Page 10 of All Twerk, No Play

The dawn broke with no clarity on my future. It was just me and my music.

"Into You," Ariana Grande

Cruz

Yetanothergoingawayparty. My sixth in three months.

It felt like every week, somebody left for their next deployment or moved on to the next phase of their life:‘real’ jobs, marriage, kids. Meanwhile, I was treading water, trying to figure out what my “next phase” was.

At least Pike had chosen Donnelly's, my favorite bar. I'd been here last night, sitting in behind the drum kit for a chill acoustic set. Singles mingled at the mahogany bar for Happy Hour while couples chatted with heads close together at candlelit tables. We barely made it off stage before the bartender shoved fresh beers into our hands. By the time the DJ came on, I’d already packed up the drum kit, watching from the bar as the energy shifted—the bass kicked in, the lights dimmed, and the dance floor filled with people ready to lose themselves.

By the time I arrived tonight the place was already buzzing, music loud enough to feel the rhythm in my ribcage. I took the stairs to the mezzanine, expecting to find Pike and Rodriguez in the lounge, where there's more comfortable seating and stronger cocktails, but they were nowhere to be found. I recognized a cute blonde who'd taken me home sometime last year, so I winked. Her cheeks flushed and lips twitched as she fought a smile.

Gripping the iron railing to scan the lower level, I caught Pike's awkward head bob going strong. He and Rodriguez lingered near the dance floor, a cold bucket of long necks on their high-top. I wove through the crowd, tapping my thigh to the rhythm of the EDM remix of Robyn's 'Dancing with Myself.’ Last night, I lost myself in the creation of music, that glorious harmony of musicians locking into a groove to create something stronger than any of us could individually.Tonight, instead of creating the experience, I was consuming the heat and motion, bodies moving together in a space that felt charged with potential, like anything could happen.

Pike pulled me into a firm bro-hug, then handed over a cold beer, and said in a bittersweet tone, “Glad you made it, man.”

"Wouldn't miss it," I replied, lifting the bottle in a mock toast. “To Pike, who is voluntarily returning to 18-hour days of no sunlight or pussy.”

Pike added, “To a consistent paycheck and a final night out.”

Rodriguez laughed as he clinked in agreement to both our toasts. He’d been our nuclear reactor instructor years ago when Pike and I had been students, then decided to stay in Saratoga after his final shore duty. He’d bought a condo in The Gramercy and sent me the job posting when he heard I was separating from the Navy … and then when his band’s drummer broke his arm a few months ago, he asked me to fill in.

Before I could even sip my beer, Joanna appeared at our table, her low-cut scarlet dress hugging her curves, and pressed her ample chest against me.

"Are you playing again tonight?" she moaned, aiming for sultry but coming off winded. I shook my head, gently steadying her as she wobbled on her precarious heels, then took a subtle step back. She closed the gap I'd created, leaning close enough to smell the appletini on her breath. "Let’s dance, then maybe we can have a repeat performance after all."

"No thanks," I nodded toward Pike. "I'm here for a going away party."

Rodriguez, the opportunist, stepped forward with a grin. "You saw the show last night? I'm the bassist.”

"You're in Your Local Phantom?" she asked with renewed interest.

"A full-fledged member," Rodriguez confirmed, puffing out his chest. "Cruz was just filling in."

Joanna glanced at me for confirmation. I nodded, adding, "The afterparty at The Gramercy? That’s his place."

"Yeah?" she said, her gaze shifting back to Rodriguez, a sly smile curling her lips. "You want to dance?"

As they moved toward the dance floor, Pike muttered. "So much for the bro code. And further proof that women prefer guitarists to drummers."

"Bullshit, bassists barely count as guitarists," I retorted, and he clinked his beer bottle against mine in agreement. "Plus, you're clearly trolling for action if you're down on the dance floor. Why aren't we up in the lounge?"

Pike's eyes flicked toward the dance floor. "Because she's here.”

Following his gaze, I recognized the group instantly: Kate’s wild dark waves flew as she pressed her ass into her best friend Mallory, wearing a form-fitting cotton candy pink dress. On her other side was Grace, Mallory’s shy shadow, her slim frame in a conservative dress in front of the big guy with his hands on her hips: Alex Clarke.

And man, was he a shitty dancer. It wasn’t just the white guy overbite or the off-beat head bob. It was like Elaine from Seinfeld, all elbows and thumbs.

I’d previewed his awful moves two months ago, when Grace brought him to my self-defense class. The Foo Fighters had been blasting as students paired off to practice arm blocks … until the music cut off abruptly.

The same elegant redhead I’d seen on the porch with Mallory stood beside the speakers, power cord dangling from her fingertips, a bored expression on her gorgeous face. When she said, “I’m here for Alexander Clarke,” that prick followed her with his tail between his legs.

I’d wanted to follow her too. The effortlessly dominant tilt of her chin haunted my fantasies, imagining that when she’d stormed into my class, she demanded me instead of him.

Now in the club, Alex pulled Grace to his chest just as Mallory tugged Kate’s hand. The space between them parted.

There stood the redhead, looking as gloriously pissed off as my dreams.

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