“If I like to fuck, and he likes to fuck, how does that make us different? Why do his friends talk about me like a piece of meat when mine talk about him as if he hung the moon? Why do my guys never call again, but his women sext him the second they leave his bed?”
One more deep breath. “When they say it’s a man’s world, they must be talking about the bedroom. Glass ceilings are shattering. We’ll have a female president someday. But only if she’s never slept around. Because a male president can get head in the Oval Office, but no goddamn dirty whore is ever going to be good enough to run our country.”
She drops her head and steps back from the mic.
There’s a second of stunned silence, but a woot from the audience breaks it just before the entire place breaks into thundering applause. Blaire bows with a flourish, then skips off the stage with a smile and wave.
I’m still reeling as I turn to the room and watch the first score go up—the guy in the back who’s been tough on everyone tonight. A ten. One 9.9 pops up before two more tens and a 9.6.
I watch her wend her way back to me and my gut reaction is to bolt as the fight or flight reflex takes control. If I understood what she just said, she’s down with getting dirty. Filthy. And I want to fucking roll her in the mud so hard I can taste it. But I can’t.
Not yet.
She slips back into the seat next to me and pulls off her scarf, hooking an elbow behind the backrest.
And, Christ, this girl is going to be the fucking death of me.
Her shirt is damp with stage sweat and there is definitely no bra. The thin cotton fabric hugs tight nipples at the tips of breasts that aren’t big enough to be fake, but are firm and round and a perfect handful.
“What did you think?” she asks a little breathily.
“It was…” I swallow. “Just fucking…wow.”
“Not exactly Blake or Byron,” she says, trying and failing to hide a cocky smirk. “I don’t think Professor Duncan really understood what I was talking about when I said I write poetry.”
A smile blooms over my face with the image of Blaire reciting that poem in Dr. Duncan’s class. “Poetry’s not really about iambic pentameter and rhyming anymore, is it?”
“It is and it isn’t.” She slips my scotch glass from my fingers and takes a slow sip. I memorize the curve of her neck and the way her throat moves as she swallows. She lowers the glass to the table and watches her index finger trace the rim. I memorize the shape of her hands and her slender fingers tipped in midnight blue polish. “I think that’s how we all started and I still enjoy writing that kind of poetry. Traditional poetry is important for teaching us how to craft language. But slam poetry is more about rhythm and execution than actual rhyming and structure.” She brushes the errant strand of hair behind her ear. As she lifts her eyes to mine, they sink three layers deeper into me than anyone else’s ever have and moor themselves to my soul. “Nothing about slam poetry is timid or restrained. It doesn’t speak; it screams.”
I close my hand over hers on my glass. “It was incredible. You were incredible.”
I’m losing myself in her eyes. She’s got the power to do that to me—make everything else just fade out until the only thing in my world is her.
“Hey, Blaire!”
The voice rips me out of Blaire and I look up at the MC, standing on her other side.
“You were seriously killing it up here tonight!” he says with a grin. But I don’t miss how his eyes slip to me and narrow slightly.
“Thanks,” she says.
His eyes move between us. “This your uncle or something?”
My throat constricts.
“Caiden, this is Craig,” she says, flipping a hand at him, “the owner’s son. Craig, this is my friend, Caiden.”
He holds out his hand. I take it and he squeezes more than shakes. “Blaire is something, huh? Had you heard her read before?”
“No, I hadn’t, and yes, she is.”
Blaire stands. “We’ve got to go,” she says, grabbing her bag from under the table. She starts toward the door and flips a wave behind her. “See you next month, Craig.”
I follow but her progress is slow. Everyone wants a piece of her. They’ve all got a hug or a pat on the back for her, and she seems to know them all by name. I stand to the side, preferring that she doesn’t try to introduce me to any more of them and, finally, we make our escape.
Compared to the steamy bar, it’s cold when we step outside onto the walk.
“It’s freezing out here,” she says, wrapping her scarf around her neck, then hugging herself. “You want to get some coffee or something?”
Every fiber in my body wants to wrap itself around her and warm her from the inside out. “Coffee sounds great.”
“The Bean is just up the street. If they’re still open…”
I take her elbow and we walk in the direction she indicated. “How long have you been performing your poetry?”
“About two years.”