hello! i am back again. i missed you guys! i am back to reading and thought this would be great using austin/ally and adjusting it to their characters. this fic is definitely going to be rated M, starting from this chapter. it's going to be written in both austin's and ally's POVs. setting a timeline so you guys can understand a little bit better, austin and ally are both twenty-one years old (it's mentioned later on but just so you guys would understand). ally lives in new york and works for a record label writing songs for new aspiring artists, however, she decides she wants to change her lifestyle. and that is all you're getting from me for now! ;)

this is inspired by "no pants required" by kim karr.

i hope you enjoy! i'll be looking forward to updating every week!

Ally

Just the mere suggestion of karaoke gets everyone's heart pounding. Whether it's out of excitement or pure, blind panic depends on the individual and that person's frame of mind at the time.

The truth is that most people sing karaoke for the same reasons they go bowling— it's a fun activity and they can drink while doing it.

With that being said, perhaps some of the people that are here can get up and confidently belt out their most favorite song in the world with no concern for the eardrums they are perforating or the notes they are destroying. Unfortunately, I am not one of those people.

To be honest, I can't believe I even agreed to do this.

Then again, this is not where I thought I'd find myself tonight. This lounge may be packed full of eager-to-sing regulars, but my friends and I are not those people. We are here on a whim after a few too many drinks at a restaurant down the street.

Shuffling through the crowd, I stop when someone taps me on the shoulder. Thinking it's one of my friends, I turn around to see a tall, leggy brunette with the most vibrant green eyes staring at me. Her face is stunning.

She steps closer and right away I can see this woman is a bit young— my age, I'd say. "Do you mind if I get by?" she asks with one of those affluent tones I know all too well from my days in private school.

Without waiting for me to answer, she pushes past, and in her rush, steps on my open-toed pump.

Ouch!

I glare as her red Louboutin soles make their way to the front of the lounge.

"Come on," my coworker tosses over her shoulder, not at all bothered by the woman who brushed past her, too. "They found us a table."

Piper leads the way, and I follow, making sure not to step on any toes in the crowd. Finally, she stops at the only available table large enough for our group, which just so happens to be right in front of the stage.

Fantastic.

The white leather banquette is awash in the neon light emanating from the human-sized letters that spell the establishment's name across the back wall. The light is nearly blinding. I look at Piper. "Are you sure you want to sit this close?"

She hands me a menu of songs. "Yes, this is going to be great."

"Pour Some Sugar on Me" is coming to an end and once I've slid all the way across the bench, I look up to see a group of very pleased guys jumping off the stage in unison. The Def Leppard wannabes are staring at us.

This must have been their spot.

All clean-cut, all fuck-hot, all about my age.

The guy closest to me is wearing a red tie and has his black jacket slung over his shoulder. The others are dressed in dark suits too. Hmmm... either dressed up for an occasion or still dressed up after the occasion. Not a wedding, since it's a Thursday night. An office party maybe? Or perhaps this group of drunken men is here for a going-away party like mine. Who knows? Anyway, the guy with the red tie gives the eight of us girls a quick glance and a smile but doesn't stop.

He's cute. Really cute.

At least he doesn't seem to mind that we took their table. Then again, he's too focused on the guy without a jacket farthest away from me. "Austin," he calls out. "Don't bother with her." His warning is too late, though, because this Austin, whose white, rumpled shirt and blond hair are all I can see, is already allowing himself to be dragged away from his group by the brunette who practically ran me over minutes ago.

Fascinated by her assertiveness, I watch the two of them. I have to crane my neck to catch sight of them, and soon, too soon, they disappear into the crowd. Squinting my eyes, wishing I'd changed my dirty contact lenses, I search for them.

In a matter of seconds, though, it's not my poor eyesight but Piper who prevents me from locating them. She stands in front of me with a huge-ass smile on her face. "What song did you decide on?"

Giving a cursory glance at my choices, the perfect one is the first I see. "'Total Eclipse of the Heart,'" I blurt out and point excitedly at the same time. This song I know, and know it all too well.

Minutes later I'm being dragged up onstage by my friends and coworkers, and according to the screen, I'm about to sing a group rendition of "New York, New York."

Okay, I can do this.

I know this song. Not as well as "Total Eclipse of the Heart," but at least I know it. Besides, how hard can it be? I've sung it a million times—although admittedly mostly when I've been drunk.

Then again, I have had a lot to drink tonight.

The pressure is on. The eight of us gather around the microphone. The audience lights dim and a spotlight shines on us. I kind of feel like a star. No, I feel like Frank Sinatra himself without those penetrating blue eyes. But when the karaoke jockey asks, "Are you ready?" suddenly, I'm petrified. There is no way on God's green earth I am going to be able to hit the high notes.

