He's blowing you up already?"
"No," I said way too quickly.
Which made her raise an eyebrow and grin.
A hit of heat shot through me, so fast I felt it in the backs of my knees.
The girls were too busy arguing about which dancer had the prettiest outfit to notice me pressing my thighs together.
I exhaled, the warmth in my stomach spreading lower.
Maybe it was the drink.
Maybe it was the lights.
Maybe it was just him.
Either way, when I set my phone down, I had to shake out my hands to get rid of the shiver.
By the fourth round, we were dancing and singing along to whatever the DJ played.
"OH—oh we're going on stage," Britney announced.
Tati choked on her drink. "Britt, no—"
But the staff recognized the vibe, the energy, maybe the fact that the table was full of girls who knew their way around a stage. Two dancers walked over, grinning like they'd seen this play out before.
"You ladies wanna hop in for a set?" one asked.
Mya threw both hands up. "Yes!"
That was that.
We handed over our drinks, grabbed each other's hands, and were led toward the back where the lights hit hotter and the excitement hit harder.
The crowd saw us and parted with the admiration you only give women who look like they're about to have fun without shame.
The DJ's voice boomed, playful and hyped, "Houston, give it up — bachelorette takeover!"
The first beat dropped. Heather went first, sliding up the pole like she'd never left the club. The crowd roared.
Then Brittany — wild, dramatic, pure chaos.
Then Mya, smooth and clean like she'd been practicing in her sleep.
Tati pretended she wasn't going up, then the music switched to her favorite song and she sprinted out like she'd been waiting all night.
I stood at the side of the stage laughing so hard my ribs hurt, recording everything. They looked free — no judgment, no gossip, just girls being girls in a place that felt like memory and magic.
Sam appeared behind me, cheeks flushed, eyes soft. "You don't have to," she said.
I shook my head. "I want to."
So I went.
The lights hit me warm, familiar. My heart kicked up — not from fear, but recognition. This was my old stage. My old world. Before all the noise. Before politics, before headlines, before heartbreak and stolen years.
I didn't do anything crazy — just moved with the music, slow and sexy, letting my body remember itself. The cheers felt good. Not for the scandal. Not for the name attached to me.
For the woman.
For me.
At one point, I looked over and saw the girls screaming in the front row like fangirls, all arms waving and drinks spilling.
Tati cupped her hands around her mouth. "She still got if!"
I laughed — really laughed — and let the music take me just long enough to feel weightless.
When I stepped off stage, Sam was waiting with open arms.
"You killed it," she said into my hair.
"That was so silly."
My phone buzzed.
I didn't check it at first — I was still laughing, still buzzing from the lights and liquor and stage heat — but something in me knew exactly who it was.
By the time we stumbled out of the club, the wind had cooled and the sky was violet at the edges — that hour where the night isn't over, it's just shifting.
We were loud.
Very loud.
Mya was singing off-key. Brittany was filming everything. Tati was twirling her veil scrunchie like it was a lasso.
We were chaos.
Perfect chaos.
The girls stumbled out of the Uber first, legs shaky, laughter loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood.
Mya threw her arm around Heather. "I am so ready to pass out next to my man."
Heather hummed dramatically. "Ugh, same. I miss Troy so bad it's embarrassing."
Sam pulled her hair out of the ponytail it was held in. "I'm ready to go upstairs and cuddle up with my lady."
Tati groaned, tossing her hands up. "I can't even see my man until tomorrow night. Rosequan—" she tapped her vibrator's name into her palm like a signature, "—is about to be my best friend."
The girls exploded into laughter again.
Heat crawled up my neck.
I didn't say anything — but God, I felt it.
All of it.
The liquor.
The music still in my bones.
The ache settling low in my stomach.
And the way every mention of "my man" made something twist inside me.
Because I wanted that.
Wanted him.
Wanted to go upstairs and rip Brooks clothes off, but no title. No ask.
No official anything.
So I swallowed the want.
Tucked it under the buzz in my chest.
Tati and Heather and Mya peeled off toward their rooms, still whispering and laughing about sex and men and hotel balconies.
Tati leaned her head on my shoulder. "This feels like the old days," she said. "Except we're grown and hot and none of us are broke anymore."
Sam laughed and tucked hair behind her ear. "I missed this. Us all together again."
I swallowed. "It honestly doesn't feel like it's been almost three years since we were last together as a trio."
We stayed there for a minute — the three of us, swaying on tired feet — before Tati yawned dramatically and stretched.
"Alright, sluts. I gotta be a wholesome bride in the morning. I love y'all, but goodnight."
She kissed our cheeks and disappeared down the hall.
Sam lingered just one second longer. Her eyes flicked up the staircase toward my room.
"You feeling okay?" she asked quietly.
"Yeah," I said.
She hesitated, then pulled me into one last tight hug. "Text me if you need anything."
When she headed off to her room, I finally climbed the stairs — my body warm from liquor and laughter, my heart pounding from the texts Brooks had been sending.
He still hadn't made anything official.
Still hadn't asked.
Still hadn't said the words I was secretly craving.
So he wasn't getting rewarded for being fine and half-naked in my head.
Speaking of half-naked—
I opened the door.
And stopped.
Brooks was standing by the dresser, towel slung low on his hips, hair damp from a fresh shower. His skin still steamed faintly, and he smelled like eucalyptus and clean heat.
He turned.
"Finally."
"You're still awake?" I asked, shutting the door softly behind me.
"I was waiting on you," he said simply.
I blinked. "Why are you—why is there a towel—"
"My drinking days are over." He shrugged.
I turned toward my bag, pretending to rummage for clothes so I wouldn't stare.
Except he walked up behind me.
Slowly.
Warm hands sliding around my waist, pulling me back into his chest, his chin coming to rest on my shoulder.
His voice brushed the shell of my ear.
"You still mad at me?"
I stared at the zipper of my makeup bag.
"I'm not mad."
He laughed softly — not mocking, but certain. "Yeah, you are."
His lips brushed the side of my neck in a single, careful kiss. My eyes fluttered shut on instinct. God, I hated how easy that was.
"I'm not," I insisted, even though it came out breathy.
"Then why won't you look at me?" he murmured.
Because if I looked at him like this — warm, half-dressed, tender — I'd fold and I wasn't folding until he said the thing I needed him to say.
I slipped out of his hold gently. "I just... I want to know what we're doing, Brooks. We live together now. We sleep in the same bed half the time. You act like we're together but you never asked."
His brows lifted. "Asked?"
"Yeah," I muttered. "Asked. Officially."
For a moment, he just stared at me.
Not confused.
Not annoyed.
Just... caught. Like I'd said something he hadn't realized he needed to hear.
Then a quiet huff of disbelief escaped him — half a laugh, half a breath.
I went rigid. "This is why I didn't say anything."
His expression changed instantly, softness sweeping over it. "Hey—no." He closed the space in two slow steps, hands coming up to cradle my face with ridiculous gentleness. "I'm not laughing at you. I swear."
I looked away, jaw tight.