Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
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▪️Saturday, January 23rd, 2018▪️
▪️Tuscon, AZ▪️
Back on the bus, Mike and I retreat to our personal studio-bedroom. I avoid Mike's attempt at a conversation, and pretend I'm mesmerized by my phone. Birthday wishes overwhelm my socials and phone. Voicemail from Amelie all the way from France, a video of my parents in the middle of the desert in front of their RV, a text from my manager, DMs from the musicians I performed with and acquaintances I've collected over the years in the industry.
I scroll, like, text back, but it's mechanical, uninspired, unappreciated. I know it's the medication. The post-pill dead-zone used to be the reason I skipped the meds, but no longer. I crave it now. The feelings will even out, the brightness will increase, and maybe my world can't as vivid, but my pain no longer drags me down. The reactions to my birthday post on social from people I know, met once, or never seen in my feed speed up on the screen.
"Like. Like. Heart emoji. Thankee. Thnx. Love you all." That's what I write.
Don't care. Don't know you. Why am I doing this? is what goes through my mind.
I jump off my profile and run my thumb across my feed.
Never say never. Be you. Follow your gut.
I can recite motivational slogans right and left, and I'm following the lion share of how to find your inner piece IG accounts to get surprised by any of them. They get recycled with unnerving frequency, and I think I'm more likely to guess what the next post is going to say than what I'm having for dinner.
My IG? No way to guess what I'm going to post next, cause I have no idea either. I go with the flow, and my manager thinks I'm making it more difficult, but the results speak for themselves. My fans love interacting with me. I keep them guessing. They keep coming back for more. I'd laugh at anyone who says social media doesn't boost sales. I get tagged, my merch sells like hotcakes, and my role in is it to post a photo or ten to keep the adoring crowd in the loop.
I flip back to my grid. The photos of me and sexy Mike Santa might not get the same likes as The Whats' group photo with all the costumes, but it breaks my recent counts.
"You should've let me take that video of us. Not like anyone would recognize you." The fact that Mike's account is private still boggles my mind. I guess software engineers don't have to care about social media. But if he wants any additional exposure for his martial arts academy, he'd have to set up some accounts, and find someone to run them.
My camera roll is full of Mike, Mike and me, my selfies, me with The Whats. Mike stares at the photos over my shoulder. "Wasn't three enough? Are you going to post more?"
"Hell yes." I add several in a row of me and the band prancing around the mall.
"Don't tag me, okay?" Mike takes his Santa top off, and my attention drifts from the post I'm typing up to his back. The apathy that washed over my mind does not seem to apply to my body. Or his body. Or our bodies in the same space together.
Men's abs usually grace the covers, and I like the abs, but male backs and backsides are my thing. The grooves that line his vertebrae. The divots above his butt-cheeks. Giving this up would be hard but giving this up is what's for the best. For him, for me. I'm not going to pretend I don't want to do it. Hard decisions are hard for a reason. Hard decisions are the right ones.
My gaze caresses Mike's shoulder-blades, the wide birth of his shoulders, the ropey muscles that extend up into his neck. I think that's my favorite part of him. He picks a T-shirt, lifts it above his head, and rotates to face me. I change my mind. It's his chest I prefer. He stands on one foot then the other, a feat of balance I'd not be able to accomplish on a moving bus, and peels the leggings off. Nope, I can't limit myself to one part of Mike to like. Top ten sounds fair. His calves are hella sexy. Can men's calves be sexy? Hairy-yes, sexy? Never thought about them that way.
"Is something wrong with my feet?" Mike catches my stare.
"Wrong? No. There's a lot right with your feet through." I resurrect my sexy 'Santa Baby' voice and hope he notices.
"Didn't know you have a foot fetish." Mike plants both of his on the carpet next to the deflated air mattress.
The kilts, those are making sense now. "I didn't know that either. And it's calves. Your calves. Is that a thing?"
"It can be if you're into it."
Am I into it? Or is Mike making me forget my resolution to cool these things between us again, before he drags me into his house and keeps me there as a personal prisoner. I make it sound bad. He'd never drag me anywhere. The image of him dragging me off the bad in my Chicago apartment, then from the bathroom and onto the bed at the last hotel. Hmm. Dragging me places might just be his MO, but that's not the same. Mike's nice. He'll ask me twice before he does anything. He's too nice.
"What are you thinking about?"
How to fall out of whatever I feel for you; how not to let you think I'm someone who can be relied upon; how to protect myself from a nice guy wrecking my life. Instead I go for what I know will divert his attention. "How to test drive my new fetish with the air mattress no longer in a serviceable condition."
"Angie." That was definitely a growl.
"That is my name."
"We're almost at the hotel."
"I do know that." I watch him stare at my hand that's lowering my shirt down my shoulder-no bra in sight.
"Maybe we test whatever it is you have imagined in your head when we get there?"
That sounds like a challenge, and one I can take into my hands and do something about. Nothing like the present. Seize the moment. I'm ready to do some serious seizing of my own. I drop my phone, take the three steps that separate us and glide my hand from his thigh down over his knee and then to his calf. As I lower myself, my face aligns perfectly with his pantless crotch.
"Might be a bit hard to wait." I watch Mike's crotch respond to me with noticeable growth. The power I have over this man is intoxicating. I can enjoy it for just a little bit longer. One more time, then I can cut the cord and let myself loose. One more hit of my Mike fix.
"I can manage," says Mike, in direct opposition to what I see develop in front of my eyes. The control he has is irritating.
"Maybe you can, but I can't." So I seize. Not the day, but the pantless crotch that is signaling me it's very interested in my proposition.
