“Forgot I had other plans tonight.” I don’t elaborate or apologize, but I have to force myself to maintain the careless facade when she stares at me for a second and then goes to close the door in my face. “Wait.” I bring my hand up and catch it before she can disappear. “We can reschedule for tomorrow.”
She takes a breath, weighing my sincerity. The soft fabric of her neckline slides a little further down her shoulder, and I’m staring at the high curve of her breast, wondering if she’d let me count the scatter of pale freckles there and what her nipple would taste like between my teeth, when she lets out a soft laugh.
“Okay, Gale.” Her eyes flash when I drag mine back to meet them. “See you tomorrow.” When I don’t remove my hand from her door, she tilts her head, exposing the fading bruises of my own fingers on her pale skin. “Have fun with Celeste,” she chirps, like an arrow to my fucking heart.
“Don’t wait up,” I counter, then drop my hand, letting her go.
The party is a waste of time. A blur of glitter and crystal, the lights in the pool outside the “Beachside” ballroom’s glass wall throwing undersea shadows across the ceiling. I make my pleasantries to Silas, and then Celeste kisses me on the cheek and throws me to the wolves. The younger women eye me with knowing contempt and whisper as they check out my ass. The older ones laugh and stand too close, pressing their tits against my arm, flashing bold curiosity or invitation from beneath eyelashes thick with mascara.
I down three glasses of champagne in quick succession and then lean against one of the red marble pillars, watching Celeste work her magic while I fantasize about Gia Laurent’s lush mouth.
It’s almost eleven before Celeste extracts herself and comes to retrieve me. I have a headache and didn’t get enough to eat, but she’s flush with drink and the promise of a meeting with Silas next week, and she lays her head on my shoulder like a teenager on the drive back to her house.
She’s drunk enough to suck me off, kneeling on the plush carpet of her ivory bedroom in her heels and expensive lingerie. I lean against the cool linen bedsheets, my hands careful and loose in her hair, and try not to flinch at the delicate scrape of her nails on my thighs. She looks strangely fragile, with her Botox and her tasteful tit job in the blue light of the moon, and I can’t decide if I pity her or want to crush her skull in my fists.
I stop her before I blow my load, knowing if I don’t, I’ll never get it up for her again tonight, and she’ll be low and cruel in her displeasure. She comes twice, gasping beneath me, and tells me she loves me with her eyes still closed.
“I love you too,” I say, rolling away and wondering what it would feel like to mean it.
She expects me to stay when she brings me here, so I lie awake with my hands behind my head and think about love and power and what freedom might taste like. I think it might taste like the blood on Gia Laurent’s tongue, sweat on freckled skin, and the ash of a wildfire built of fury and pain, hanging hot in the air. At 4 a.m., I give up and slink away, calling for an Uber to take me back to the dorm.
Time to grab some fucking control.
To my third rehearsal with Gia Laurent, I bring my chains.
17
Gale
Gia is already waiting for me in the practice room when I walk in. I ended up sleeping through all my classes, so it’s the first time I’ve seen her all day. Part of me worried she might think I was ghosting her again, and something relaxes in my chest at the sight of her.
“We’re trying something different today,” I announce, moving toward the point in the center of the room.
“I see that.” She’s been warming up against the far wall, stretching her pike, or maybe doing V-ups, but she draws her knees up at my approach, her eyes wide and a flush creeping up her chest. I reach the center mat and let the chains slide from my shoulder. They slither to the ground with a heavy clatter, and I motion with my chin for Gia to grab me the rig. She scrambles up and moves to the anchor on the wall, releasing the pulley from where it’s clipped to the rope and swinging the end over to me.
“Have you ever been on the chains?” I ask, squatting down to clip the carabiner attached to the two top links to the swivel on the pulley.
“A couple of times.”
“Did you enjoy it?” I cross to the wall, reaching past her to unwrap the rigging rope from the anchor, and the inevitable tension sparks to life between us. Hoisting the chains toward the ceiling, I savor the way her gaze tracks my movement as the rope bites into my forearms and my biceps flex against the weight of the apparatus. I keep my own eyes under control, watching the thick metal coils unwind until the ends dangle at hip height above the mat. Chains are usually longer, meant to be hung in two full loops, but I had mine built like my straps. I have extra carabiners I can use to create hand loops at the bottom, but for now I let them trail free. Once they’re secured, I move out to grab them.
She doesn’t respond to my question, and I let the weight of it hang in the air, her answer clear in the way her breath comes short and shallow and her teeth tug at her lower lip. Keeping my gaze locked on hers, I grip the tails and rotate my wrists, coiling the chains around my forearms until my fists are above my head. Curling them in and down, I pull into a muscle-up, and the links shift under my weight, digging into my corded muscles. Ignoring the discomfort—these chains and I are old friends now—I execute three smooth roll ups before I run out of room at the top of the point. The descent is rougher, the links snapping as they unwind, but I ride it out and make it to the mat with no more than the usual bruising.
Gia is standing at the edge of the mat when I land and reaches out to run a fascinated finger over the welts rising on my bicep. Goosebumps prickle over my flesh, and she gives me a lidded smile.
“That was…impressive.”
“I know. Your turn.”
“I—” She hesitates, a thread of panic rippling across her features. “My roll ups aren’t that consistent.”
“I know,” I repeat.I’m counting on it.“Wanna try anyway?”
I show her how to wrap her wrists without the loops, trying to ignore the way the silver links bite at the smooth contours of her arms when she pulls into the muscle-up. Her skin was made for bruising, and when she pikes into the press and her unbound hair cascades over her face, I taste cinnamon on the back of my tongue.
She almost makes it, fighting hard for the last bit of rotation. She gets her hips over but loses the angle of her shoulders and bottoms out, the chains cinching tight around her forearms in a tangle as her legs drop.
“Goddammit.” Giving her bound wrists a yank, she presses her toes into the mat, trying to ease the tension, but I know from experience the only way out is to have someone lower the chains. Her chest heaves as she glares at me. “Let me down.”
