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whowrotethenote · 3 months ago

Text

𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲

A/N // This is a short story (not short at all lol) from the universe of Biggest Fan. It takes place right before Pt 3 All We Do. If you choose not to read this you’re not missing anything significant within the plot. Just more insight to the characters and their relationships.

Warnings // Minor smut // Consumption of alcohol // Profanity // Adultery // Age gap // Angst // Brief grief

Word count // 8k

Inspo // Company by Trey Songz

Disclaimer // Part Three // Biggest Fan Masterlist // Roman Reigns Masterlist // Join My Taglist // Main Masterlist

Tuesday, March 19, 2024

“Alright, bitches! At midnight our babygirl will officially be twenty-two,” Anthony announces from the front seat. Earning a round of hoots around the black Suburban. Heat rises to my cheekbones. A product of the two shots taken at the hotel, combined with the attention received since our plane landed last night. “First time in Miami. Let’s make it a memorable one. My mission this weekend is simple. Our girl is already paid. So, let’s work on getting her laid!”

“Anthony!” I tug at his wrist, watching the amusement on the face of our Uber, Byron, through the rearview. An older, but definitely not frail, Caribbean man—who if I have to guess is anywhere between sixty and seventy—and to my fascination is seemingly unfazed by the car full of obviously tipsy young tourists. He speeds through the vibrant and crowded streets of Miami, filled with palm trees and half naked pedestrians, without batting an eye.

“Girl, this is Miami. He’s witnessed and heard far worse in this car. Right Byron?” Anthony asks like he’s known Byron his whole life. The older man offers a hearty laugh following a nod. “See.”

At midnight I shed skin. Twenty-one has been without a doubt, a fucking rollercoaster ride. Twenty-two please be good to me.

Birthdays and I have a funny relationship. It was only two weeks before I turned fourteen, that they sat us down to divulge the worst news a daddy’s girl could hear.

“Daddy’s really sick…they’ve caught it early, but if he has any chance they have to act fast and aggressively.”

His own body was betraying him. Cancer cells growing like weeds. Almost too fast to contain and keep the garden pretty. And it wasn’t in his leg, his testicles, his kidneys, or his colon—or some other part where they could just cut it out. His fucking brain. He was literally at war with his own mind. A battle he won, but ended up losing much more in the end.

Nevertheless, the birthday party I spent hours planning with my mom—I ended up just canceling. It didn’t feel right celebrating life when the ghost of death had swept through our household like a plague. Nothing felt the same. My world went from bustling pastels to black and white.

And it stayed that way every year after. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen and then nineteen. He officially rang the bell that year. But I had already grown accustomed to the colorless motion picture of my own life.

Demi always went out of her way to make birthdays special for me. Freshman year, she set up a picnic for us and the fleeting crew of girls we came in with. With only fifty dollars to work with, she snagged a cake from Walmart, supplies and decorations from Family Dollar, and made the pit on the south of campus look like a tourist attraction.

Sophomore year, she convinced the older quarterback who had access to the Sports Center on campus, to let her hold the key to the pool for a night. It was supposed to be just a mere twenty people, two bottles of cheap vodka and wine coolers. Before midnight even struck and I officially turned twenty, the pool was packed wall to wall. There were empty bottles everywhere, and a fight even broke out between two girls—who discovered they were both fucking the quarterback who gave us the key in the first place. Heads still gone from all the alcohol, we laughed all night long until our stomachs went tender, about pulling the girls apart from damn near killing each other, when Demi was in fact fucking him too.

Last year, we kept it simple. Twenty-one meant no more fake ID. So, I proudly barged into our nearest liquor store to purchase the biggest bottle of Don Julio they had, with my very legit ID. Demi and I barely put a dent in the liter bottle before we went drunk bowling—mostly falling and barely earning spares—before we had to make a swift exit due to me throwing up in the arcade section.

This year I vow to put the fate of my birthday being special in my own hands. With everything that’s happened since my last one, I've developed a new attitude toward my colorless life. It's starting to feel warm again—the color gradually filling back in.

So, in the heat of the moment I booked myself, Demi, Anthony, his twin girl cousins— Indiya and Asia, and my biology lab partner—Aaliyah, tickets to Miami. Seventy-two hours. That’s how long we have to usher in another year of my life, get white-girl wasted, stand on couches in a club section, and potentially get laid as Anthony so scandalously declared.

Three shots each, taken at the grossly expensive W hotel, was definitely setting the tone for the rest of the trip. We exit the Uber—already tipsy and pumped up, singing “get it sexy,” the entire walk down the dock to meet Shiloh—our rented yacht’s captain. Rays from the son maximizing the color of our stringy bikinis and glistening skin. Designer slides scraping over the wood is music to my ears.

I spot the Azimut yacht with the words Dream Chaser emblemed on her side, just as Shiloh described on the phone earlier this morning. Leading the buzzing group, I start to reach in my purse for the money I promised to grant him upon our arrival, when he jumps down with a heavy thud—sweating with sunblock splattered on his nose.

