▪️Saturday, January 23rd, 2018▪️

▪️Phoenix, AZ▪️

Mike moves to distance himself from my grasp.

"It'll take them half an hour to get off the bus. We have plenty of time."

A knock at the door, the door that barely locks, brings me to my knees and to my senses.

"The honeymoon is over." Poppy is rapidly losing her points.

"Damn you." I shout at the door.

"Did you just say thank you?" Poppy's laugh recedes. At least she didn't open the door to find me in this compromising position. Would've taught Poppy not to interrupt us in the future. My ears ring. Future. That word again. I stick my fingers into my ears and twist them hard enough to dislodge the irritating sound and the stupid word out of my head.

Mike's tugging his jeans onto the second calf with the balance and agility I could watch as a sport: tight pants putting on. No. Tight pant sheathing. No. Tight pants installation. Gawd no. Why is there no proper word for this action? Mike completes the unnamable movement, and I'm the one left breathless. I need to maybe think about doing some exercising. Maybe some yoga? It's a new year, and the last year of my first quarter-century. Doing something good for my body might not be such a horrible thing. I grab Mike's hands and have him help me get up.

"This is still my birthday, and I'm determined to have all the fun I can squeeze out of today." I re-seize his now jean-clad and zipped up crotch.

"Hotel. Now." Mike moves to his bag, hangs it over his shoulder, stuffs his jacket on top, and opens the door before I can count to three. "Your stuff?"

I nod to my bunk, littered with the presents.

"Take what you need."

Message received. I hang my bag across my body, drag my keyboard from the studio behind us, ignore the rest, and lead the way, our hands still linked. We maneuver around the people climbing up and down the bunks, duck when bags swing above us, jump over cables, boxes, and unidentifiable objects. An obstacle course of our own, and we're determined to set the record at getting off the bus.

"Where are you two going?" Neil blocks the exit.

"Hotel." Mike moves without a warning. He bulldozes the much slighter bassist, and I know every body part of Neil's in insured to the wazoo, but Mike doesn't need to be that aggressive.

"Mike, don't engage with him," I whisper. To show I'm on his side, I run my thumb over Mike's hand that's holding mine.

"Check-in is in an hour." Neil snickers behind us.

"Fuck off." Mike's not pretending to be polite anymore.

The air outside is colder than at our last stop, or maybe my snowflake outfit was more appropriate than my T-shirt and leggings. The hotel is to the right, and Mike hones in on it.

The lobby is empty. The tile floor has seen a lot of traffic. The chandelier that decorates the middle of the two-story ceiling gives me definite eighties vibes: not the worst place we've stayed on tour so far, but solidly in the middle of the middle tier. We beeline to the reception.

"Fisher." I slide my driver's license her way.

"Your room isn't ready yet. I can text or call you when it is. You're welcome to use our SPA or bar until then."

"Are any other rooms available?" Mike's sounds as determined to get into a room with me as I do.

"I have an upgraded one. But that' more-"

Mike takes a card out and gives it to her. "Add it to my card."

***

Not using him. I'm not using him. I'm not using him. I chant in my head as I unzip, pull off, and skin-to-skin the living hell out of this man I'm fully determined to push away. This is not wrong. If I tell him first, if I tell him now, no way will he be doing whatever he is doing to my chest right now. I'm not using him. I'm doing the good thing here. He deserves someone who can be what he wants.

"Am I doing something wrong?" Mike pauses his careful worship of my boobs.

"Keep going."

He puts his hand on my shoulders and halts my progress. "Maybe we should talk."

"Talk later. Sex now."

"Maybe she should talk now. I don't think you got what I meant when you stormed into the bathroom on the bus before the mall show."

If we talk now, I will have a hard time keeping my mouth shut. The heat of his body is enough to scramble any rational thought that could guilt me into telling him what's on my mind.

"Can't we get proper use of a proper bed before we get into the talking part again?" I go on the offensive. "We don't even have to be in the same room to talk. We need to be in the same room to have the sex I have plans for." I move close enough to run my lips against his collarbone.

His collar bone and his Adam's apple both will make to my top ten Mike parts. Top twenty? Maybe I'm thinking about it all wrong. Maybe I need to search for the flaws. A hammer toe? An ingrown hair? Not that I saw. Even his earlobes are perfect. His perfection might be the worst thing that's ever happened to me.

