“Is it hot in here?” She fans herself with a napkin, breaking my gaze.
“You tell me.” I graze her arm with my fingers. “How wet are you?”
Her foot travels up my leg, resting between my crotch. She pushes against my cock; my body jerking forward at how sensitive it is to touch. When I see her bite down on her lip, I’m ready to throw her over my shoulder and fuck her in the restroom.
“Jane Smith!” The name is called, Emerson pulling away reluctantly.
“Okay I’m up next. Wish me luck!”
“Good luck.” I force a smile; not sure this is the greatest plan in the world. For one: I couldn’t sing. Two: I hated singing. Karaoke bars are for the brave. Those willing to make an absolute fool out of themselves and continue to go back for more.
That, and everyone would see my cock standing proud because I had no chance of taming this wild boy.
She happily makes her way onto the small stage. With the microphone in hand, she sways slightly, unable to contain her energy. “This performance is dedicated to all the women in the room that just want to be free. Screw men . . . we don’t need them!”
There’s a cheer from the crowd—mainly women of course. Some that turn to look at me wondering why she would say that if I was her boyfriend, or, they spotted the fake mustache.
I find myself sinking into the seat, taking the remaining glasses with me and downing them in one go. The music begins and I don’t recognize the song until the fourth line.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she sings loudly, drawing the crowd in. “And don’t tell me what to say . . .”
The fire in her tune makes her belt out the song in a pleasant voice. I didn’t think she could sing well. Why I hadn’t noticed before? It made me think, there were so many things about Emmy that I never noticed before, or at least, ignored because I didn’t think of her in any way besides being Ash’s annoying twin sister.
Like how she twists the ends of her hair when she’s telling a story or how when she laughs, her eyes light up and you find yourself smiling even if the story isn’t funny. How she crosses her legs and tucks her foot behind her leg, and how when she leans forward, the view of her tits is fucking magical.
The song
wraps up and she gets a standing ovation; people yelling “Girl Power!” and fist-pumping the air. On her way back to the table, women stop her and give her a hug—an odd sentiment from a stranger. She lingers and gets caught in conversation, enjoying her newfound freedom as a nobody.
I stand up, clapping my hands as she walks back—the sweat glistening against her pale skin. Fanning her face again with a napkin, she can’t hide the smile while trying to catch her breath.
“You were amazing. Too amazing. I think they all think I’m the douche you need to dump. Who needs dick? Girl power all the way.”
She clutches her stomach, laughing. “That was so . . .” I wait for her to finish, realizing her smile begins to disappear and worry clouds her beautiful face. “I felt free.”
I pull on her hand, motioning for her to sit down. This mood shift annoys the fuck out of me. One minute she’s Miss Confident and the next, she’s controlled by that fucking moron Wesley Rich. I saw it in the limo, the way he manipulates her and she justifies it by saying it’s all for the cameras. Their relationship was nothing like mine and Louisa’s. Fuck, don’t even think about her now. You can’t compare Emmy and Louisa.
“Why do you constantly remind yourself that you are trapped? What’s a piece of paper, Emmy? A contract means nothing if you’re unhappy. I don’t fucking get it.”
“Out of all people, Logan, you should understand. Your life revolves around your name signed on the dotted line. You’re bound, legally, to the Royal Kings. Imagine if your coach started treating you like shit and you had no way of getting out?”
“He does treat me like shit. I just suck it up,” I tell her, firmly. “The difference is that I want to play. I wouldn’t know how to exist without that name on the dotted line.”
“Well, lucky you.” Her sarcasm becomes bitter. “Why can’t we all live like Logan Carrington!”
I remind her to keep her voice down; the mention of my name could alert people to our presence. The last thing we needed was to be caught.
“This is who I’ve become. I’m not like you and Ash, I don’t have a passion that is my reason for living. I wake up every morning thinking what have I gotten myself into? The fame and money got to me.”
“It did,” I admit.
“I was like the popular kid in school except with a ton of money. I was really caught up in being bigger than the rest of them.”
“You were.”
“Will you stop agreeing with me?” she complains, disappointed the glasses are empty when she checks each one.
“You want the cold hard truth?”