Lackadaisical

Chapter Four: And She's Got This Bad Habit

Previously:

His eyes immediately strayed to the window and the sun that shone temptingly outside before he turned his head toward the front of the class, a feeling of someone staring at him invading his senses.

"And please meet your teacher's assistant this summer who will be taking attendance, grading, and—put that down, Mr. Crevice, I'm very serious—grading, and generally assisting. Emma Nelson."

Emma stood up and looked a surprised Jay Hogart straight in the eye, taking a deep breath. So summer was turning out to be a raging bitch.

"You know this is bad," Emma said, watching her friend reapply the poignantly red lip-gloss. "You know he's going to be there."

"So what?" Manny feigned indifference, putting down the tube and glancing at her reflection studiously. "I need—no, deserve—to party right now. And it just so happens that Marco's having his birthday at Club Quincy. We're going."

Raising her eyebrows, Emma uselessly fluffed up her hair to appear as if she was doing something productive, even though she'd been done getting ready a good half hour ago.

"Okay. But you're going to be crying about something in an hour and when you are, don't take offense to any 'I told you so's that may come your way," she replied with an amused smile.

Manny turned from the mirror and glared at her best friend, hooking a tan-colored purse over her shoulder and smoothing her hair down in a dignified manner. "Thanks for the support, Em. You're a real pal."

Holding up her hands in surrender, Emma stood up, too. "I'm just saying."

"As am I," Manny responded. Climbing through the basement exit with their skirts hiking up to explicit heights, Emma lowered the pull-out door quietly.

"You know, it just occurred to me why my parents are as neurotic as they are," Emma grinned. "Would it kill us to use the front door?"

Manny frowned at the trap-like door and stood up, inching her skirt down. "Whatever. It's tradition."

Laughing, the blonde follower her friend. "Aye, aye, captain."

- - - -

The music was pulsing and throbbing in the club as the group of age-old friends met up in the center of the dance floor, deaf to everything but the latest pop hit that was blasting from the speakers. Even as they entered, the natural urge to gyrate against a bunch of strangers' crotches and asses kicked in.

Holding her hands above her head, Manny swayed her hips to the drum beat, dipping low occasionally, as she and Emma progressed in a dance-like walk to the grinning and equally dance-entranced Marco.

"Happy birthday!" Marco didn't hear Emma yell, but saw her mouth. He nodded in thanks and lunged to hug her and Manny in appreciation of their arrival.

"VIP room over there!" he replied just as uselessly, but somehow mimed the message to the girls. Another round of nodding ensued, which could have mistaken for head bobbing as the teenagers succumbed to the loud, obnoxious music like wild animals in their natural habitats.

Once again raising her arms above her head, Manny shook her ass and twirled on the dance floor, letting out some of the frustration she'd been feeling that week. With every gyration of her hips, she felt an inch of her body come to life. Throngs of random high school and college kids sandwiched her from all sides, the bodies rubbing up against each other both suggestively and innocently as they all struggled for space and for hormonal relief.

Emma not on a dissimilar wavelength, wagged her slim hips to the exciting, enthralling music, throwing her head back and letting her blonde hair slap the air carelessly. Jumping from the balls of her feet, she closed her eyes and imagined she wasn't restrained at all, wasn't bothered by rules or burdens; as she danced, that's all there was. There was she—dancing, and there were those around her—dancing. It was sweet and erotic and had the tangible but tricky fragrance of freedom attached to it all.

"I know you're a cannonball!" Emma mouthed along with the music, rubbing against the crotch of a body that had latched onto hers not too possessively. That was kind of a deciding factor for Emma—grabbiness was not to be tolerated. The body against her back felt nice and sturdy and she morphed her movements from those of jerky, rebellious excitement to more sensual hip twisting. The body seemed to like that, molding against her more carefully than before and holding her with specific intent to move as one, connected being.

Emma's breathing had become ragged as they danced, the songs changing more quickly than she'd ever found them to pass, as she continued to rock to the beat with the mass of people, all pushing and pulling, twisting and groping each other, one particular body groping more personally than the rest. Her tank top wasn't for the winter season, and a good amount of skin was exposed, but she felt hot. A thin sheen of sweat had formulated on her skin and it was molding with that of her partner who had, for similar or other, less innocent reasons, began to sweat as well. Wiping the skin beneath her bangs, she twirled into the arms that belonged to her body—her person—and felt herself pulled against him quickly and instinctively. He smelled like smoke, Smirnoff, and manufactured spice.

