I'm already regretting this trip. If I could go back in time, I'd tell Layla and Harper to piss off. I'll fight in a trash bag if I have to, but fuck this. I don't want to be here.
“Easy,” Kessler rumbles beside me. When I look up, he's peeking out of the corner of his eye at me, shaking his head. Somehow, he knows I'm about to snap. “No need to get all moody. It's just shopping. Most girls love this shit.”
“I am not most girls. And don't call me moody! You do realize I have the ability to pound your stupid ass into the ground, right?”
Everyone around us stops moving and turns to stare at the two of us for a beat, their mouths dropping open in shock. At first, I don't understand why, but after a few seconds tick by, I get it. For one, this is probably the longest sentence anyone here has ever heard me speak. Two, I know for a fact it's the first time they've ever heard me yell. And three, Kessler is laughing. Hard. Like, bent at the waist, hands on his knees, shoulders shaking, and I can't even be mad about it, because it's the most glorious, uninhibited, breathtaking sound I've ever heard in my damn life.
Before this very moment, I couldn't give a shit if someone laughed with me, at me, or around me. It was just another noise, like a cough or a sneeze. But this? This magnificent sound? It's my favorite of all the sounds I've ever heard. Better than skin being split. Better than blood being spilled. Better than a body landing on canvas. I want it to go on forever, but it doesn't. It's cut off far too soon.
“What do you think you're doing?” Harper steps forward, right in Kessler's face. “Are you laughing at your Blacklighter?”
Kessler, bless him, finally manages to reign it in, but it's too late. Harper looks like she's about to castrate him in broad daylight and then leave him on the asphalt to bleed out. But he still can't open his mouth without fear of breaking down again.
“I asked you a question, Keeper!”
“Harper, Jesus, keep your voice down.” Layla steps in, grabbing Harper by the arm and dragging her away. I know they're waiting for me to say something, do something, to step in in some way, so I do.
I plant my feet in front of Kessler and wait until Harper's angry eyes collide with mine. When I speak, each word is slow, dripping with conviction. “I like it when my Keeper laughs.”
Silence.
That's what greets me. No arguments, and no more laughter. Just...birds chirping overhead, cars zooming down the highway, and a crowd of teenagers riding skateboards fifty feet away.
“Mercury...” Harper eases forward again, but I remain unmoved. “Look, I know you don't always get humor but your Keeper was laughing at you. At your expense. He was laughing because he thought what you said was funny, and it's not. You could take him, very easily I might add, but he found humor in that, meaning he doesn't think you could. He was doubting you.”
“I don't think he was.”
She makes a derisive sound at the back of her throat and shakes her head. “Whatever.”
When she stomps away and the others follow, I turn around and offer Kessler my hand, palm up. Doesn't make sense, but who the hell cares? If I want to hold his damn hand, I'll hold his damn hand.
“You're right,” he says. “I wasn't doubting you.”
“I know you weren't.”
“Then why was I laughing?”
I smirk. “Probably because I used the words 'stupid ass'.”
He bursts out laughing again. “Ah, I love it. Say it again.”
Elbowing him in the ribs as we walk, I try not to smile. “Shut your face...stupid ass.”
Turns out, the golden M belongs to an eatery called McDonald's, and inside, it smells like grease and salt. Not the greatest of smells, but when Kessler orders for me and I sit down at a table with a wrapped sandwich and a cardboard box of pale yellow fried potatoes, my mouth pools with saliva.
“Oh my God!” Kessler groans at my side, sinking his teeth into a burger the size of his fist. His eyes flutter and he all but melts in his seat, looking like he's about to try and make love to his food.
Eric laughs. “It as good as you remember?”
“Fucking better,” Kessler replies around a mouthful of food. “Don't care if this clogs every single artery in my body. It's worth it.”
As they carry on, I carefully unwrap whatever Kessler ordered for me and take a small bite. Grease flow over my tongue, along with a spicy-sweet sauce that brings my taste buds to life, and I can't help it. I groan just as loud, which causes the entire table to lose their shit. They're all doubled over in laughter, drawing the attention of everyone around us, but I couldn't care less. I just want to savor every bite of this delicious concoction and lick every granule of salt from my fingers after.