“Sorry ladies! There’s been a change in schedule. A very high-profile regular has requested the boat. And since you all booked just this morning, I’m afraid I can’t hold it for you all.”

All excitement is vacuumed right out and a ripple of shock cascades through the group, as we all blurt out individual confusion.

“Wait, what?” My arms drop at my sides.

“To be fair there was no deposit sent.”

“Yeah, cause I told you I had cash. Remember our phone call?” I protest, but it’s meaningless against the persistent shake of his head. I purposely emptied out a cool five thousand dollars cash—courtesy of my Tribal Chief. I did not plan on swiping my card on this vacation. Too much scamming goes on in cities like Miami.

“I know, but the man has already paid in full. Again, I am really sorry.” I fold my arms across my chest, mouth catching flies, in disbelief still. I thought money could solve all my problems. Now, I know. Money grants access, but only connections can cast you before the next person, who also has a handful of cash. “I have a slot for nine tonight, if you are interested?” He bargains.

“That won’t do. We have reservations for Nobu at nine. Then, it's straight to the section in LIV. I reserved it for eleven.” Anthony reads off the mental itinerary he so graciously made for us on such short notice.

“Maybe he can recommend another boat?” Asia suggests.

“We checked late last night. Everything is all booked up. It's still spring break season,” Anthony informs.

“I told you we should’ve looked beforehand. Like, last week.” I raise my brows at Demi, who since we met, has always been content with just crossing the bridge when we get there. The bridge is usually closed by the time our unconventional asses arrive.

“There’s gotta be something.” Aaliyah pulls her phone.

“We could always just get drunk on the beach,” Indiya proposes.

Amidst the dysfunction and throwing of ideas of how to pass the time, Demi leans into me. “This might be a reach—but I know he has to have a boat out here.”

“No.” I block her shot of a suggestion immediately, upon realizing exactly the he she refers to. “No,” I repeat. Ignoring her poking bottom lip. “I cannot ask that.”

“Oh—but it's okay for him to call in the middle of the week for your company and services?”

With a shake of my head, the bitter taste of the truth she speaks resonates on my tongue. As of late, the texts from Paul have been more frequent and sporadic. It's hardly ever just a weekend anymore. Weekends and day trips have turned into weekdays and flights at the most unimaginable times. I’m fortunate to have such an amicable relationship with my supervisors and professors; otherwise my ass would be failing and jobless.

“Just ask, Lana. The worst he can say is no.”

“You know I don’t communicate with him directly unless I see him in person.”

“So, call the Wise Man and ask for the Big Man.” She speaks low through tights lips, as to not alert the rest of the group. I survey them—all on their phones, brainstorming and scouring the web for an alternative that didn’t exist. My eyes drift back to Demi, awaiting my next move.

“Fine.” I give in.

Byron is gracious enough to have been watching the whole ordeal play out with the Captain who never was. He says he didn’t want to pull off until he knew we were safe and situated, as he’s seen young girls from all over come to this city and get taken advantage of.

I gave him the bizarre task of taking me to the nearest payphone. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but they’ve done away with most of the pay-phones in the city.” His eyes flicker to the phone planted in my grip. “Everyone has a mobile phone now. There might be one in the train station.”

“And where is that?” I inquire, not remembering seeing one on our way to the beach.

“Maybe twenty minutes. It's in Brickell.”

I huff. “Oh, no. That’s damn near an hour to get there and get back.”

“I don't get this whole pay-phone situation anyway.” Demi blurts. “I mean, maybe in the beginning—but it's been a year now.” A dent forms between her brows. “It’s one thing to not be able to get to him. But you can’t just call Paul?”

Another gram of salt on my tongue, courtesy of my outspoken and strongly opinionated best friend. The pay-phone mess is and has always been a pain in my ass. Especially right now, when I just need a quick yes or no.

“I’m calling,” I declare, before I overthink myself into doing nothing. The phone rings in my ear as I watch Demi’s small figure descend back to the group by the dock. Pacing, I hang up mid ring and call again.

“Lana, I hope this is an emergency.”

“Define emergency.”

“A call from a reporter—or TMZ. Pregnancy. A near death situation.” My lips twist as he lists off all the things that are definitely not in relation to why I am calling.

“I need to talk to him.”

“About?”

“I just have to ask him something.”

“Is it in relation to your current arrangement?”

“…No,” I hesitate. I’m sure Paul’s been given his own special course of action to follow, when being contacted by one of his regulars. The man is always moving about for work matters and if he’s not, he has a full house to tend to, that I’d rather pretend doesn’t exist. However, that harsh reality is nearly impossible to be stricken out. A very ugly stain on a pristinely white dress shirt. A huge pimple on an otherwise glass-skin adorned face. Or maybe it is me that is the stain—the pimple. The ugly dot on his perfect life that he pretends for majority of his days, doesn’t exist. Then again, if his life is so perfect and intact—what was the need for me?