I run my nails against the short hairs on his chest. Not once was he able to resist that move. He covers my hand with his. My palm fills with the rapid hammering of his heart. My knuckles appreciate the heavy solidity of his hand.

"Angie."

What's with him and my name today? We sit on the side of the bed. Our naked bodies are cooling with this talking. I bend down and run my tongue along his collarbone, up his neck, but he leans back, while keeping me in place. My tricks of licking and biting his skin are not working.

"Angela. Angela Fisher." Mike's voice trembles.

No, no, no. This cannot be some proposal I don't need. If he says, "Move in with me." I will scream, meds or not.

"So, we are talking." The flush that covers my chest is fear spreading into the still hopeful corners of my mind. The control I was so set on is slipping away.

"I am. If you let me."

Breakup without sex it is. The Gods have spoken. Must be his Gods, because my deities have always been a lot more considerate to my physical needs. "Whatever."

"Not the reaction I was looking for, but as least you are still in the room."

I bite my lip. I'm not a pouty child. Going to the bathroom on the bus was a protective reaction. I didn't want to fall apart in front of him. Or maybe I should've. Showing how gray I get when everything hurts might've scared him away. Although, knowing Mike, he might just want to take care of me even more.

"Could you look at me?" Mike runs his hand against my cheek, and I meet his eyes. The room shines with the cool afternoon winter light streaming from the window behind him. His torso-a shadowy outline against the brightness. His eyes clouded in too much undeserved tenderness toward me. I can take his heat. I don't want to take his pity.

"Is this what you want?" I keep my eyes trained on his. I position my lack of curves in the most seductive way I can think of. If he's going to talk against my wish, I'm going to make it hard for him to focus on his words.

"No." He drops our hands and breaks our physical contact.

The space between us grows. His body is tense, bunched up, arms crossed against his chest, protecting not the part I was expecting, but much higher. He's right to worry. Breaking Mike's heart is on my agenda.

"I didn't mean to push anything on you. I realize you are out of my league, and you have ambition enough for the both of us. My goals are not to take over the world and have millions repeat the words I wrote, but I have goals. The dojang, I really think I can do something with it. Not right away. It will take time, and money, and sweat equity. I'd have to hire more people and sink in Ben's investment into a lot more things before I can start drawing a salary or see any return on my investment, but that's what I'm good at. The long game. I have little to show for myself now: I live with my mom and little brother. I drive Mom's minivan, but I'm worth believing in. If you give me a chance, I'd like to prove to you that I can be more. That we can be more, and I can get maybe not to your level, but to where you won't be ashamed of me."

Ashamed of him. Unbelievable. Is that what he thought my exit to the bathroom was about? How would anyone be ashamed of him? The thought he's decided that's what I'm upset about rips at my firm decision about where our relationship is going.

"Stop." I lay my hand on his thigh and try to reverse the age-old advice of imagining the audience naked to even out the playing field. I imagine Mike clothed, cocooned in layers of wool, so I'm not afraid of my body betraying me.

"Let me finish," he says. "Let me put my offer on the table, and you decide if you want to take it or leave it. Leave me."

How did he guess? I count the squares on the carpet next to the bed to avoid his eyes. "Okay. Say what you have to say."

"Could you look at me?"

The repetition of the earlier request hollows me. My heart has been broken long ago, so his words won't hurt me that way, but I don't want him to see I have already made my decision. "Not really, I'd rather not."

"I just want to know you hear what I'm saying."

"My hearing is fine. I don't need my eyes for it."

"You know what I mean."

I do, but I don't want him to see my hesitation. I don't want him to reverse the idea of us apart I've been selling to myself. I run my hands over my face-the only part of my body that's still hot. My skin runs trails of goosebumps up and down my torso. Maybe it's me who should be wrapped in wool to avoid feeling his gaze trying to recapture mine.

Mike must notice my reaction. He pulls the top sheet off the bed, and drapes is across me. He picks up his boxers and pulls them on. There's no way to backtrack from this now. I'd like to say I'm mourning the loss of another opportunity to have sex, but I'm mature enough these days to admit I'm mourning the fact that I'm not going to be able to give him the answer he wants.