“Y'all are a sad, sad sight.” Harper shakes her head before taking a pull from a straw protruding from a clear plastic cup filled with some kind of ice cream. “We need to get you two out more so you don't look like a damn Encino Man sequel.”
“A what?” I ask, shoving fried goodness through my lips.
She snorts a laugh through her nose, but all her anger from earlier is gone. “Nothing. Just eat.”
She doesn't have to tell me twice. It doesn't take long before every scrap of food in front of me is gone, and even though I'm beyond full, I'm sad there's nothing left. Food back home doesn't taste like this. It's good, yeah, but not like that, and again, I'm reminded of the difference between want and need.
When the Keepers prepare our meals, it's our body's physical needs that are taken into account. We don't eat what we want—we eat what we need, what will fuel us the longest—but now that I have the freedom to come and go as I please with the other Blacklighters, I'm already looking forward to our next outing when I can visit this place again. I want to try everything on the menu. Everything.
Apparently, I really am a simple creature, because it didn't take much to turn my entire outlook around. Gone is the dread and panic, and in its place is excitement and, if I'm being honest, a stomach ache, but that's a small price to pay. Fast food and a soda that burned my throat: that's all it took to convert me.
Our second stop is a store filled wall-to-wall with clothes hung on metal racks. The girls must really know what they're doing, because Harper and Layla make a bee-line to the counter, dragging me between them, and hand over a card. “Blair sends her best,” Layla says, which seems to trigger something in the worker's eyes.
Before I have the chance to take in my surroundings, we're all ushered toward the back of the store and multiple associates weave in and out, wheeling in racks of dark-colored clothes, herding Kessler and I into a small stall labeled 'Changing Room'.
There's a low-sitting bench, but soon it's impossible to see because of all the clothes stacked on top in three separate piles. It's too much—way, way too much—but no one's privy to my silent objections. Once Layla thinks I have enough to choose from, she backs away toward the door, leaving me and Kessler standing awkwardly in the center of the room, watching her exit.
“We've got everyday clothes, fight clothes, and bar clothes,” she says, pointing to each stack. “Everything's your size, so it should fit, but try 'em on just in case. Keep what you like and throw out what you don't. Okay?”
Kessler raises a hand. “Uh, do I really need to be a part of this?”
Layla looks at him like he's mentally inept. “Someone has to zip her up.”
The door closes and she's gone, leaving the two of us trapped, standing on either side of a mountain of clothes, more uncomfortable than ever.
“Well then.” Kessler turns on his heel, eyeing me even as he points to an empty corner. “You just...do your thing. I'll be over here if you need me.”
He moves into said corner like a scolded child, facing away from me, his nose pointed directly at the center of the ninety-degree angle, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from growling. I hate this already. It's awkward, uncharted territory for both of us, and we're not managing it all that gracefully.
I'd love to grab whatever
catches my eye and call it good, but I know for certain the girls are both outside waiting for me to 'strut my stuff' as Layla called it, but they don't get it. This isn't me. This isn't something I enjoy. It's all them; their version of fun is my version of torture.
Sulking isn't going to make this go any faster, though, so I quickly strip down to my underwear and bra and stand in front of the first pile: everyday clothes. It's mostly jean shorts and sleeveless shirts—all denim and black—and I grab the first thing I see. The pairing is simple, but it fits. Good enough for me.
“Let's see it!” Harper yells from the other side of the door.
It's official. Today, I hate her.
Everyone breaks away from conversation long enough to nod their approval when I step outside for a full two seconds, and then I retreat back inside to do it all over again.
“Having fun?”
Kessler's head is bowed, hands shoved into his pockets, but he's not fooling me. Judging by the state of his shaking shoulders, he understands my distress, and the fucker is laughing.