“It's a simple and quick question that requires a simple and quick answer. How is it that he can always get through to me and I can’t ever get through to him?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

The high of vacationing in another city and the thrill of taking on another year begins to dwindle, as thoughts I constantly have to force into a deep pit inside my psyche assault me. Paul’s latest comment—another blow to it.

It seems it's so obvious to everyone that what’s happening here is wrong. Yet and still, it remains. Every encounter making it more intricate.

“Can you just get me him. Please?” I ask in a flat tone. An uneasy feeling resting inside of my throat.

He releases a deep breath after a beat. “I’m only doing this because I think I like you.” Not entirely confident that I’ve been paid a compliment, I don’t bothering extending gratitude.

My leg bounces frantically to the sound of the ringer. I can’t go back to the group with nothing in my hands—not even the answer of no.

“Paul!” His voice—abundant with charm and the comfort of a man at home. Sucking in a sharp breath, the butterflies invade my stomach, but quickly transform to dust, hearing tiny high-pitch screams out of recreation, or whatever other reason a little one would scream. “What’s going on, man?”

“Eh—you might want to get alone.”

Sounds and artifacts of a full house seem to get louder for a second, before fading and dispersing altogether. I breathe again.

“Everything okay?”

“Joey, I have Alana on the line…”

In between making out his background, getting lost in the warmth that is his voice and picturing what he looks like in the light of day—I don’t realize that might’ve been my cue to talk, until there’s nothing to listen to for a while.

“—Hi,” I blurt into the silence of the call.

“Did something happen? What’s going on?”

“No—no. Nothing’s wrong.” I rush to disarm him. Your secret thing on the side, calling midday is grounds for immediate anxiety. “I just really need to ask you something, that’s all.”

“…Okay.”

“It’s—and you can say no.” I offer a disclaimer, but no, is not something I need to hear right now. “It’s my birthday and—”

“Happy birthday.” His deep voice intercepts.

“Thank you…It’s tomorrow—but still, thank you.” The clearing of Paul’s throat, magnifies just how awkward and abnormal this whole exchange is. “Uh, we booked a boat. But when we got here, the captain told us he gave our slot away to someone else, since they already paid a-and they’re a regular customer of his.” Get to the point, Lana. “I guess I’m just—I don’t know—maybe you have a boat or something that we could use?” I wince at the deafening silence. Preparing myself to hear the word—

“No captain? Just the boat?”

There’s an underlying amusement in his tone— a resemblance to the man I’ve spent countless erotic nights with, lying in an unnecessarily large bed, pillow talking.

“Yeah, I would need a captain too.” I bite my lip in an effort to not laugh.

“Right. Where are you?”

“…Miami…South Beach…”

All the times he’s requested my presence, it’s never been this close. I’ve never been this close. We don’t touch Florida. No—Florida is where Joe, happily married with five kids lives.

“You’re in Miami? Right now?”

“Yes,” I reveal—holding my breath in angst for whatever comes next.

“…Alright…I got it. I’ll make something happen.”

If Paul were in front of me, I’d stick my tongue out like I used to when my brother painted me as a villain, just for my dad to wave a hand at any wrong doing from his only daughter.

“Thank you—”

“There is one condition,” he adds.

“Yeah?”

“You’ll come see me later?”

A familiar tingling invades my core and my face grows hot at him doing this in front of Paul. “Where?”

“Not too far from you. Reach out to Paul when you’re ready.”

“Okay—and Joe?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

I stroll back to the group with good news and better plans than we originally had. We wait—and wait—and wait. Buzz from the alcohol and meter of excitement plummeting with every fifteen minute interval that passes us by. We walk down to the beach to get our feet wet and pass the time. To escape the raft of the Florida sun—we all bunch together under a palm tree for a while, before walking back to the deck where I assume whatever captain he sends will meet us.

The time on my phone reads 10:51 A.M. An entire hour and a half past the time we arrived. Releasing all the air in my lungs, I uncross my arms and turn to face the ocean. Demi leans on the rail bars beside me with the rest of our group beside her. Everyone on their phones, heads hanging to the side in defeat. Anthony sits on the cooler we brought, filled with two bottles of 1942, most likely floating in water in place of the ice now.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Naive. And more importantly, delusional. If in their heads they all judge me in this moment, it's well deserved. Expectation invites disappointment. This is not us. It's not apart of this thing we have. Favors, promises and whatnot. I don't know what I was thinking even asking that of him.

A low snicker beside me, pulls me from my dispirited thoughts. Raising a brow, I turn my head at Demi, whose shoulders are shaking in laughter.

“You know when people call their life a movie?” I frown awaiting for her conclusion. “Ours must be a fucking Telenovela.” She nods to the pathway we had to walk to get down here.

The sight that greets me as I turn around has my jaw hitting me the floor. “What the fuck?”

