by Holly Hart
“There’s nothing below the knee, you know.”
“Now commencing our final descent over Austin. Ten...nine....” The pilot punches the yoke, and we’re diving, diving, city lights rushing up to meet us, and this isn’t how it’s supposed to go; this isn’t at all—
My eyes fly open. I clutch at my legs. My knees are throbbing, but everything’s attached. Everything’s whole.
Or I’m in a coma somewhere. Being operated on. I could picture that, some surgeon tapping on my femur—there’s nothing below the knee, you know—and then the anesthesiologist picks up a blip that shouldn’t be there—what’s this, now?—and under I go. Back to my dream.
I sit up. Apart from the lack of a hangover, it doesn’t feel like I’m dreaming. I don’t normally have dreams where it feels like I wrenched every muscle from ribcage to groin. And I’m starving. Dehydrated. Itchy in my cheap robe.
“I’m awake.”
“Mmph...good for you. Let the rest of us sleep.” Lily’s still in her dress from last night. Must’ve dozed off comforting me. Hope I didn’t make too big a fool of myself, all rolled up in whiskey and paranoia. I remember staggering around the lobby. Laughing a lot in the cab. Getting sick for days, shower blasting to cover the sounds.
A shower sounds good. I pad to the bathroom, shedding my robe. The hot water’s welcome on my back. It’s easy to imagine the sins of last night swirling down the drain, my aches and pains with them. Harder to shake that note of apprehension. I need to talk to Neil again—sober, this time. Come up with a strategy.
The door opens. A chilly draft swirls around my legs. Lily chases away the shivers, nestling against my back.
“Mm...that’s nice.”
She wraps her arms around my waist. Two lazy fingers explore the contours of my abs. I close my eyes, savoring the distraction. Here, like this, I’m calm. In control. No uncertainty; no weird, gibbering terrors.
“That’s right. Relax.”
I lean forward, letting my head rest on the tile. A muscle in my lower back jumps and spasms as the tide of anxiety recedes. Hadn’t realized I was that wound up.
“What a week you’ve had.” Her lips move against my shoulder like a kiss. “Look at you, all bunched up and brooding.”
I shake out my hands. When’d they knot into fists? Even my toes are digging into the floor.
“That’s better. What can I do?”
“Get the soap.”
A thrill goes through me as she obeys. The sound of tearing paper fills the cubicle, followed by the caustic smell of soap. Lily crumples the wrapper and tosses it in the corner.
“And now?”
I turn around, taking her in. She’s smiling playfully, lips still stained with last night’s lipstick. Bright red: my favorite.
“Now wash me.”
“Yes, sir.”
I expect her to lather up my chest, maybe scrub my back, but she drops to her knees without hesitation. She’s the perfect picture of submission, head bowed, skin bloodless against the hard tile. I brace myself on the wall as she lifts my foot. Firm thumbs massage my arches, sharp pain that gives way to pleasure when she eases up. Suds stream between my toes, stinging a nick I don’t remember getting.
“You fixed your hair.”
She doesn’t look up. “Disappointed?”
“No....” Maybe a little. Seeing those roots was like knowing a secret about her. But she’s showing me a better one now. One I wouldn’t mind guarding to myself as long I can have it. “Kiss me,” I tell her, voice cracking. She presses her lips to my inner thigh, tongue darting out to taste my skin. “Again.” Her mouth brushes each of my knees in turn.
I plant my palm on her head, steadying myself. It’s almost too much, the way she’s taking care of me. Her hands chase each other up and down my calves, behind my knees, alternating soft touches with purposeful kneading. I half expect to look down and see my scrapes and bruises sluicing off with the bubbles. If anyone could wash away the crash, it’d be her.
I’m lost in a pleasant haze when her fingers find the coarse black hair above my cock. “I’ll trim this for you next time. Sir.”
“That unruly?”
Lily runs one finger down my length—already full and heavy—and over the seam of my balls. “Let’s just say Birnam Wood has come to Dunsinane.”
“Oh, come on! It’s only been a week!” I cuff her lightly, just above the ear. “Impudent....”
She chuckles at that, rising to attend to my upper half. Her whole body glides against mine, smooth as silk with all the suds. I hold her close, wanting more. More friction. More warmth. More of her skin on mine, her lips on my neck—the light drag of her teeth, just before she nips my shoulder.
The soap slips through her fingers and skates off into the corner.
“Oh....”
I loop her hair around my hand to keep her from reaching for it. “I’m clean enough.”
“But—”
“Unless you want me to make you bite it. For that Birnam Wood crack.”