The music starts. It's too late to back out. First, it's just the piano, but then the trumpet and clarinet join in. It's odd, but the familiarity of the sound eases my nerves. When the lyrics flash in front of me, all my worries are gone and I don't care anymore.

I let all of my hang-ups go and sing.

This, what I'm doing right now, is a glimpse into the old me. Somewhere between college and the real world, I lost that fun-loving girl, and I hope I can find her again.

Don't worry. I have a plan to do just that. Not only am I leaving the city I have loved for so long, but I'm also going to be moving far, far away, with no idea if I will ever be coming back.

It's how I hope to find myself.

My friends squeeze my shoulders, and we continue to sing the lyrics. Unexpectedly, they alter the words, and instead of talking about making it in New York, they tell the story of making it anywhere— in my case, Miami.

More than moved by this kind gesture, I gulp down the sorrow and move with them in a way that doesn't match the tempo at all. It doesn't matter, though, because they're right: "If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere."

God, I hope that's true.

There's a pause in the chorus and the piano melody quiets us all down. We're now standing in a straight line onstage and swaying back and forth.

Breathing for the first time in three months, regret isn't a word I am going to allow myself to say... out loud, anyway.

Yes, I admit it— I have a type A personality, which makes me hard to get to know and even harder to be friends with. Crossing my t's and dotting my i's will always be important to me. As is staying on a schedule. Making lists. And being organized. But none of that means I'm boring.

The sting of the word still hurts.

Elliot was wrong. Is wrong— I am not boring, and even though he is out of my life I am going to prove him wrong. No, scratch that— I am going to prove to myself that I can live my life wild and free, because truth be told, I may not be boring, but I am bored.

I need a change.

To find myself.

The chorus starts up again and although we sing about coming to New York, we all do so knowing that I'm leaving.

I still can't believe I'm doing it.

When my best friend, Trish, suggested on the phone, "Why don't you quit your job and move out here with me?" I nearly broke out in hives.

I thought, why would I do that?

My life was settled. I had a good job, an apartment, a healthy relationship. Then I remembered that my boss was an ass, my apartment was a sublet, and my relationship, well, it wasn't healthy anymore.

Once I let the idea of moving sink in, I thought, why not make a new start? At twenty-one, I can afford to make a change. I'll get a new job. Give myself a year. Who knows, maybe even find myself.

I have nothing to lose.

If Miami isn't the place for me, then I'll come back to New York. And if I have to, I'll grovel to get back my old job.

Completely oblivious to how this song ends, I mumble through it, laughing the entire time. When it's over, I'm the first to stumble off the stage. Soon after, my friends follow, and we all huddle together. The group of boys have reoccupied their seats.

"Let's sing another one," Piper suggests, practically jumping at the idea.

Another song does seem like fun. Karaoke is addicting. However, my bladder is about to burst. "You guys go for it," I tell her. "I'm going to use the bathroom and I'll hop in when I'm done."

"Stay out of trouble," she calls to me.

"Don't worry, I'll be good," I tell her and weave my way through the crowd toward the restrooms.

Trouble.

That's a laugh.

Even if I went looking for it, it would never find me.

Boring.

My life is that boring.

Wonder of wonders, there is only a very short line. Gleeful and relieved when I finally push through the bathroom door, I hurry to find an empty stall. The hard part comes next. My dress is tight, too tight to shimmy over my hips. With its large silver zipper running up the entire back, I have to use both hands to get it down. Getting it back up is just as much of a bother.

An episode of Sex and the City comes to mind. One in which Carrie Bradshaw finally accepts being alone and figures out how to zip her own dress.

If she could do it, so can I.

Channeling my inner Carrie, it still takes me a few minutes. And when I come out of the stall, the bathroom is jam-packed. I wait my turn for a sink behind two women whispering loudly about the tragedy of it all and how they don't blame him for leaving the city. Him. I don't know who they are talking about, but by the time the two women leave, even I feel sorry for this him.

After I wash my hands and dry them, I follow the surge of people down the dimly lit hallway. There are rooms reserved for private parties and with my feet killing me, I slip into an empty one to check my messages.

Strips of neon-pink bulbs along the perimeter cast an almost strobe-like effect in the room. Ignoring the fact that it's messing with my vision, I pick a booth out of sight of the door. My screen saver lights up when I pull my phone from my purse. It's of the Statue of Liberty.

I thumb across the picture and go directly to Google. Once there, I search for a picture of something that will have meaning in my new life.

Bingo!

More than satisfied with my choice, I save it as my new screen saver and start singing the song that the bright photo reminds of: "If you like piña coladas..."

With a smile on my face, I finish that verse and flip to my message. When I do, I see that I have a text.

Trish: Are you still out?

Feeling on top of the world that yes, I am, I look at the time and smile. It's 12:35 a.m. And I'm still out. Having fun.

