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Staring at myself in the mirrors, I wish I was pleased with what I saw. Wish I could go back to who I was a couple of years ago, when I was carefree and vibrant. Now, all I see is a girl who fights with darkness and surrenders every time.
In one swift pull, I remove my sweatshirt, flinging it across the room with the rest of my stuff. There aren’t a lot of things that feel like me, but right here, in baggy sweats, sneakers, and a sports bra—this is me.
I open my music streaming app, going right to the dance playlist Sienna curated for me. Clicking shuffle, I set it down, letting the app pick the song.
I warm up my body to whatever song plays in the distance, loving the feeling of heat finally reaching my veins. When I’m at practice, it’s all so technical, so structured.
Alone, I can just feel.
I may not be able to have solo sessions like I used to, but the feel of the music and the movement of my body still feel just as nice as they once did.
The next song that comes on is one of my favorites. It’s upbeat in tempo and sexy in style—the exact way I like to dance. My sneakers squeak on the shiny wood floor and my hips take up space of their own as my mind slowly fades into nothing.
My arms fall behind me to the ground, bracing my body in a bridge-like position. With my left leg needling through my right, I flip onto my stomach, using the hardwood like I would a hard body.
My movements grow sensual as I release every bit of pain I have pinned inside. Every touch, every thought, every word. With every loss, it’s replaced with pleasure. Strong hands, soft words, comforting demands.
When the bridge peaks, my body stops. My chest heaving for air; grappling with my sense of reality. I keep moving. Jerking and twisting, feeling the sweat that I’ve needed all day as it drizzles down my chest while a chill dances across my skin.
The haunting twist of confusion and unwanted memories all shove their way deeper, hidden…forgotten.
Exactly where they belong.
CHAPTER 7
JETT
I’m still buzzing from the flight, which isn’t uncommon, but typically, I just chalk it up to adrenaline. I wouldn’t call myself a junkie, per se. I don’t skydive or go more than twenty over the speed limit, but I crave to feel.
I like feeling my stomach sink and soar all in the same beat. To feel the praise from passengers when they realize I’m the one who’s safely secured them at their destination.
It’s also why I fit so perfectly into the role of a nightlife bachelor. The parallels are uncanny. The rush you receive from beautiful women’s eyes on you. Having your pick any time and anywhere, and not to mention, the all-consuming power you hold when a woman is licking her lips, begging for just a small taste as she looks up at you. Nothing could compare, or so I thought.
In life, all of us are just craving expression, right? Longing to find something that makes us feel emptied, yet full. For a long time, I thought it was the life I was living, until her.
The gym was supposed to help me decompress after my flight. Yet I’ve been standing here for the last fifteen minutes, watching as Fia dances like the man who’d trade his soul for her isn’t losing his breath from the other side of the glass. The tension in my body heightens as she moves.
And it’s everywhere.
I’d known Fia was a dancer, but knowing and seeing feel wildly different.
The way her feet move so smoothly on the hardwood floor, how her hips sway and grind. The sweat sticking to her body, looking like shimmer on her skin. She’s fucking mesmerizing.
Because of her, I know art exists.
Her sweatpants hang low on her long-waisted torso; the baggy material that would swallow any other woman her size looks specially crafted for her. Never have I been jealous of a pair of fucking sweats more than I am right now.
Who the fuck’s pants are they anyway?
My nails dig moons into my palms, possessiveness grappling at my chest as my mind spirals about something that belongs to another man touching her body.
Her sports bra reveals a hint of cleavage, but that’s not what distracts me. It’s the chiseled muscles in her arms, the definition throughout her stomach when her body contorts in different directions.
I’m certain my tongue is hanging out of my mouth.
I stare for longer than I should, but I can’t help myself.
When the music stops, she walks dazedly to where her phone is sitting, and I take it as my cue to act like I’ve been doing something other than admiring her like some fucking creep.