“Hello, ladies!” He beams before he even reaches us. “And gent. My name is Paul Heyman.” He places spread fingers over his chest. Sun reflecting off the brown tinted sunglasses adorning his face. Linen short set flapping from the breeze of the salty Atlantic not far from where we stand. “And I will be your humble captain aboard today.” Clasping both hands togethers he scans the young faces pointing back at him. Not a Telenovela, but a fucking horror movie.

I stare at him. A cloud of angst looming over me hoping—no praying, that no one here has watched WWE within the last decade.

Cutting the lingering silence like a butcher knife, Anthony stands. “Well, it's about time Mr. Heyman. I have a tan and I haven’t shook my ass once. Something is wrong with that picture.”

“It’s shot o’clock bitches!” One of the twins announces, sparking life back into the group. I can breathe again.

We follow Paul down the other end of the dock. The boats growing bigger in size the further we walk. When he stops—holding his hand out like he’s showcasing an antique car for sale—all of our necks crane up to view the masterpiece that makes Shiloh’ s boat look like a canoe. The Last Laugh.

“Oh, this is my kind of carrying on!” Aaliyah cheeses.

My eyes immediately find Demi’s. “A generous Tribal Chief,” she mouths.

Paul lays down the rules of the day. The basics. No jumping overboard when the yacht is in motion, responsible drinking, no items thrown overboard, and life jackets on when he says so.

One by one they file up to the flybridge area. I stay behind and wait until I can only hear the distant hum of their voices, to speak. I clear my throat dramatically to steal his attention.

“What?” He asks with a look of genuine confusion. “All the captains I know were booked and busy. Apparently it's still spring break season.” He moves about gathering things while I stand here dumfounded.

Don't get me wrong, I’m appreciate as fuck, but how is this happening right now? Who even knew he could drive a boat?

He stops his pursuit once he realizes I haven’t moved yet.

“Consider it a birthday gift—”

“From my Tribal Chief. I know.”

“Oh, no.” He places a chubby hand to his chest with that smile that usually predates mischief on television. “This one’s all me.”

“Thank you, Paul.” The gratitude is deeper than anything that’s transpired today. Although, a hassle and a piece of work in his own right—Paul has served as the glue to this whole arrangement. Seemingly, going unnoticed since he is not the object of my affection.

“Don’t mention it.” I nod, turning away to join everybody else upstairs. “No seriously. Don’t mention it. He’d die if he knew I came myself.” Lovely. No one told me adulthood is just burying yourself in endless secrets, until you’ve curated a web so intricate and endless you get tangled and stuck in it.

Reaching the top of the steps, the fever of Miami greets me along with a bottle of 1942. Anthony holds it up with a hand under my chin. “Let's go, bitch. We running behind!”

The wait for our mystery captain was worth every sun soaking minute. From the very second he revs up the engine and leads us into the unforgivable blue Atlantic, the spirit of vacation hits us hard.

Cover-ups go flying off, more than enough drinks are distributed, while hips sway in hypnotic motions and ass shakes to the ongoing rotation of Sexyy Red, Bossman D Low, and any other artist who gets us in that mode. We bring the club to the boat, and even sneak a piece of that relentless east coast swag onboard, as the powerful beat of Jadakiss’ Knock Yourself Out, derives from the speaker.

“And, yeah, here go a blank check, rock yourself out! But in the mean time, girl, knock yourself out!” Demi and I scream the lyrics in each other’s faces, hand going, while liquid spills from the full cups in our other. I have officially reached that pinnacle in my twenties where I can relate to the lyrics of the music I fill my head with. Artists painting pictures of luxury, celebration, wealth and nights to remember. It’s times like these I remind myself just how blessed I am, and I swell with gratitude.

“Oh, you modeling, momma?!” Anthony—the missing piece to our chaotic puzzle—joins in matching our energy. Vintage VHS Camcorder glued to his hand, to ensure this moment lasts longer than us.

When Paul comes up to inform the party that we’ve stopped and can swim, it's game over. Bright bathing suits on brown skin, jumping into the glistening blue waters from both sides of the sea-ridden vessel.

The whole scene is something from a 2000’s R&B music video. It’s young, it's wild, it’s reckless, it's free.

My heart nearly snaps in half as we dock back where we started at South Beach. We arrive earlier than expected. Not quite ready to head back to the hotel to get ready for our next venture. So, we decide to explore South Beach to kill the time.

The alcohol and excitement still lingering on us. Aaliyah finds somewhat of a gym on the beach. Swinging on bars and allowing a man built like an action figure to assist her in pull-ups by pushing from her round ass. Anthony and the twins play volleyball with a group of fine ass women in G-string bikinis, and even finer men with six, seven, and eight packs.

In between it all, Demi and I find a hammock to unwind on. Enjoying the afternoon breeze and magnetic view of the cerulean sea kissing the clear sky. It's a sight. Being by the ocean always feels so liberating. The freedom in the waves swishing and dancing whichever way they please, a reminder to human life that we can always change and we have free will.