She shudders and wriggles closer. “No, sir.”
“Thought not.” I knee her legs apart, pleased to find her thighs already slick with desire. I could get used to the way she responds to me, rewarding every caress with a gasp or a whimper. She clings to me, all fire and hunger, rocking against my fingers as I skim them along her slit. I keep my touches light and teasing till she’s tearing at my hair, begging for more.
“More?”
“Yes! Please!” She tosses her head and tilts her hips for a better angle.
I give her less, feather-light circles around her clit.
“Sir....” Her soft sigh tickles my ear. I taunt her some more, just to hear her say it again. She does, over and over, till I’m nearly as frantic as she is, pulse pounding in my cock.
I back away, and she follows. I lead her out of the shower, into the room proper, letting her just close enough to catch my lips with her own before continuing my retreat. She falls to her knees and pursues me like that—just as I pictured—lipstick smeared, hair slicked to her face. Lips parted, pleading.
At last, she has me trapped against the bed. She rears up, impertinent, and shoves me hard. I flop on my back, and she’s on me in an instant, crawling up my body, leaving traces of lipstick on my thigh, my cock, my hip, all the way to my chin.
“Don’t suppose you had a condom in your pocket last night?”
“No such luck. Come up here.” I take her by the hand, reeling her in till she’s kneeling over my face. She’s every bit as sweet as I’d hoped she’d be, pink and fresh from the shower, fat beads of water still trailing down her thighs. I trace one of them back to its source, drinking in her moans as I lap her up.
“Oh, that’s....” Whatever she was going to say is lost in a sharp intake of breath, as I suck her clit, fingering her open at the same time. My other hand strays to her hip, digging in hard. She leans into it, instead of away, so I tighten my hold.
“Oh!—make me yours....”
“Mine.”
Lily seems to appreciate that—either the sentiment or the vibration of my voice on her clit—so I keep mumbling possessive nothings as she grinds against my lips. This close, I can feel every tremble of her thighs, every flutter and twitch. I can feel her heartbeat, fast and strong. She’s got one hand over mine, holding it in place. The other’s wandering her body. She pinches one stiff, pink nipple. Drags her nails across her throat where her choker—her collar—should be.
I don’t stop when she comes. She goes still, shuddering all over. I harry her clit till her moans turn to yelps, but she doesn’t pull away. Her hand drops to my hair, holding on tight. I don’t give over till she falls back herself.
“Satisfied?”
She only rolls her eyes. I lift her off my chest, lowering her to her back.
“What about you?”
I shrug, reaching down to palm my cock. “I’ll finish in the shower. Still need to wash my hair, anyway.”
“Mm...me
too.” She stretches, shaking her wet hair out of her face. “Then we’re eating. That was my original plan, you know. When I got in the shower. To hurry you along, so we could eat.”
“I already did.”
She elbows me, but it’s halfhearted, without strength. I reach out to touch the faint bruises already rising along her hipbone. The skin’s slightly warm, velvet to the touch. “You sure you’re all right with these?”
“Hm?” She glances down. “Didn’t I tell you to do it?”
“You did.”
Lily takes my hand and kisses it. “So don’t worry. I know how to say no.” She gives my cock a squeeze and bounces up off the bed. “Come on, then. I’ll give you a hand with that.”
I follow her back to the shower with a spring in my step.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lily
I part with Brandon after breakfast. We’d planned a day together—a nice, long, lazy one, with food and sun and lots more sex—but I had to go and check my phone when we finally got out of the shower. And there had to be a work text buried in Wayne’s mountain of vitriol: METAL QUEENS PHOTOSHOOT MOVED UP NOON 2DAY!!!!!!! GET HERE NOW!
I didn’t, of course. I had a long, leisurely breakfast first—shared a few sweet tea kisses with Brandon before getting on my way. And now, watching Austin zip by out the window, listening to the cabbie rattle on about tourist season, it feels like nothing could spoil this day. Not work, not Wayne, not anything.
The warm feeling in my belly turns cold as we pull up at the studio. Something’s wrong. I don’t see Jed’s van anywhere, and it’s just Wayne waiting outside. I’m tempted to tell the driver to keep going, but the secret to Maidenfang’s success isn’t genius, and it sure as hell isn’t Wayne. It’s a hell of a work ethic, and I’m not about to compromise that now.
I get out and march right up to him. “Where is everyone?”
“Ain’t coming. Photographer only wanted you.” There’s a nasty glint in his eye as he looks me up and down. “Why do you look like a wet rat?”