He was Jay.

Backing away as soon as she'd realized that, he reclaimed his grasp on her hips.

"Let me go," she yelled irritably, glaring at him. "I'm not going to… you know."

He grinned patronizingly at her as he did so many times before, possessing that ability to be condescending and still captivating at the same time.

"Will you shut up?" he pulled her close and ordered into her ear, his lips bumping against her earlobe somewhat pleasantly, if she should admit so herself. Then he began grinding against her once more, moving perfectly to the beat and nothing more, as if instructing her to just give in and do the same.

Pursing her lips, Emma looked up at his entranced expression, like he was concentrating on the music and just… having some fucking fun; she bit the corner of her lip and made a swift decision in her mind. Throwing an arm around his neck, she sidled up his chest, letting him spread her legs with knee and bobbed to the beat, now concentrating more on the feel of their bodies reacting to each other as the music throbbed and pulsated against the sleek floors of the club.

His arms felt good around her, and they felt even better when he readjusted them so that one was in her back pocket and the other was on the small of her back. She felt like he wanted to hold her, to protect her, to show that she was his. It was a fabulous feeling and, had it not been with him, she would have launched herself at his lips already, promising herself that this was the guy for her.

But this wasn't the guy for her. This was Jay. Jay with the famous libido. Jay who could dance like no one's business—but Gonorrhea Jay nonetheless.

Still. The feeling felt nice. And she moved even closer to him.

- - - -

Manny had no such luck with identifiable personal suitors, but her luck was somewhat more favorable to Emma's, if she was honest. She'd bumped and ground against the brunette with too much cologne and some certifiable dance skill to speak of; against the blonde with the roaming hands and extreme sagging pants; against the older brunette that looked as if he had almost finished college—may he had—and was looking for a little high school nostalgia. Lucky her. Really. She switched boys like toilet paper and had a blast doing it as her body was pulled with the turns of the music and pushing of the crowd.

She'd just been thinking about how she needed to find a new boy to dance with, when another sidled up behind her. She closed her eyes and tried to move along with him, but he had no rhythm. No rhythm in his hips, none in his toes. He bumped messily and nervously against, though she had no idea if his dancing deficiency was due to anxiety or just not knowing how.

Twirling around to face him, she was subjected to stuttering before her mind even registered who this was.

"M-Manny—wow. I'm sorry," he began to yell into the loud music. "I didn't—wow.Sorry."

She just stared at him, his hands still unconsciously on her hips, wondering how in the world this happened to people. In a club filled with people, she'd get Craig to rub up against her—clumsily, but whatever. She closed her eyes and cursed Emma for always being right. You know he's going to be there.

Her mind ordered Emma to shut up.

Craig's dark hair was sweaty and sort of matted to his head, and Manny wondered if that was from being nervous, too.

As he tried to move away, the song changed, and he bumped into a body behind him, launching him back at Manny to step on her foot.

"Ow, f—" she restrained herself, hissing into the humid air as she removed her bare, sandaled foot from beneath his sneakered one.

"Sorry… Manny," he said slowly, eyes wide. "You know I didn't mean to, right? I mean—"

"Listen to the music," she ordered, grabbing his baggy sweatshirt in the spot she presumed his hips would be. "Listen to the drum beat, and go with it." Rocking gently with him, they fell apart from the rest of the crowd as they stalled for two drum beats instead of following each individual one. Manny's eyes were trained on his, but her demeanor was more studious than anything. Ever the dance instructor. His eyes were trained on her. Ever the looker.

A few songs had passed, both of them acknowledging them as one big song clumped together, because they hadn't noticed anything but the two of them. Then she felt a tap on her shoulder and a turned to look at Marco's wry grin.

"VIP room, girly. Bring your friend," he chuckled to himself, ignoring Manny's pseudo-glare at his presumption. He took off to one of the many side doors in the club and Manny knew they should disentangle and follow him before they got lost.

