Brittany
At home, I get inside and lock the door, then lock it again like the second click can undo whatever’s been stalking me all week.
The house is quiet in that way that makes your own breathing sound like somebody else’s.
I leave the kitchen light on. I don’t even pretend I’m brave enough for dark tonight.
My keys go in the bowl by the door. My shoes stay on my feet until I’m halfway down the hall, then I kick them off like they offended me.
The air smells like old pine cleaner and stale heat and my daddy’s aftershave still clinging to the bathroom mirror, a ghost of a man who’s never home when I need him.
I wash my face. I brush my teeth like scrubbing harder will scrub away being noticed. I change into a shirt that hangs on me like a tent, because it feels safer to disappear inside fabric.
I climb into bed with my phone on the pillow beside me, screen down, volume up, like it’ll save me if I’m smart enough to hear it.
I tell myself I’m fine.
I tell myself Oaks ain’t a thought I’m allowed to keep.
I tell myself Elijah’s clean hands and steady voice are the only thing in this county that makes sense.
But the second I close my eyes, the gas station lights come back. The hum. The heat. The way Oaks’ voice lands like a command even when he’s trying to make it sound like a suggestion. The way my body reacts before my pride can get a grip.
Sleep takes me ugly and fast, like I get dragged under instead of eased in.
And then I’m there.
Not in my bed.
In the Lockup.
The air is smoke, cheap perfume and sweat.
Bass rattles the walls. Somebody’s laughing too loud near the stairs.
The room is crowded in that Hell way, bodies pressed together like the whole county is trying to forget itself for a few hours.
Neon throws color across faces, making everybody look a little sinful and a little unreal.
I can taste moonshine on my own breath. It’s sharp and sweet and mean. It burns the back of my throat and turns my thoughts into loose change rattling in a pocket. My cheeks are hot. My skin feels too warm for my bones.
I’m not scared in the dream.
I’m fearless.
That’s what alcohol does, it hands you a version of yourself who doesn’t know better and tells you she’s brave.
Oaks is by the edge of the dance floor, broad shoulders, hard jaw, watching the room like it owes him answers.
He’s got that calm on him, that control, like the chaos can’t touch him unless he allows it.
His wedding ring catches the light when he lifts a drink to his mouth, and something inside me doesn’t care.
Something inside me sees the ring and takes it as a dare.
I move toward him like I’m pulled.
Like gravity changed its mind and decided I belong to his orbit.
He looks down when I get close, eyes dark, expression carved out of restraint, and the look on his face makes heat bloom low in my belly like a match struck in dry grass.
I smile up at him like I’m sweet.
I’m not sweet.
I press my palm to his chest, feeling muscle under cotton, feeling the steady thump of him, and I lean in too close. Too familiar. My mouth moves like I’m going to say something smart, something flirty, something normal.
Instead, I laugh, loud and messy, and the sound comes out wrong because I’m too far gone to hold it pretty.
His hand catches my wrist.
Not rough. Not gentle either.
Controlled.
“Slow down,” he says, and his voice is a low warning dressed up like concern.
I don’t slow down.
I step closer anyway, crowding him, forcing his space smaller, and the dream-version of me likes it. She likes the way his body goes still. She likes the way his eyes narrow. She likes the way he looks like he’s fighting himself.
I sway to the music like I know what I’m doing.
I don’t. I’m clumsy, drunk, bold in the worst way.
My hips move too close to his. My laughter is too loud.
My hands don’t know where to go so they go everywhere, up his arms, over his shoulders, sliding across the front of his shirt like I’m tracing ownership I haven’t earned.
Cupping his bulge like I have the right.
Making a pleased sound when I find him hard as a rock. A big rock.
I feel his breath catch.
That’s the hook.
The second I feel him react, I push harder.
In the dream I don’t have shame. I don’t have fear. I don’t have the good sense God hands other girls. I have want, bright and reckless, and I throw it at him like I’m trying to see what sticks.
“Oaks,” I say his name like it’s mine to say, like I’ve been saying it in private for years.
His jaw flexes.
“Brittany,” he replies, and my name in his mouth turns my knees soft. It ain’t tender. It ain’t romantic.
It’s possession fighting with responsibility.
My hands climb higher. I tug at his shirt, at the hem, at the collar, not actually undressing him, just making a show of it, making it obvious I’m thinking about what’s underneath.
I press my body closer and move like I’m dancing for him alone, like the room disappeared and left only us and the music and my own bad decisions.