When my dad’s cancer progressed and he found himself more depleted and sicker than he had ever been, he’d pack me and my brother up and drive all the way to the shore in Jersey City. He never went in the water, for his body was too weak. He’d watch us. And for hours he’d study the ocean. Ogling at the waves—mighty and unforgiving, but also majestic and seductive in a way. As a teenager I didn’t really understand. But right now…I get it. In this moment—Daddy I get it.

We lay in serenity. The seagulls singing to us combining with the crashing of waves, and hum of activity further down the beach where the bigger crowd is.

Demi begins to twist and play with the costume heart-shaped ring on her finger. A footprint of her late sister’s brief life. The fiddling of it, an indication—that I've picked up on over the years—that something is weighing on her.

“What’s wrong, Demi?”

"Nothing just…thinking about how much things are gonna change after graduation. How much things have already changed…”

“What do you mean?”

“Our lives are just gonna look different is all.” She shrugs. Her jaw flexes a bit as I focus on the side of her face I can see. “I'm just—I don’t know.” Witnessing the single tear slide down her cheek has a storm brewing inside of me now. “I don’t know if I'm ready for this next phase. I just really like the way things are now. We're all together. We're young. Everyone's healthy—and happy…and I just know that won't always be the case, you know?” Too scared to interrupt up her—I just listen a little harder. “The day—” Her voice cracks so she clears her throat. “The day I lost them—things were just like this. And then it just all went to shit so quick.”

“Demi.” I pull her closer as a river flows from her eyes. The tragedy that came of her father and little sister, lives in that same box I’ve housed my father’s battle with cancer. We’ve pushed that box in the attic and put a bolt lock on it together.

Demi has always been the stronger of us. Unfortunately, a side effect of always appearing strong, means a lot of things get barricaded inside, until it becomes too much and you're left with no choice but to release. The sight before me is devastating. It's my turn to stand firm so she can lean on me as I do her.

“Look at me,” I instruct. Our teary eyes meet. “I'm not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever. Things aren't going to change. They're just going to get better. We're getting older—we’ll find better ways to live life, is all.” I knock her apprehensions down even though mine build a house and grow comfortable in my own head.

Time is a scary concept. The future is just so unclear. No one really knows. We can only hope. I don’t have a crystal ball. I can only pray that the words I speak align with what’s to come.

Timestamps and transitions from one destination to the next, seem to blur as the day progresses. The frequency of the continuous alcohol casts a shield around us to keep us lively and afloat. The Liquid IV’s we’ve consumed before leaving the hotel this morning, working double time to keep us up.

Walking through the doors of club LIV was like entering a portal to a different world. One where everybody’s religion was euphoria, and alcohol is the holy water to ascend us. The atmosphere is charged and intoxicating. Miami nightlife is top two and it is not number two.

Florescent beaming lights switching from red to blue to purple and beyond, blind me. We sit high up at a table overlooking the rest of the club. Bottles of overpriced tequila and chasers making their way back and forth, spilling with every song that gets us up out of our seats. Confetti falls and covers everybody like snow, creating a dream-like effect.

Letting the liquor possess me, I swirl my hips, shut my eyes, and shake my head side to side to match the nostalgic beat. Hair swaying with my cup held high, I get lost in the moment. Forgetting everything for just a minute. Syllabi, bills, the haunting future, and whatever else bullshit awaits me back at home—all forgotten. It doesn’t exist here.

At some point in the night I find myself venturing off to release the barrier that is my bladder. Sneaking off and subtly stumbling away, I zero in on the lit sign sticking out with the little female cartoon, indicating the girl’s restroom. I look down and realize I still have a cup in my hand. Drunk shit.

With liquid pushing on my bladder, my steps become more frantic in the Tom Ford heels, knocking me off balance for a quick second.

“Woah, woah!” A deep voice emerges amidst the pumping bass. I collide into a hard chest as strong arms brace my shoulders, preventing me from falling any further.

“Oh my god!” The stain of liquid on his crisp white tee can’t be missed, even under the blue light we stand in. “I’m sorry—I am so sorry—”

I snatch my eyes from the stain to acknowledge the stranger that just saved me. His sharp jaw flexes as he looks down at his white tee, fingering the wet spot. He shakes a hand out beside him to remove the excess liquid on it, still holding onto me with his other.

When his eyes meet mine, they almost look translucent in this light, but it's only me who feels sheer. They’re hypnotic, like he can read my mind and bend it to his will. My gaze jumps to his mouth. Pink and plump, with a sharp outline of hair over his top lip, connecting to a goatee. The light hits him at a different angle and something in his ear flashes like a camera. I squint at the 23 earring.

I clear my throat, snapping back to reality. Stop staring, Lana.

Like he actually can read my thoughts, he flashes a sparkling smile, revealing two picture perfect rows of teeth. It's then, I begin to drink him in, in his entirety. Goddamn.

“You keep moving like that, I might have to recommend you to my coach.”

My own smile cracks through. “I was just trying to get to the bathroom.” I explain. An infestation of intrigue of the fine ass mystery in front of me, replacing the urge to pee. "I'm sorry," I repeat.