See, I'm so not boring.

Excited about this, I have to retype my reply three times to get the one word correct. Just as I go to hit send, my phone slides out of my grip.

Crap.

Camouflaged beneath the black tablecloth, I lie on the seat and reach onto the carpeted floor. The smoothness of the vinyl bench and soft material of my dress don't exactly see eye-to-eye, and somehow I end up falling to the ground. It's more than a little grimy and I'm more than a little grossed out. With my fingers curled around my phone, I'm about to get off this disgustingness when I hear the sound of voices and the door closing to the private room.

I freeze right where I am.

From under the table I can see two silhouettes. A man. And a woman. I can't see their faces from this angle, only their bodies. Just as I'm about to announce my presence, my eyes drift down to a perfectly shined pair of men's shoes and a very familiar pair of high heels. I know by the Louboutins that it's the brunette from earlier.

Like a cat, my curiosity is back.

And when she shoves the man against the door, I feel my heart start to pound. The man is likely Austin— the blond-haired guy she trampled over me to get to and then dragged away from his friends. Getting a better look at him, I can see that his body is taut with tension. A live wire, I think. Definitely an uptight suit.

Trust me— I know the type well.

Right now is when I should announce myself. Yet I don't. Instead, I cover the screen of my phone to shield its glare and watch for what she's going to do next. Maybe yell at him. Cry. Or even break up with him. She's a woman on a mission, and I feel an odd kinship with her because I've been there before.

As if releasing her rage, she rips his shirt apart, and I panic as the buttons jump across the carpeted floor and land very close to my table. The couple doesn't even seem to notice, though, because the woman is already running her palms up his smooth, muscled skin. When she bends, I think for a moment she might bite him or pinch him, and then tell him to go to hell, but instead she starts licking him.

Wait!

She was mad at him.

Wasn't she?

Had I gotten her body language all wrong?

From my downtown view, I can tell she's working his one nipple hard. His hands claw at the door behind him as if he needs the support, but his satisfied groans tell me he likes what's going on. When she moves to the other side of his chest, my gaze lands on a tattoo of a scrolling letter B right over his heart, and I think the brunette must be B.

She traces the scrolling letter. "I'm sorry, Austin. I'm so sorry," she whispers.

"Just shut up," he hisses, and I wish I could see his face so I could tell if he's angry or if he likes to be rough.

My thoughts are soon left in the dust because red soles are all I can see when she drops to her knees. Shocked, I have to use my hand to cover my gasp. This is not what I expected. Either way, it's too late for me to say a word.

Slowly, she unzips the fine fabric of his trousers, and I want to die.

I can't watch this.

Yet, I do.

The pink lights flicker over and around me, and if either of them looks toward the corner, they might catch a glimpse of my extremely bold, large silver zipper. Remind me why I suggested this change to the designer? Inching my way farther back, I make sure to blend in with my all-black attire.

"I want you," she moans with a harsh breath.

"You don't get to have me," he sneers at her.

"How about this, then?" she asks as she strokes his cock, which is still covered by his boxers, and then kisses it.

From the groan he makes, it sounds like he's battling himself. "You don't want to do this," he replies, and something in the sound of his tortured, low, creamy voice sets my blood on fire.

She ignores his response and yanks his pants and boxers past his knees. No pants required for this act. And then without any more preamble, she takes him in her mouth and sheaths him with her lips. I can't see his cock, but that doesn't mean I don't want to.

Really, I'm not a pervert. I'm not even the least bit kinky. In fact, I'm the opposite of kinky. I jill off with my fingers. I like sex missionary style, on a bed, at night, in the dark. And I'm not very good at blow jobs. I usually gag.

There's a dull thud against the door, and I imagine it is Austin tipping his head in pleasure despite the fact that he's mad at the brunette.

Why is he mad?

What did she do?

Who is she?

A random pickup?

His girlfriend?

I'm going with girlfriend. I feel like the intimacy she used to trace the letter on his chest meant something. What did she do to upset him? Spend too much money? Get tipsy at lunch? Refuse to spread her legs when he wanted her to?

The act continues. Her long, dark hair bobs. His shirttails practically cover her head. And then his tie whispers across the hint of skin I can see between the folds of fabric, and I start to feel a little overheated. None of that seems to bother her, though, as she works him with both her hands and her mouth.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

My eyes feel dry. I blink them a few times. Damn contacts. The movement of my head causes the gemstone around my neck to fall and hit the side of the floor.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Like a clock, it moves until I grab it.

Suddenly, the brunette stops what she's doing and looks up at Austin.

Did she hear it?

I stop breathing.

"You like it when I do this. Admit it," she purrs.

Phew. She didn't hear anything.

