Hold My Breath(40)

He was joking with me, which, in so many ways, is the Will I crave. But I felt those few seconds throughout my entire body—between my thighs, in my chest, and along my tingling lips. That one small practical joke brought back the feel of Will against me, his mouth on mine, his tongue on the inside of my leg, and it takes more strength hiding that from him right now than it does to swim the fifty in twenty-three seconds.

With little hesitation, I fan out the ones in my hand and blink at him, as if I’m unfazed and bored by his performance. I reach into the center of the stack with my thumb and finger, pulling out a single dollar, and then I reach forward and tuck it in the neck of his shirt, pressing it flat against him while my eyes meet his and his laughing comes to a pause.

“I’m gonna need change for that,” I say.

His eyes are on the place where my hand rests against his chest. For a brief second, I think maybe he’s flashing back to that moment of weakness, too. His lip curls, though, and his chin lifts as he slides from his stool, backing away from me toward the bar.

“You got it, darlin’,” he says. “Two waters, coming right up.”

I wink and nod, a little proud and a little guilty that he’s drinking water in a place that serves alcohol. He wanted to come here, though. Well, not here, but booze flows at any strip club. You have to be a little drunk, I think, to let go of the inhibitions that make it hard to enter these places in the first place.

But not Will Hollister. Not this Will Hollister. He walks away with his head held high, nodding to half-dressed men as if he knows them, not a glimmer of redness from being embarrassed. He owns this strip joint, just like he owns the water.

Kinda like he’s starting to own me.



Somehow, my prank turns into one of the best afternoons I have had in ages. Will and I both grade the performers on their dancing, and we decide to give the biggest tips to the guys with the least amount of coordination. We dub our mission the Maddy-Will College Fund, and by the end of our afternoon, we’ve earned ourselves a fan club of male strippers, some who actually run over to give us hugs goodbye before we walk out into the hot parking lot, orange-lit from the setting sun.

We don’t speak about any of it until we’re in the car for a few miles—then, out of nowhere, we both burst into laughter, the uncontrollable kind that tears up in our eyes.

“You do know, that small guy at the end was also named Will, right?” I glance over at him, his body relaxed and his mouth stretched into a smile that makes his eyes crease with happiness.

“Why do you think I gave him the rest of the cash? I gotta take care of my Wills, darlin’,” he says, putting on a drawl to his tone.

“You’re his pimp now, are you?” I tease.

Will pulls his right leg up, propping his foot on the seat and leaning into the door, his elbow resting on his knee while his teeth hold onto his thumbnail. All the while, he smiles. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

This lighter mood continues for most of our drive, and we talk about the old days—when there were three of us and we were all young and stupid. We talk about hiding in my dad’s storage closet at the club until he had to put something away, just so we could scare him. And we reminisce about holidays at the club—swimming on Thanksgiving, even the year when we couldn’t get the pool heater to work. The only time we give pause is when we mention Christmas, but neither of us falls into the trap of thinking about the one worst Christmas. We don’t go there; we stay in the light, and we laugh about Evan and we laugh at ourselves. It feels like it should, until Will’s phone buzzes.

We’re close to the club, maybe five miles out, when he pulls his phone from his back pocket, tilting it just out of my view. He silences it immediately, and begins to put it back in his pocket, so I dismiss it. Until it happens again. Another buzz, and suddenly everything about him changes. Over and over, his eyes shift to me briefly while someone calls.

“It’s okay…if you need to take that,” I say.

I watch him in glances. He stares at the phone intently, his mouth shut tight as he takes a deep but short breath through his nose. His eyes fall shut, and I look back to the empty highway ahead, determined not to make this into something.

“Hey,” he says. It’s a familiar answer, his voice soft and warm. I wonder if I called him, if that’s how he’d answer for me. I feel stupid for wondering this.

“What did they give you as the cause?”

I look over at his question, his arm still propped on his leg, but his thumb is pressed on the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut while his hand cups his phone against his ear. Whatever is being said on the other end isn’t good news—that much is clear.

“Okay,” he sighs.

“Everything all right?” I whisper. He turns his head to me and his lips paint a fake smile while he nods. I recognize it—we both made it to each other a lot before today, before this past week.

“No, it’s all right. You can call anytime. I want to know.”

He’s quiet for several seconds, listening to the other end, his thumb again pressed into his forehead.

“Okay. Yeah…I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he says, ending the call and dropping his phone to the pocket on the opposite side of me.

I pull us off the highway, onto the exit for the main road through town. We’re minutes away from the club, and I’m not sure if I want to press the gas to make them fly by, or if I want to coast and draw this out.