I hump him like a horny dog, rub my crotch on him, like I’m scratching an itch. Arch my back like a cat in heat.
Somebody whoops behind me.
Somebody laughs.
I don’t look back.
I want them to see.
That’s the part that makes my stomach twist even in the dream, a small sober sliver of me screaming in the background that this ain’t private. This ain’t safe. This ain’t a secret.
This is a spectacle.
And I’m making it one.
Oaks’ hand slides to my waist, not pulling me in, not pushing me away, just holding a line he’s trying to keep me from crossing. His fingers flex like he’s gripping the edge of control.
“Quit it,” he says, and it’s a growl buried deep, the kind of sound that belongs to a man who’s used to being obeyed.
I tip my head back and laugh in his face, shameless.
“You like it,” I say, and I don’t even know if I said it out loud in real life or only in my own stupid head, but it feels true in the dream. It feels like I can see it in his eyes, the heat he’s denying, the hunger he’s refusing.
I push up on my toes and put my mouth close to his ear, close enough that my words turn into breath against skin.
“Tell me no,” I whisper. “Tell me you don’t want me.”
His throat works.
He doesn’t answer.
That silence is a yes in my drunk brain.
So I get worse.
I turn, pressing my back to him, sliding down into the rhythm like the music is in my bones. My head falls back and my hair brushes his jaw. I feel him behind me, solid and hot, his cock against my ass. I move like I’m trying to erase every boundary between us.
Oaks’ hand tightens at my waist.
Not to encourage.
To stop.
To hold me still before I do something I can’t take back.
His voice is low, in my ear. “You’re drunk.”
“So?” I slur, and the word comes out careless, sloppy, like I’ve never faced consequences in my life.
His breath hits my skin. “So you don’t get to decide this right now. Find me tomorrow, when you’re sober, and I’ll give you what you want. What you need.”
I twist around to face him again, offended, because drunk-me hates being told what I can’t do. Drunk-me hates being handled. Drunk-me wants to be wanted, wants it loud, wants it public, wants it undeniable.
I grab at him again, at his shoulders, at his chest, pulling him down toward me like I can force his mouth to mine if I try hard enough.
He catches my hands.
Both of them.
Pins them gently but firmly against his chest so I can feel his heart thudding under my palms.
“Stop,” he says, and this time it ain’t a suggestion. It’s a command that shakes something in me.
I stare up at him, pupils blown wide, mouth open, trying to breathe through want and liquor and humiliation all at once.
The room around us swells, laughter and music and people watching.
And then, like a knife sliding under the dream, another presence cuts in.
A woman’s laugh.
Too polished. Too sharp.
Too close.
Bethany.
She’s at the edge of the room, eyes fixed on me like I’m something she’s about to crush under her heel. Lipstick perfect. Smile thin. Her gaze flicks to Oaks’ hands on my wrists, the way he’s holding me still, the way he’s too close, the way I’m pressed into him like I belong there.
Then she looks at me.
And I understand, in one sick flash of clarity, why she’s mad.
Not because he touched me.
Because I touched him in front of everybody.
Because I made it obvious.
Because I acted like his wife’s ring was decoration and not a warning.
Because I made a fool out of her without even meaning to, and women like Bethany don’t forgive that. They don’t cry. They don’t talk it out. They don’t take it private.
They make examples.
The dream tilts.
The music warps.
Oaks’ voice is in my ear again, urgent now. “Go home.”
“I don’t want to,” I whine, and it’s pathetic. I can hear it. I can taste it.
His grip tightens, and his eyes burn into mine like he’s trying to carve sense into my skull.
“You will,” he says. “Before you get yourself killed.”
Then the dream flashes, fast and jagged.
Stairs.
My boots by a door.
The hallway spinning.
Oaks’ arm around my shoulders like he’s holding me upright without letting me lean too hard.
His voice, low and rough, saying something I can’t quite catch.
Don’t.
No.
Enough.
And then darkness.
Not sleep-darkness.
The kind of darkness that means I don’t get to remember what I did, only that I did it.
I wake up with a gasp, heart slamming, skin damp, my stomach rolling like I’m still drunk.
For a second I don’t know where I am.
Then the ceiling fan comes into focus. The cheap paint. The silence. My phone on the pillow, untouched.
My mouth is dry. My hands are shaking. My cheeks feel hot like I’m embarrassed all the way through my bones.
The dream clings to me like smoke.
Not sweet.
Not romantic.
Mortifying.