Angry or not, I know I don't imagine the sound of laughter he makes or the hand he puts on her hair as he pushes her head down. "In the condition I'm in tonight, any girl will do."

Soon enough the wet noise of mouth on flesh is the only sound besides my heavy breathing that I can hear.

"Fuck, that's good," Austin groans.

"I know how you like it," she tells him, looking up again.

Okay, so at least they're well acquainted. Again, I'm going with girlfriend.

Austin doesn't seem to want to look into her eyes, because he once again pushes her head down. "Who wouldn't?" he tells her, and for the first time, I hear the slur of alcohol in his voice.

Fascinated by the exchange before me, I'm more than aware that I shouldn't be watching this or listening to this private moment, but I want to know if being an asshole is how he gets off, or if Austin is truly mad at the brunette.

A light flickers under the table and I grab for my phone. It's another text from Trish, same as before.

Trish: Are you still out?

More soft, wet noises cover up the vibration. Thank God I turned my phone to vibrate earlier. With the screen covered with my palm, I try not to move or even breathe.

Austin is making a lot more noises now. Groaning. Swearing.

Why are his sounds turning me on?

Feeling a way I know I shouldn't, I close my eyes, unable to watch anymore, but soon enough another thud against the door has me opening them just in time to see Austin's back arch.

I know he's coming by the way his body is reacting— the sounds he's making, the curve of his spine, the sudden thrusts he makes into the brunette's mouth. "That's it, right there. Don't stop. Don't stop. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck."

She swallows all of him to the last drop and from what I can see, she doesn't seem to have a gagging issue.

Lucky bitch.

Right now, I'm more than a little hot and bothered. I know what I'll be doing when I get home to relieve the ache I'm feeling.

The brunette rises and she wipes her mouth. I wish I could hand her a napkin. Soon after, she gets to her feet and I can no longer see anything but the back of her red dress.

She's the devil.

Or maybe he is?

"No," says the very male, very drunk, voice.

No.

No to what?

Oh, God, I hope she doesn't want to lay him down on the floor and fuck him, because if that happens, I'm so caught.

"No?" she repeats in a questioning tone.

"No!"

"Wait. Let me get this straight— you'll let me suck your dick, but you won't let me touch your mouth with my lips?"

Austin's polished shoes shuffle. He pulls his shirt together. Tucks it. Zips his pants. Then he moves away from the red dress in the high heels and opens the door. "I'm done letting you do anything else."

Well, that is just rude.

"Austin," she calls, sounding a little frantic. "Give me a chance. I want to make it up to you. I'll do anything."

"There's nothing I want from you— that's the problem."

"Then why let me do this?"

There is no answer, just his feet moving out of my sight.

"You're a fucking asshole!" she cries after him.

Those polished, very male shoes come flying into the room.

He steps very close to her. I imagine him tipping her chin up to look her in the eyes, although I can't see up that high. "Just so we're clear on this— I owe you nothing," he seethes, and this time when he leaves the room he doesn't return.

Ouch!

"But I still want you," she whispers, more to herself.

I think she's used to getting what she wants, and this Austin is it. I wonder how far she'll go to get him. Wish I could find out.

As if reborn, she wipes the tears from her eyes, takes a deep breath, and stands tall before she walks out of the room with a very steady stride.

Boy, does she put herself together quickly.

I could take a page or two from her "how to" book.

Hard to believe I just did that— watched a girl give a guy a blow job. Honestly, I didn't see much, just the back of her head, but still, that has to count as anything but uptight.

Right?

When the coast is clear, I grab my phone, finally press send with the one word, yes, to answer Trish, and make my way into the lounge. There is no sign of the brunette, and although I'm uncertain what Austin looks like, something tells me he's gone too.

"Happy" is playing and my friends are onstage moving like Pharrell Williams. Practically skipping toward them, I hop up and join in. Moving my hips, snapping my fingers, clapping my hands, I have no trouble belting out this tune all the way through.

"Clap along, if you feel like that's what..." I finish the song on a high note, with my hands together and a sense of being reborn myself.

What I watched in that private room makes me realize everyone has issues, and everyone has a way of dealing with them— beg, cry, get mad, say things that hurt, curl up into a ball, and even have sex. However you deal, at least you deal, and I've done my fair share of all of that.

I'm done dealing.

I'm ready for tomorrow.

Ready to start anew.

Be a hot-air balloon, just like the song says.

Within minutes of our grand finale, I'm drunkenly hugging my friends goodbye.

"Don't forget to call us!" they holler as I get into a cab.

"I won't," I answer, closing the window, and then turning around to wave goodbye as the taxi pulls away.

Slumping against the door, reality dawns. In less than twenty-four hours, I'll be on a plane to Miami.

I can't believe it.

I'm really doing it.

New start.

New life.

New me.

Miami, here I come.