to love or lust [mike schmidt AU]

viii.

viii.

[game]

every hot man is out taking a chance
it's not about love and romance
and now you're gonna get it

blood on the dance floor — michael jackson

|"Break his little heart, then he'll be the one to leave."|

SOL.

Maddy and I walk the long, steep stairs up to my apartment at five in the morning. It's like every muscle in my body screams at me not to climb these stairs and just sleep in my car. Exhaustion swamps me, and it's hard to keep up with both my tired muscles and Maddy's spike in energy after drinking a gas station iced coffee in under fifteen minutes to keep herself up.

Reaching the top of the stairs, then to my door, and, finally, the inside of my apartment without taking so much as a glance at Mike's door, I walk straight to my bedroom. Maddy locks the door behind her after I tell her to hurry in case my neighbor decides to spontaneously spark conversation this early. Neither do I have the time or patience to speak to him, nor do I wish to see him so soon. Frankly, he makes my brain mush, and I can't seem to think straight. Call it the exposure effect, it's like these sudden, constant heated exchanges becomes all too familiar and expected to me; I've nearly come to the point where I want him to speak to me just so that I could piss him off in ways I know how. I don't even care if he wants to piss me off in return—I always win, anyway.

When he came to the club, the place where I work, it's like I can no longer escape him. Despite my vehement attempts to keep him away from me, he somehow triumphs, infiltrating my thoughts at the worst of moments. And, much to my surprise, Mike bought a dance, and, at first, I thought I wanted to bail on his money. But I thought it would be better for me to perform for him, to show him what I'm capable of... to show him what he's never going to touch.

He's so adamant about becoming friends, playfully asking me out to date him, but it's not so funny when I'm performing for him in ways that no other woman has.

It was written all over his face—his desire—when I touched him, teased him, and I hope he knows not to fuck with me anymore, because I can play his game.

I am not his annoying, screaming hookups.

I am not his annoying, trifling neighbor; well, that I am, solely because I want him gone—him and all of his stupid friends and noisy one-night stands.

And I am more than thrilled to know that he now knows I'm a Vixen at The Vixen. As cliche and corny as it sounds—I'm not like every other bitch.

Period.

I huff and expel Mike from my mind. I can't think about that man longer than a few minutes before I get angry all over again.

It's aggravating enough for me to know that Mike wanted me to dance for him, then proceeded to buy a dance from another Vixen.

While Maddy decides to shower in the guest bathroom, I shower in my own inside of my bedroom. I rush to remove my hoodie and sweats, desperate for a second wash after the eventful Halloween night. We may have showers at the club, but nothing beats the shower in my own home. I need to wash away all of the ghostly feel of every client's touches. If I don't shower twice, at the very least, I feel dirty.