"We should…" Craig suggested, eyes motioning toward Marco. Manny nodded blankly and pushed through the crowd of people toward the door she saw Marco enter.

Before they went in, Craig put his hand on hers on the doorknob, and she turned, back against the door. Looking her straight in the eye, Craig swallowed.

"What happened out there was just…" He hated that déjà vu feeling he got every time he said that. And that was close to the double digits now.

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on Manny either as she raised a single eyebrow and let a small smirk settle upon her shiny lips.

"It was me teaching you how to dance, genius," she replied playfully, though inside she felt some of that familiar annoyance toward him well up. "And you call yourself musically talented."

Then she went in.

- - - -

"Happy birthday, dear Marco…" the group chorused happily, enjoying the blush that settled on the birthday boy's cheeks, "Happy birthday to you!"

Cheers rang out through the darkly lit, cushiony salon that was the VIP room, and Marco blew out the candles on the cake, frowning when they lit back up again. Blowing a second time, he rolled his eyes at the not-so-subtle chuckles reverberating through the room.

"Come on, you guys. What are you, eight?" he asked amusedly. "Trick candles?"

"Well considering your ripe, old age of eighteen, we thought it'd be sort of nostalgic," Ellie announced cheekily, receiving a responsive and playful shove in the side. "Okay, presents!"

"Who is that?" Marco whispered to Ellie, hands vaguely motioning to a pretty built, definitely cute, comfortably dressed brunette in the corner of the room, eyeing Marco occasionally. Ellie glanced with him and when she answered, she was wearing a knowing grin upon her lips.

"Looks like your first present."

- - - -

"Got to go," she yelled into his ear, pressing her cheek against his without thinking. When she wanted to pull back, he kept her there.

"What for?"

Swallowing, Emma looked up into his eyes as the dance club was finally immersed in the notes of a slow song. "Birthday."

"Yours?"

She smiled. "No."

He let her go completely and they were the only two not even swaying in the room, standing still and looking as though this was the last day they'd ever see each other.

"Stay."

- - - -

"Manny," Emma hissed, tugging the hem of her friend's tank top, "we have to go."

"But—why? And where have you been?" Manny inquired, stirring her virgin drink with a red plastic straw. Taking a look at her friend's flustered expression, she cocked her head to the side and sighed. "Tell me you didn't."

"I didn't," Emma mimicked heartlessly. "Now let's go."

"Okay, just let me say 'bye to Marco," the brunette requested, hopping off the bar stool in the VIP room and flouncing off to find her friend. Emma's eyes remained trained to the door she knew Jay wouldn't get through. But still.

Grabbing their jackets, Manny stuffed them over her arm and met Emma at the door.

"What's up?" she yelled through the humid air and still-loud music.

"Later," Emma shouted back, looking pensive and sort of nervous. Manny didn't have a good feeling about that. The blonde was also looking around her as they left the club, and didn't breathe out a normal gulp of air until the outside cold enveloped the two girls. Their cheeks instantly pinkened and Manny began to formulate a plan to get them home.

"So, is it the thirty-eight or the eighteen that goes to your house?" she mumbled absently, looking down the blue-lit block. "Or is it the twenty-seven?"

Emma didn't answer for a bit, easing on her jacket little by little, goosebumps rising on her skin without her acknowledgment. "Let's walk."

Manny whirled around with an incredulous smile on her face. "Walk? But it's like a million blocks to your house."

Emma looked down the block that bled into another block and another beneath the changing streetlights and the eggplant-purple sky. "Not a million."

"Fine," Manny nodded, and hooked her arm in Emma's quickly, starting down the street. "So?"

"What?"

"Don't do that. What happened?"

Shaking her head, Emma didn't meet her friend's eyes. "Nothing. It's stupid."

"Tell me," Manny said, her brows furrowing. Emma shook her head and continued walking in a trance-like way. "Is it Jay? Was he there?"

There was a pregnant pause.

"I think it's the thirty-eight."

- - - -

Don't be stupid.

Be with me.

She looked to the side and saw him standing on the other side of the transparent doors. Fingering the corner of the stiff paper, she bit her lip to keep from letting any emotion color her face.

There was something about him.

And she tossed the note into the nearest trash can.

It couldn't have been that special.