“Don't be.” In the smoothest fashion and still with only one hand to himself, he reaches behind to remove the tarnished tee up and off his body, showcasing a row of keen defined abs covered in graphic ink—just as his solid arms are. “You got us both.” He nods down to my white tank. A splash of liquid covering the left side. The thin fabric soaking, giving full view of my erect nipple. Oh god. I rush to cover it, pulling a laugh from him. He nods in the direction of my original pursuit. “Why don’t you go ‘head. Meet me back out here. I think I got something for that.”

After handling my business, he leads me to the entrance of the club. The cloudy and intoxicating atmosphere dispersing as we enter into the fresh night air.

His bare back is strong and I take advantage of being able to watch without disturbance, while he looks through the glove compartment of his matte black Mercedes AMG. He just reeks of new money. Probably newly drafted or something.

He turns, undoing the plastic of a brand new pack of white undershirts. He takes one for himself and then holds another out.

“You keep an extra pack of undershirts with you?” I eye him crossing my arms.

“Yeah. For when pretty girls get too drunk in the club and start spilling shit.”

“I’m not drunk.” My tongue rests on the inside of my cheek, fighting back the smile as I take the crisp white undershirt. “Thank you.”

We switch places. I sit in the passenger as he stands in front of me, scanning my entire body. I make wide eyes and twirl my finger.

“Girl.” He sucks his teeth chuckling, but still turning away. His large frame shielding me from the crowd not too far from us on the sidewalk. I remove the soiled tank and replace it, tying a knot in the back to maintain the cropped look.

“I know you ain't traveling solo?”

“Nope.”

“Where is he?”

I smirk to myself, picking up what he puts down. “They are inside. Probably going crazy, thinking I got snatched up.” I adjust the top of the tank so the right amount of cleavage is exposed. “Good now.” I inform him.

“Well, did I?” He turns in place, dangerously close to my face.

“Did you what?” My eyes bounce back and forth between his tranquil eyes and those lips.

“Snatch you up? I mean you tried to tackle me a few minutes ago. So, I think that’s a fair trade.”

A giggle escapes me as I return his intense stare. The alcohol giving me a much needed boost. “Is that what you do for a living? Tackle people?”

“Yes ma’am.” He confirms. “Number twenty-three.” He angles his head to the side to flash the earring I caught in the club earlier. “Green Bay. You into football?” I shake my head.

“I don't know the first thing. My best friend is a die hard Bird though.”

“All them Eagles fans are die hard. She must be intense.”

“That she is.” I grin.

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“You seem pretty chill.”

“Frick and frat. We balance each other out, I think.”

“Is that what you do for a living? Balance people out? Cause you didn’t have much balance back in there.” He chuckles pointing behind.

I playfully nudge his arm. “Oh shut up. And no, I’m in school.”

“For?”

“I’m a Bio major. I wanna be a neuro-oncologist.”

“Damn. So, you like real smart, huh?”

“I do alright.”

“Beauty and brains? Where you been hiding all my life?”

We do this dance with our eyes. Lips twitching in threatening smiles. The world fades away for a bit. I snap out of the trance and slide down and off the leather seat, landing right in his space.

We spin, trading places as I make my way back to the entrance. If anyone is witnessing this, they’d probably think we were shooting a damn music video.

“Wait—that’s it?” I raise a brow. “I stop you from busting up that pretty face—pretty knees unscathed. Gave you a fresh one and that’s all I get?”

A warmth spreads inside me. His amusement contagious. Then his face clouds my mind and I’m reminded of my night’s premeditated destination.

My shoulders go up and then down, not being able to muster the words no to combat his persistence. “Alright look.” He leans up and off the car, reaching inside again for a moment. He backs out with a pen and paper in his hand, scribbling something while taking the necessary steps to me. “How about I give you my number.” He holds the paper out for me. “That way the ball is in your court. No pressure lil’ mama.” No pressure? There’s nothing but pressure building up in my chest at the sight of you.

My eyes flicker down to the paper. I weigh my options. Brain still cloudy from tequila and the thrill of the night’s festivities—I accept it. “I’m Jaire by the way.” I’ve never met this man before and somehow the way he speaks his own name to me is familiar. Comforting. Like a hug from a distant relative you see on Thanksgiving that you used to be thicker than thieves with when younger.

“Alana.”

“Alana,” he repeats. Something deep lurches within me like it's reaching for him. I nod taking a deep breath. We both just stand in each other’s space for what feels like forever. I’m the first to step back. “Thank you, again.”

He watches me struggle to backpedal toward the building. “You be careful. Alana.”

Lights. Thirty years from now, when my kids ask me what I remember from partying in Miami for my twenty-second birthday— that’s what I'll tell them. I remember the lights. Neon, flashing and oh so bright. And the palm trees. They're everywhere.

They cascade upon the window I have half-way rolled down in the back of this black suburban. It's three in the morning and the city is still as awake as it was when we docked from the boat. The wind and humidity hitting me all at once. My gaze training on the groups of pedestrians. Women in high heels and cut out dresses. Men in the kind of cars you only see in music videos. I could get used to this.

