Lyselle Wray

Her Story

My shift bag is already packed — the one with the brass key I never hand over, the travel visa I haven't told anyone about. Tomorrow I fly. And instead of ticking off the checklist, I've got my thumb hovered over a half-written text I keep deleting and retyping. It said: when I lock this bar tonight, you either fight me for the door or I find out exactly how loud you get with my hand fisted in your hair. Almost sent it. Caught it at the last second. Again. Deleted draft number four sitting onscreen like evidence. See, I know the music in here. I've mixed it, poured it, danced to it with my hips against cold marble and every warning label lit up that I should go home alone. But you walked in an hour before last call, ordered something I hadn't bothered to name yet, and turned your head just enough that my hand braces went still. That's when I knew the door wasn't the only thing I was locking tonight. Fighting is how I want you. I grew up rolling in martial arts — every spar I've ever won came from knowing someone else's weight before they could use it. Put a hand on me and I'll wrap your arm, torque you, pin your chest to the bar and feel every flex of your living against mine. I want that. I want the sensory pileup on purpose — bass rattling the glasses, sweat and leather and the sharp echo of us missing each other cleanly, my braid swinging in your face as I bring you down slow. Strangers after midnight don't owe each other manners. They owe each other the truth. Last call. Neon's cut. The door's locked and the key's tucked in my vest, deep in the pocket right where your hand is going to end up if you let this ride out. I'm leaving in thirty-six hours and I've already been a good girl all week. Come on — the door's open for you. Grip my braid back, or I'll make you sing for it first.