“I don't understand why people think this is fun.” I jerk the shirt over my head, crumple it into a ball, and throw it at the mirror one-handed. “It's not fun. It's just getting dressed and undressed over and over again. It's a waste of time.”
“Yup.”
That's the last word he offers as I go through outfit after outfit, hating every minute of it, until I make it to the bottom of the everyday stack and hand everyone I'm keeping to Layla through the door. “Boring stuff's out of the way,” she says, waggling her brows.
I'm not sure what she's implying. Clothes are clothes. There's nothing fun or exciting about shielding yourself from the elements. But as it turns out, I'm wrong, and she may be onto something.
The stack of fight clothes actually does excite me a bit, but not because of what they're made of or how they make me look. Everything is just spandex and glorified sports bras. Nothing too glamorous. The reason it makes me giddy to turn and examine my reflection—to see the tightly compacted muscle shift and tense beneath my skin—is because I can imagine what it'll feel like wearing this in the cage; the thrill of lifting my fists and bouncing on my feet, rounding on an opponent. To test how my range of motion will be limited, I lift a knee, kick, and squat down. Zero resistance. Perfect.
Everything is made of the same material—some with wedges cut out, filled with lace, others boasting thin colorful bands crisscrossing the fabric—so in the end, I decide to save time and throw everything over the door. “These all work.”
“Cheater!” Harper yells. I ignore her. Much like I plan to do the rest of the day.
The last stack is bar clothes—what I'll be wearing while I serve drinks to locals—and these are...a bit more intricate.
Zippers and ties and garters and skin-tight ripped jeans. Short skimpy dresses, strapless tops, blouses with necklines that plunge all the way down to my belly button. There are even a couple black leather jumpsuits that look hotter than Hades, and I immediately nix those. I cringe at the thought of wearing any of these fancy, frilly things, but just as I'm about to say fuck it and bail, something red catches my eye.
Folded at the very bottom is a beautiful two-piece corset dress, unlike anything I've ever seen. The top is ribbed, black lace overlapping red, with a thick satin ribbon lacing up the back. The skirt is black, reaching all the way to the floor, but there are two slits in the front, and I know just by looking that every time I take a step forward, one leg will peek out.
It's beautiful. There's no way I'm leaving without it. The skirt glides over my legs easily, feeling like cold hands caressing my thighs in the most intimate manner, and the zipper is just short enough I can do it up by myself. The corset, however, is another story entirely.
Nixing my bra in favor of getting the full effect, I hold the corset to my front while simultaneously trying to tighten the lace. Doesn't work. At all. Lucky for me, I have an assistant.
“Kessler?”
“Yeah?”
“Little help?”
He turns around, freezes, and his eyes drop away from my face. His dumbstruck expression is priceless.
“Can you tie me up?”
“Anytime.” He grins, closes his eyes, then shakes his head. “Sorry...that came out wrong.”
A blush sweeps over my cheeks, so sudden and foreign I touch a hand to my cheek, feeling the heat radiating through my skin. He notices but doesn't say a thing, so I turn and stand still as he tightens each loop, making his way down my spine, until finally tying it into a bow at the small of my back.
“All done.”
Ignoring the incredibly charming and attractive man at my back, I stare at the woman in the mirror and make small adjustments until everything settles perfectly. The bodice is snug, but not so much it's hard to breathe. The skirt swishes, catching rays of light, sending them dancing up and down, and much to my dismay, I spin around like a fucking princess, taking it all in, appreciating the view of myself decked out to the nines. And I'm not the only one who appreciates the sight.
“Wow.”
That one word shouldn't have such an effect on me, but it's spoken in such a low, raspy tone, that it does. The blush returns with a vengeance, but this time, I don't mind so much. Sweeping the skirt from side to side, holding my hands to the front of the corset, I smile, meeting Kessler's eyes in the mirror. “I like it.”
“Me too.” His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows and nods toward the door. “You should show 'em.”
Giddy for the first time since we left home this morning, I smile—a real, free, euphoric smile—and scurry to the door, throwing it open with a flourish. The girls waste no time hopping out of their seats, hooting and hollering, whistling and cat-calling, making lewd gestures with their hands and tongues as I strut from one side of the room to the other.