“Here you are, miss.” The driver drops me in front of a condo building I can’t even see the top of, even if I crane my neck all the way up. Just the outside looks like they’d charge me to do a walk-through. The colorful sports cars lining the round drive way serve as a testament to this theory.

My heels clack slow against the marble floors. Completely out of place, eyeing the businessmen in suits and women with evening attire— I make way to what looks like the elevators, like Paul instructed. I stand and wait until I hear the ding. The steel doors open and my breath is stolen. Dressing in only a fitted tank and black basketball shorts, he looks superior to all the men I just passed.

The ride up is silent, but stimulating. Every time I’m in his space, it feels like the first time. A tornado brewing in my stomach mixing with the flirtatious acts of a first date. Subtle touches—like his pinky grazing against mine. Shifty eyes—like how ours snag every once in a while and I have to prevent myself from jumping right on him in the enclosed space. The alcohol now settling in more sensitive areas. The hand he places on the small of my back to guide me around isn’t helping.

“Let me show you around.” He maneuvers his large frame ahead of me, holding a hand back for me to take. My stomach does summersaults once we connect.

I don't know if it's the alcohol, but the condo feels like a palace. He leads me further and further, exposing a different room, a different space, so extensive almost like it shouldn’t fit. Everything pristine and cream colored. Appliances either a white marble or steel so sleek, I can see my reflection in the dark. The blue lights from the pool, glow through the sliding door that leads to the balcony. He drags me out and the view looks like a piece of heaven. The whole skyline is lit up. I can see everything from up here, almost like I’m on top of the world, mirroring the feeling in the center of my chest when I feel him staring. The wind blows my hair in my face slightly as I turn to meet him.

“What?”

He shakes his head. Those big eyes sparkling. “You straightened your hair again?”

“I did.” I run a hand through it. “You don’t like it?”

“It's perfect.” Heat ensues as we stay focused on one another. “How was the boat?” He inquires, leading us to the cream chaise lounge chairs set up.

“The boat—” I have to take pause, remembering the Captain Who Wasn’t Supposed To Be. “Um, it was amazing. Thank you, again. I know it was real short notice.”

“Captain was alright? Treated you good?” I move to sit on the one next to him, but he pulls me into his warm lap instead.

“Mmhmm.” I hum. He nods while, leaving a trail of goosebumps where his slightly rough hand rubs my bare thigh.

“That’s good. It's past midnight. Officially twenty-two?”

“Yup. I don’t feel any different yet. What did you feel at twenty-two?”

He blows a big breath past those luscious lips, raising his brows. “Shit. That was a lifetime ago. I wouldn’t even recognize a twenty-two year old Joe if he walked up on me.”

“I feel the same way about my teenage self. I guess that feeling never goes away then?”

“Not really. Time is…”

“Scary,” I finish for him. Just this time last year, we were the most unlikely pair. Me on one side of the map, him on this side. Me, completely enthralled by his character and even more captivated by the wee flashes of the man behind the pyro lights he chose to share with the world. “You ever—You ever feel like life is moving too fast? Like you almost can’t keep up?” The alcohol pushes me through translating my thoughts to my mouth. The conversation with Demi on the hammock has been poking at the back of my mind.

He takes awhile to answer. The pause makes me feel uneasy. Have I said something wrong? I should’ve just kept my drunk thoughts to myse—

“All the time,” he whispers just inches from my face. I hone in on the distant look in his eyes. I’ve never wanted to get inside of another person’s brain so bad. He has his own thoughts—his own internal strife that he’ll probably never share with me. It's unfortunate, because I’ve come to adore him so much, that I’d hold his hand the whole way as he tackles them.

His eyes switch to mine and instead of shying away like I usually would, I fall deeper into him. I don’t know how it happens. I don’t know who leans in first. Our lips crash into one another’s. This kiss is passionate. Lustful, with a hint of something else lingering. It accelerates like a glass rolling down the steps. Breath hitching and faces meshing into one another. It's all a blur, but the feeling is distinct. Pleasure. Bliss.

I rise slightly to straddle him. My sequin skirt rising, granting him the opportunity to grab two handfuls of ass. “I could kiss you all day,” he mumbles after nipping my bottom lip.

A smirk plasters my face as his comment ignites something in me. My mouth finds his again and then his thick neck, ready to come undone for him.

“Not while you’re drunk. Okay?” He puts a big red stop sign up.

“I’m not drunk. I swear.” I try to muster up the most convincing tone possible. “I can walk in a straight line. Look.”

I rise in the six inch Tom Ford heels. His eyes following my every movement as I put one foot in front of the other. That unnatural, warping focus only alcohol can bring takes over me and on the fourth step, my ankle almost gives out. He rises in my peripheral and is at my side in a flash.

“Let's—let's just take it easy. Okay?” I don’t miss the smirk pulling at his lips.

