Dylan and my breakup hit the tabloids pretty soon after I left the tour.

I didn’t know how he was going to play this.

If I were him and wanted to both save face and ensure that I’d have lots of eager women lining up to ease my pain, it would have read something like: Cora Dwyer Goes Crazy and Leaves Heartbroken Dylan Cotter On a Tour Bus in the Middle of the Night.

Okay, that’s a little long.

The real headline read: Yeah, I Cheated.

He cheated. He cheated on his model girlfriend because he’s a manwhore and can’t help himself. He tells them that I was a great girlfriend. He takes full responsibility for the breakup.

It’s completely selfless.

Though, with that piercing fully healed, he’s now getting photographed with a new model or actress or beautiful woman on his arm every time he heads outside.

Plus, the band, the record sales, and all future tours are virtually unaffected, so Dylan’s not exactly suffering all that much.

And I’m glad.

Life has gone back to normal for me in some ways.

I’m back at the Caspiar Club. I refused the money from the band for the fake girlfriend gig. After all, I bailed on the last part of the tour, but they insisted on paying me anyway.

Aya continues to drag me to her pole dancing classes. She’s an instructor now. She’s really good and her students love her. The dance studio is where she belongs. I can’t say the same for myself, however. I’m hopelessly uncoordinated. But, still, I’m really happy for her.

I’ve gone back to acting classes, both for on-camera acting and for the stage. Better ones. Ones that aren't just in someone’s living room. I’ve done one short film and one commercial that’s been airing on a few streaming services. I’ve been on a load of auditions. I’ve even gotten a few callbacks.

But my big project is coming up.

It feels right. It was the first thing I did after leaving the bus that night.

Well, after checking into a hotel and waiting till morning, obviously.

I took a campus tour of New York University and got information about their graduate acting program.

When I got back to Los Angeles, I toured a few other schools too.

I spread the pamphlets out on my bed. UCLA. USC.

But my top choice is NYU.

Tyson’s words play in my ears. I would get two years of my life to focus on nothing but acting. I have no real responsibilities in my life at the moment, no kids or a husband or anything. And I have the money.

The time is now.

I chose NYU because no one would recognize me there. While, yes, it’s been awhile and the buzz for the video and subsequent attention for being Dylan Cotter’s now ex-girlfriend has died down, I do still get aren’t you that girl looks from people every now and again.

Not only would people not recognize me in New York, but those that do might actually consider my short stint as a video girl to be a bad thing. Like something that they could use to refuse to take me seriously. Like I was starting with a demerit.

And, call me crazy, but I like that idea.

To have to work extra hard. And prove everybody wrong.

I haven’t seen Ian.

I miss him all the time. There are days when I psych myself up to call, but just can’t do it. Or I’ll start to write a text, but can’t make my fingers tap the screen. It’s torture not hearing his voice. Not feeling his rough hands on my body. Not seeing the ravenous look in his eyes as he pins me to the bed.

Of course, I don’t know if he’d even answer my call after everything we’ve been through.

It’s late.

I clean up the pamphlets, change into a tee shirt and slip into bed.

But, like usual, the second the lights are out and my eyes are closed, I think about Ian. My fingertips caress my stomach. I think about the first time we slept together and I how came on his face, spread out on the kitchen table. How he growled dirty things in my ear.

The throbbing between my legs intensifies.

My hand drifts lower and I start touching myself.

I think about us in his shower and his low, deep moans as I sucked him off, the water pounding his back and sluicing down his chest.

I find my clit and rub lightly. In my mind, it’s him touching me. His lips on mine, his hard, strong body on top of me, pinning me down, getting ready to fuck me hard.

Fuck, I miss him.

My phone rings.

Holy shit.

It takes me a second to remember what exactly a phone is and what I should do with it. I hit something that I hope will let me speak to him.

“Hello?”

“Hey.” Ian’s voice is deep and rumbly. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” I answer quickly.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.

“Not really.”

“Me neither.”

We’re silent for a second.

“It’s good to hear your voice,” I tell him.

“You too. How are you?”

“I’m doing well.” I pause. “I miss you.”

He sighs. “I miss you too.”

“What are you doing right now?” I ask.

“I’m in bed talking to you.”

“Is that all?”

“Is that all I was doing? You think there was some other motive to this call besides checking in on you?”