Right now, I'm free. Uninhibited. I feel beautiful. I feel...me. Alive and real. Not a robot. Not a weapon. Not a monster. Just a woman out with her friends, wearing a beautiful dress, being stared at by a handsome man propped up against an open dressing room door.
“Now that, ladies and gentlemen, is a fucking Blacklighter!” Layla exclaims, fanning her face. “You can't try on anything else after that. Nothing will compare. I say we call it.”
“Thank you!” I clasp my hands together in front of my chest, all but running back to the changing room.
Kessler closes the door behind us and I can't help but approach the mirror again. Normally, I'm not a vain person, but I can't tear my eyes away from what I'm seeing. Maybe I was wrong before. Maybe I'm not so plain and simple. Maybe I have the potential to be more than I was.
Even though I put on a light dusting of makeup this morning, my scars show through, my hair is already escaping Kessler's perfect braid, and my skin is so pale I'm almost fluorescing, but my eyes are bright and wide, and suddenly, all the other shit—the negatives I see reflected back at me every single day—don't matter. Feeling strong and in control and physically formidable is great, but this? Feeling like my own skin fits for the first time in all my goddamn life? It's a high unlike anything else.
Still smiling, I take a deep breath, let it out, and hope I still feel this way once the dress is back on the hanger. I won't, but that hope is unavoidable.
“Untie me?”
“Yup.” Kessler steps up and gets to work on the laces, pulling them loose. I lift my arms, allowing him to pull it up over my head, and he places it carefully on the bench before keeping his eyes low, moving back to my body to unzip the skirt. Neither of us catch it when it falls off my hips and lands in a puddle on the floor, and neither of us move anything but our eyes once I'm standing in front of the mirror in nothing but purple panties.
The dress is gone...but the feeling is still there. I still feel beautiful. My skin fits just right.
I've noticed Kessler often makes it a point to avert his eyes like a gentleman, but he must have left that version of himself back in Farewell, because this Kessler..
.his eyes take their time traveling over my every curve, searing every inch of my body until the air between us feels too thin to breathe and a pulsing between my legs makes itself my top priority. After last night, this feeling isn't hard to distinguish. It's physical arousal. My body is telling my brain that it likes what's happening and it wants Kessler.
Right now.
I turn around, giving my back to the mirror, and stand in front of Kessler. To his credit, he doesn't move. He doesn't back away or avert his eyes. He just looks down at me, his eyes darker than before, and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear that's fallen free. There are no words. No objections. But the pulsing between my thighs intensifies as I step closer, vanquishing the space between us.
Keeping my eyes glued to his, I lift the bottom of his shirt, locate the button at his waist, and pop it open. The zipper follows. He opens his mouth to speak, but I quickly raise a finger to my lips.
“Quiet.”
Wisely, he shuts his mouth.
One by one, my fingers wrap around his dick, squeezing softly, exploring what is fast becoming my newest infatuation. I've seen plenty of dicks before—the men at Blacklighters are not modest in any sense of the word—but those dicks were all repulsive; attached to humans who aren't anywhere near the caliber of man Kessler is. And maybe that's why I like it so much...because I like Kessler. Only a handful of hours with the man and I know he's different. Somehow, through stupid-lucky circumstances, we fit. We're both odd, both unsteady in a world that hasn't bothered to acknowledge our absence and silence for so long it's a wonder people don't walk right through us. But I don't feel invisible with Kessler. I feel seen and heard. I don't know how but, without words, I can convey a single thought or emotion, and he just...gets it. I may not know him in the conventional sense, but I know enough to appreciate him.
Sliding a hand down the back of his pants, I grab hold of his ass, digging my nails in as I pull him as close as he can get with my hand still working him over, and those dark eyes of his continue staring down at me, even as he hisses through clenched teeth and his nostrils flare.
The Monster of Farewell (Blacklighters Book 1) Page 15
