Page 3 of The Emerson Effect
I normally thrive in this environment––a packed nightclub in Hollywood, the music so loud, the bass thumps against my chest. Beautiful people everywhere. Watching bodies grind on the dancefloor with a cold drink in my hand.
But tonight? Tonight, I’m not feeling it.
“Oh, my God. The Emerson Effect! I love your content,” a loud, slightly slurred voice screams in my right ear.
I turn my head, forcing a smile as a gorgeous blonde in a slinky, too-short tube dress bats her fake, almost furry eyelashes at me. I lean in to greet her so she can hear me over the pounding bassline, and her sweet, cloying perfume triggers my gag reflex.
“Can I get a selfie?” she yells, and I nod.
Squishing into my side, she wraps an arm around my waist and hands me her phone. It makes sense, since I’m taller and have longer arms, but I quickly realize that’s not the reason she has me take the picture when her now-free hand fondles my pec. I take the shot quickly, then disentangle myself from her octopusarms just as she flicks a long fingernail over my nipple through the thin material of my shirt.
Her face scrunches into a pout, but I simply wave and smile again before turning to give her my back. Thank God, my friend Ritchie is there, giving me the excuse I need to deny her any more attention.
“I need to hit the head,” I shout, tilting my head so my mouth is near his ear.
“Dude, I can’t believe you’re letting that one slip away. She’s hot,” he says in response, nodding to the woman I know still stands there, thanks to that cloud of perfume.
I just shake my head, and he shrugs before spinning around and stalking back out onto the dancefloor where our other two friends and roommates, Stone and Mason, are dancing in the center of a tight circle of women. I chuckle as I watch Ritchie try to squeeze in next to the twin brothers, but none of the women give him an inch. He’s a good looking guy, but Stone and Mason are like identical twin gods and these women are their devotees.
I feel a soft pillow of flesh press against my arm, and I look down to see perfume girl pressing her barely covered boob against my bicep. She stares up at me with hopeful eyes, but I just give her a friendly smile before jerking a thumb in the opposite direction, mouthing the word “bye,” and escaping her.
I’m not looking for company tonight, especially from someone who only wants to bag me because they follow me online and only see me as “The Emerson Effect.” I learned pretty quickly that women who recognize me in the wild aren’t interested in getting to knowEmerson, the real person. They just want me for bragging rights.
It’s still weird, getting recognized in public. And it’s not like I really do anything to deserve the recognition. Not really.
I react to and poke fun at other creators’ content. That’s all. I don’t create anything original. And it’s starting to get old. It almost feels like a chore at this point.
But I can’t stop. If I try to make my own original content, and it tanks, I’ll lose the paychecks I get from monetizing my account. I need that money. There are people in my life who depend on me. I can’t throw it all away because I’m bored. Sure, I could try to get another job in marketing, but the pay isn’t as good as being popular on social media. It’s just the way the world works now.
I bypass the bathroom because I don’t really need to use it. That was just an excuse to escape. I head outside for some fresh air, instead. Leaning back against the wall next to the club’s entrance, I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I’m twenty-six years old, I’m at what used to be one of my favorite clubs in L.A. on a Friday night, and all I want to do is go home and stream something on T.V. I just feel…old. Too old for this kind of scene, anyway. Most of the people partying here tonight are in their early twenties, barely legal, and even though only a handful of years separate us in age, it feels like a decade or more.
Sighing, I pull my phone from my pocket to check my BingBang account. The duo I made and posted earlier already has five thousand views and a few dozen comments. My lips curve up into a smile. That’s a good start. I’ll have to remember to thank Stone later. He––
Wait a minute. What is this?
My brow furrows at the notification. A message from Twila Greene. Though she follows me and gives me the requisite “likes” on my videos, she rarely comments. And she’s sure as shit never reached out to me via direct message.
I tap the screen to open the message and read it. A laugh barks out of me, and I read it again with a huge grin.
“So glad the sight of me in a bikini made you wet, douchebag.”
Holy shit. Is she drunk? She has to know I can screenshot this and share it with my followers. It might not ruin her, but it would definitely make a dent in her “nice girl” persona. She could lose followers, and in turn, lose some of her influencer deals.
I wouldn’t do that, of course, butshedoesn’t know that.
Oh, my God. This is great. If sheisdrunk, I can’t wait to see what she sends me in the morning when she wakes up and sees what she did. Will she make excuses? Grovel? Beg me to delete the message?
I hope to hell she doesn’t just ignore it and pretend like it never happened. Maybe I should message her back. Write something she can’t possibly ignore. I think about it for several moments, and my smile widens as I type out a message. Reading through it to make sure there aren’t any typos, I tap the button to send it.
I chuckle as I shove my phone back into my pocket. Pushing off the wall, I turn and head back inside the club.
Suddenly, I feel like dancing.
THREE
Twila