I was hoping so.

I know I have so many other, more serious things to discuss with Ian.

But… I… um….

Mercifully, he takes the reins and asks, “What are you wearing?”

I laugh a little. It’s the oldest line in phone sex.

But I answer. “Tee shirt.”

“Sexy. Is it mine?”

“Yeah,” I admit. I’d grabbed it by mistake as I left in the dark. His Johnny Cash tee shirt. The one he was wearing when I saw him play at the Anonymous Bar.

I’ve been sleeping in it. It might be creepy, considering that we’re not really together, but I can’t help it. I still want to feel close to him.

I inhale deeply. It still smells a little like him.

“What about you?” I ask.

“I was just about to go to bed. So, nothing,” he answers. Fuck, I can picture him grinning as he says it.

I settle deeper into the mattress and let out a shaky sigh.

“Are you picturing it?” he whispers, “Me, lying in bed, with my hand wrapped around my hard dick?”

My moan is enough of a yes. That’s a nice visual.

“You’re touching yourself,” he says. It’s not a question.

This time I manage to whimper out a yes.

“Oh, fuck, I want to watch you.” His voice gets demanding. “Take that shirt off. Run your hands over your tits. Like I would.”

I shudder as I obey, letting that low, commanding voice wash over me.

“Now me,” he says, “Tell me what to do.” His voice is shaky and breathy. He’s unraveling.

“Long, slow strokes,” I tell him, “Really give me a show.”

I’ve never watched a guy jack off. I’ve never wanted too. But I’d watch Ian. Especially if I knew he was thinking about me.

“Fuck, Cora,” he pants. He lets out a deep moan.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask.

“That time I fucked you first thing in the morning,” he whispers, “That fucking sex-kitten voice that drives me crazy.”

I rub my clit with my thumb and slip a finger inside.

“Oh God, Ian,” I manage out, through gritted teeth.

“The way you moan my name when you’re about to come. It’s so fucking hot,” he grits out. He stops saying words, just breathes heavily and grunts as he closes in on his orgasm.

“Fuck, I’m going to come,” I hiss, “Come with me.”

“Baby,” he gasps.

The second he calls me baby, I go over the edge. I pulse. I gush. I cry out his name over and over as I come on my hand.

He’s coming too. His breathing gets harsh and ragged. He lets out that deep, guttural sound that makes me want to come all over again.

We listen to each other breathe as we come down.

“Are you home?” I ask, finally.

“Why? Want me to come over?” he asks.

God, yes.

“I’m in the Bay Area,” he tells me, “Just for the night. We had a show.”

“Fuck,” I say, selfishly. “I’m sure the show was great, though.”

“Yeah. It was.” He takes a deep breath. “I want to see you. I think we have a lot to talk about.”

I nod. Then realize that he can’t see me nodding and finally reply, “Yeah, we do.”

“Are you free tomorrow?”

“No, I’m not,” I answer, “I leave for New York.”

“What? What’s in New York?”

I gather my courage. “I’m auditioning for NYU. For the masters program in acting.”

He’s slow to reply. But, when he does, he says, “Cora, that’s amazing.”

And I can tell he means it.

“I mean, I have enough money from the tour and it’s not like I planned to work at the club my whole life. The time is just right.”

“So you’d be moving to New York?” he asks.

“Well, yes, if I get in, I’d obviously have to.”

“Obviously.”

He pauses. We both know what question needs to be asked.

“What does that mean for us?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly, “If I get in…. I mean, it’s really selective… the odds are that I won’t…”

He cuts me off. “You have to go.”

“I have to go. I need this,” I start, “But I need you too. I love you, Ian.”

“I love you too,” he says. “Fuck, I really wanted to do that in person the first time.”

I laugh. “Me too. Guess that wasn’t as romantic as it could’ve been.”

“I did just listen to you come. That was pretty fucking romantic.”

True.

"I need something, though,” he tells me, “I need to you tell me that you want to make this work.”

“What’s this?” I ask.

“I don’t need a label or a title. You don't need to call me your boyfriend. You can call me anything you want as long as you’re really mine. And I’m yours. No more of this friends-with-benefits bullshit. We’re for real.”

I don’t even have to think about it.

“I’m yours,” I tell him, “You’re mine. And this is very fucking real.”