Page 36 of Illegal Formation
“So here’s my proposal,” I said, crossing my arms with a decisive nod. “Maybe we both try easing up a little.”
He followed my gaze to the car.
“Maybe this is step one.” I bumped his shoulder. “Buy the damn Bronco, Braden. You can afford it. And you deserve it.”
His throat constricted, Adam’s apple bobbing hard with his next swallow. “Why do I feel like I’m about to jump off a fucking bridge?”
I laughed. “Well, choosing yourself when you’re so used to putting yourself last can feel like that. Come on,” I said, linking my arm through his. “I’ll jump with you.”
His nostrils flared, and I would have sworn his eyes misted a little if he hadn’t put his sunglasses back on so quickly I couldn’t be sure. Before I could take a step toward the Bronco, Braden tugged me to wait.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “For listening.”
I nodded. “Thanks for listening to me, too.”
“I’m surprised you told me as much as you did,” he admitted as we started walking.
“That makes two of us. Don’t expect that to become a habit.”
“Back to sex jokes?”
“I was actuallyjustgoing to make one about christening this sexy new car of yours… what do you think?” I nudged his shoulder. “Back seat, or should I ride you cowgirl style in the front?”
Braden shook his head, groaning a bit as he reached down to adjust himself in his shorts. “Pain in my fucking ass.”
“What? Embarrassed by how often you’ve had to hide your boner around me?”
“You won’t be laughing when I call you on it one day,” he said, arching a brow. “I bet all that talk would disappear the moment I slid my hand up your skirt. Bet I’d find you dripping before I even got you undressed.”
A muscle tightened low and hot in my belly at his words, at how they rumbled low and deliciously dirty out of that perfect mouth of his.
“I pray I see that day,” I shot back.
And I meant it.
Emily
I loved being a girl.
Sure, we faced more than our fair share of shit — lower wages than men, subpar healthcare, lawmakers who didn’t even understand female anatomy trying to make regulations on our body. There were an infinite amount of reasons to be pissed at the system and to continue fighting for women’s rights every day.
And also, there were infinite reasons why being a girl was the fucking best.
Girlhood, for one. You ever look around and see a group of guys giggling and holding onto each other while they sip martinis and share their biggest fears in a safe space? Definitely not. Women will unpack their entire emotional history with someone they met twenty minutes ago in a bathroom line. Men need at least three beers and a playoff loss to even admit they’re sad. Even then, that’s the end of the discussion.
And then there’s the way women celebrate each other — like the moment someone steps out in a new outfit and the entireroom loses its mind, screaming, hyping her up like she’s just walked the runway at Fashion Week.
But what had me appreciating being a girl more than usual on a sunny day in mid-June was that mywhole jobconsisted of getting all dressed up and taking pictures with my teammates — my friends.
Nothing was more fun than that.
There were lashes and clouds of hair spray everywhere in our dressing room, my teammates running this way and that between taking photos for the roster website, videos for team promotion, or making their own social media posts. I had one stylist tending to my hair while the other finished up my makeup, and for the first time, I was wearingmyuniform.
Not the ill-fitting ones we borrowed for community events up to this point —mine.
It was one of my favorite things about being a dancer. We didn’t just perform art — wewereart. Every inch of us was a canvas waiting to tell a story, and the team working on my hair and face now were the artists helping to bring that tale to life.
“Okay, I have to say… I’mobsessedwith this look,” Marcus said, sliding up behind me with his eyes wide in reverence as he took me in. “The hair, the uniform, thelashes? My God.”
