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Her foot travels up my leg, resting in between on my crotch. She pushes against my cock, hard. My body jerks forward at how sensitive it is to her touch. When I see her bite down on her lip, I’m ready to throw her over my shoulder and fuck her senseless in the restroom.
“Jane Smith…” The name is called, Emerson pulls away reluctantly.
“Okay, I’m up next. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck.” I force a smile, not being too sure this is the greatest plan in the world.
For one—I can’t sing.
And two—I hate 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 will be able see my cock standing proud because I have no chance of taming this wild boy.
She happily makes her way onto the small stage. With 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 loud cheer from the crowd—mainly women, of course. Some of whom turn to look at me wondering why she’d say that if I’m her boyfriend, or they’ve spotted the fake mustache which isn’t hard to do. 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 this well. Why haven’t I noticed before? It makes me feel like there are so many things about Emmy I’ve never noticed before or, at least, ignored because I didn’t think of her in any way besides being Ash’s annoying twin sister.
Things 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 receives a standing ovation. People yell “Girl Power,” and fist-pump 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 while I notice 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 lines cloud 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 is 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’re 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 my 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 mere mention of my name could alert people to our presence. The last thing we need is to be caught out.
“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. Somehow I got caught up in being bigger than the rest of them.”
“You are.”
“Will you stop agreeing with me?” she complains, disappointed the glasses are empty when she checks each one.
“You want the cold, hard truth?”
