Page 55 of A Vegas Crush Collection #2
wakey wakey
Zoya
I am not a prude, not really. I have been at parties with my friends back home.
Had drinks a few times, a hit of marijuana occasionally.
It is more I do not—don’t like feeling out of control, and that is very nearly what I feel now.
I can still think, but the alcohol has lifted many of my barriers.
Which is not a good thing, but being here, dancing, seems okay, at least for now.
Irina is sexy dancing for Tyler, her front to his front, her hips to his hips.
Being the more reserved, less experienced one, I am behind him, my front to his back, my hands just barely on his hips, my movements mirroring his.
I am like a shadow. It is awkward and funny and probably not at all sexy, but he does not seem to mind.
He is smiling a lot, his hands resting on Irina’s waist, sometimes moving up to the edge of her breasts.
If he moved his thumbs, he could brush them over her nipples, which are hard beneath her soft T-shirt.
She wants him, and something about their exchange makes me feel a way that I am—I’m not sure how to describe.
I’m not a very good dancer; rhythm doesn’t come naturally to me.
While the alcohol makes me feel looser, it also makes me more aware of my insecurities.
I’m not confident with men. I’m not experienced.
I don’t know how to be sexy or capture a man’s attention.
I think about Tyler, about his upbringing, and I feel like he has given me something special by sharing with me. Knowing this about him makes me feel like he trusts me, and I like that. I like it a lot actually, much to my complete surprise.
But I don’t want to like Tyler Lockhardt.
He is everything I don’t want in my life.
He parties. He uses women. He is all about hockey.
I will admit he is really cute, handsome in a rugged way.
He calls us smokeshows, which means a hot, sexy female.
But I feel like the term should refer to guys as well.
Tyler is the male version of a smokeshow to me.
I like the way his biceps fill out his shirt sleeves.
I like the way his blond hair flops in his face.
I like his five-o-clock shadow. Yes, I find him attractive…
but still, I want a normal guy. A prince charming type, who will sweep me off my feet.
I don’t want a hockey guy, a wham-bam guy who takes my virginity and runs away with it.
No, I want my first time to be special. Meaningful. Would it be, were I to share that first time with a guy like Tyler? I don’t have the answer to that question.
I want to unload all of this to the bartender when I take a break for water, trying to clear my head of the swishy feelings I am—I’m having. Instead, I only tell her it is my sister over there dancing with the man I am interested in.
It’s just the alcohol, nothing more, and if I can get back to a more sober state, I will realize that Irina and Tyler make sense. They will dance, then they will have sex, and then we will probably never see Tyler again, unless it’s on the ice.
“Sounds like a tough one,” the bartender says.
We both look out to the dance floor, which has a few more people on it than when we arrived. Irina and Tyler are still out there, having fun. She has her back to him and literally slithers up and down in front of him, his hands all over her. There is no way they will not have sex tonight.
I cannot feel like this. I cannot care. No, I’ll just be his friend. My sister can do what she will with him. Yes, that’s the best choice here.
“I need to get out of here,” I announce, even though the bartender has moved on to another customer.
I order a ride, which comes quickly. Inside the car, I send my sister a text, telling her I’m fine but tired and heading back to the dorm.
Back in my dorm, I strip down to just my black T-shirt and panties before crashing onto the bed, exhausted.
I check my phone just once as my eyelids get heavy.
There are no texts from my sister, which makes me think she and Tyler are either still on the dance floor, or they have made their way to her apartment.
To fuck.
I should not—shouldn’t care, but there is a bit of an ache in my belly when I think of how they looked while they danced. She was confident and sexy. He was strong and attractive. They looked happy.
But then I always see Irina that way. When guys look at her and she gets angry, there is always that quick look of satisfaction on her face.
She loves the attention. Knows what to do with it.
And of course, why wouldn’t Tyler look at her exactly as every other man does?
You need to be sexy, gregarious. Something I am not. Nor ever will be.
Yet as much as I try to deny it, I wish Tyler had looked at me that same way. Even if for one moment. One night.
A loud banging on the door wakes me up.
Not even aware I’d fallen asleep; I find myself confused. What time is it? I look at my phone and see it’s past two in the morning. I wander to the door, still half asleep, and find Tyler standing there, hulking in my doorway looking like sin and wonder.
“Tyler? Is everything okay? Is Irina—”
“Your sister’s fine.” Sistah. That accent. Oh boy. “She was totally blitzed, so I took her home, fed her some aspirin, made her drink some water, and then put her to bed. Alone.”
“So why are you here?” I ask, still groggy. “How are you here? How did you know where my room was?”
“The last thing Irina said to me before passing out was that I was to come over here and make sure you got home okay. You bailed without saying goodbye. Everything okay?”
“Oh.” Suddenly I feel shy, but I decide to tell him the truth anyway. “I just felt like an extra. Do you know what I mean? What is the expression?”
“Third wheel?”
“Okay. Yes?”
“Like on a bicycle. They have two wheels. A third doesn’t make sense.”
“Ah.” I lick the front of my teeth which feel utterly gross. “Excuse me for a second?”
I grab my toiletry kit and walk down the hall to the bathroom where I can wash my face and brush my teeth.
Which is stupid because I should just send him on his way. It’s late and I’m tired. And he said he only came over because Irina told him to. What does it matter if I have bad breath and the remnants of yesterday’s mascara smudged under my eyes?
It’s not like I will be kissing him tonight.
Right?