He guides me back to the seat by my hips. Crouching down and undoing the strap of my heels one at a time. “Thank you.” He nods.

“The last thing I need is you falling in the pool, babygirl.”

“It's the heels, I swear.”

“Of course it is.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle, accessorizing the grin covering the bottom half of his face. He has the prettiest smile. I love how it always reaches his eyes.

“What?”

“Your eyes…”

“What about them?” His lips twitch almost in a smirk. They’re fucking beautiful. But there’s no way he doesn’t know that. Years of being hassled by erratic fans and almost a decade of marriage. He’s probably been paid every compliment there is. So, instead of answering what he must already know, I lean in again. Pressing my lips to his. Softly as first, but the more our lips meet the more urgent it becomes. Tongues colliding and hands gripping. And somehow I end up on top of him again. I feel his member jump under me, and I slip a hand down to show it attention, earning something between a growl and a groan from him.

“Lana.” He strains, breathless, breaking the kiss. A firm hand gripping my wrist. So much for birthday sex. Anthony will not be happy to hear that his mission has failed.

“What’s next for you?” I swirl my feet in the cool water of the infinity pool, creating ripples. “I see you took a step back.”

“Can’t tell you that. Then you wouldn’t watch when it's time.” He sits next to me on the edge of the pool.

“That’s not true. I watch even when The Tribal Chief is not in attendance. Of course you’re the main reason I watch. The Bloodline story really is a sight to see. Y’all really came a long way. Especially you.”

“What do you think my best match was?”

“Mm,” I hum. Eyes rolling up to rake through my brain. “Probably you and Brock. Wrestle-mania 38.”

“Really?” His face twists.

I nod. “You don’t think so?”

“I mean—I’ve had better.”

“That was Brock Lesnar. And you literally buried that man. Everybody likes to talk shit about how you didn’t do it yourself. How the Usos helped. But I think that’s the whole point of the Bloodline story. Y’all do what y’all love and you always do it together. Always show up for each other.”

“I never looked at it like that.”

“What do you think your best match is?”

“Honestly— I don’t think I have one.”

“Awe come on. There has to be at least one. One that you always think about?”

“Hell In A Cell. Me and Josh. It was like a rebirth. It was the match that really jumpstarted this whole Bloodline thing…”

In the wake of diving into the topic of his career, his eyes light up—like a child recapping their favorite animated movie. A writer describing their favorite novel. An artist letting you hear their favorite artists’ catalogue.

Seldom. When most people are probed about their career path, there is a subtle dread that spells I didn’t choose this—it just happened. A more than unfortunate symptom of adulthood. Choosing the path you had to, not the one you wanted.

Not him. No— he loves what he does. He’s one of the lucky few. Watching his eyes sparkle, I almost lose sight of the words coming out of his mouth. Too busy admiring him, I have to force myself to pay attention as I catch the last bit of his words.

“It was a crazy time, really. So much was happening even behind the scenes.” His eyes reach mine. “I wish we could’ve me—”

His words trail off and silence controls him like he’s possessed. “What?” My eyebrows dent.

He shakes his head. The energy that was previously lighthearted and carefree feels heavy. I develop chills even though it's humid as fuck out here.

The sound of the water is loud as he rises from the edge. “I think I’m gonna call it a night.” He holds a hand out.

“Um…I think I’m gonna stay out here for a little bit longer…”

He looks like he doesn’t want to leave, but something is pulling him. And I don’t believe it's sleep. “Alright,” he finally says. “You can come in when you’re ready.” I lean back on my palms, admiring the scenery. “Don’t drown please.”

I laugh to myself. “Are you gonna take your shirt off and come save me?” I tease with one eyebrow raising, looking back at him. He flashes that Colgate commercial smile before disappearing inside.

It seems the better it gets—the more experiences we convey to each other—the deeper into each other’s minds we dig—the darker the end seems. The more severe the unorthodox circumstances surrounding this thing seems.

But I can’t worry about that shit right now. Not when I’m sitting on the twenty-seventh floor, of a Downtown Miami condo, overlooking the skyline of one of the most lively cities ever, at just twenty-two. Bank account ornate with commas. A drop-dead gorgeous superstar in the bed waiting for me.

Happy birthday to me.

A/N // I thought I’d share this. Y’all deserved it. 250+ followers is crazy considering I just started posting my work. Forever grateful and I appreciate every single one of you! (Also, I heard that allegedly Papa will be at work for two more weeks so I got a little excited)

I realized by doing so many time jumps, I kind of robbed you all of seeing the little moments and progression of the characters and their relationships. With that being said, this most likely won't be the last short I post. I'll try to actually keep them short lol

- What are your thoughts on the relationship between Paul and Lana?

- Any extra thoughts about Jaire and Lana now that you see how they met?

- Any thoughts about the conversation between Demi and Lana on the hammock? Do you agree with her perspective?

- What do you think Joe was about to say before he stopped himself?

As always, if you read it or even just a portion, I am forever grateful and appreciative.

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