“It’s called a shower. Might want to try one some time.” I bite my tongue hard. That wasn’t smart. I’ve pushed Wayne far enough, and I need him to listen when I talk to him later. “Sorry. Got up on the wrong side of the bed.”
“And whose bed would that be?”
I raise an eyebrow and sweep past him with all the grace I can muster.
The set’s not what I was expecting, either. A huge fishtank dominates the room, water bubbling as the level rises. “What—”
A tiny woman darts out from behind an umbrella reflector, camera in hand. “Miss Walker! I’m Carmen—Carmen Mitchell. Honored to meet you!”
“Honor’s mine—and call me Lily. Uh...are we fishing?” I incline my head at the tank.
“Oh, Wayne didn’t tell you? We want to use the wings from your stage act, but, uh—honestly, we thought they were attached to you, not that contraption. So, to get ‘em to flap—” She waves her arms, nearly losing her camera. “Oops! Anyway, we thought we’d shoot you underwater. It’ll look like you’re flying, with your hair and your dress flowing out—and then we’ll add the wings in post-production. And a deep space backdrop, like you’re descending from the heavens.”
“You should do flames. Like she’s rising from Hell.”
Carmen’s lip twitches. “Uh, sure—we’ll consider that. A lot of concepts we can play with. But the makeup’s going to be more of a cool palette: all those reds and oranges tend to gray out underwater. Speaking of which, Lily, they’re ready for you, back there.” She points to a door with a tinfoil star glued to it, and I head off, glad to leave Wayne behind. Hopefully, he’ll go away. He doesn’t need to be here for this.
By the time makeup’s through with me, the bubbling of the tank’s died down. I can still hear Wayne out there—irritating the hell out of Carmen, by the sounds of it. Can’t make out her responses, but her tone’s sharp and clipped. Fucking Wayne. Always with the backseat everything. Don’t know who told him he was an expert on other people’s jobs, but they need to be shot.
I take my time admiring myself in the mirror. Glittering suns and moons crust one side of my face, trailing over my neck and shoulder, and up into my hair. A net of pearls holds my curls in place and dangles into my eyes. A painted sky brings it all together, wispy clouds stretching from brow to fingertips. My gown’s a deep, crystal-studded navy, verging on black, with a train that stretches for yards.
Brandon’s choker would go perfectly with this. I resist the temptation to slip it on and take a selfie: my rodeo story’s got to be straining his credulity already. Pity, though....
“Lily?”
“Coming!”
I hold up my hand to shield my eyes from the floodlights. The tank’s lit up with an ethereal glow. It looks freezing, like the ice in a vodka ad—that same shade of frigid blue-white.
Carmen hurries to my side, scooping my train off the floor. “So, you should be able to stand up in there, and get your head above water—how tall are you?”
“Five-four.”
“Perfect. What I’ll need from you is, uh—you’ll take a big breath and sort of...tread water, but underwater. You can lie back, swim around a little—the important thing is, you keep moving. Otherwise, the dress hangs down, and we get this...this sad, wet sack, all stuck to your legs.”
I notice a diver on the platform, in scuba gear. “He’ll be in there with me?”
“Only if you get in trouble—if you get tangled up; if you can’t get to the surface, for whatever reason. Probably won’t happen—never has, in one of my shoots—but if it does, don’t panic. All you do is start clapping your hands, and he’ll be right there.”
Okay. I’ve got this. I climb the ladder and ease myself in, relieved to find the water warm as a bath.
“Whenever you’re ready!”
I take a deep breath and lie back, entranced with the way my dress billows and swirls. The water’s not completely still—a gentle current toys with my hair. I forget to keep moving, at first, and end up flailing ungracefully as my dress pools on the bottom of the tank. Flying—I’m supposed to be flying.
I kick off, rising almost to the surface and sinking again, skirts billowing around me, arms stretched out. The camera’s flashing, so I can’t be making a complete idiot of myself. Feeling more confident, I let myself play in the water, paddling my feet and arching my back till I’m nearly hanging upside-down. I laugh, and bubbles wreathe my head.
And then my lungs are burning, and I stroke for the surface, breaking forth with a gasp.
“That’s great! You’re a natural!”
“Thanks! I—”
Wayne mouths wet rat at me from the platform. I turn away from him.
“—I’m really having fun.”
I sink back down before he can comment on that. This is my favorite photoshoot: swimming, pretty clothes, and several feet of natural soundproofing turning Wayne’s complaints to blub-blub-blubs. I smile wide and lift my arms like I’m reaching for the sun.
A few dives later, I’m settling into the groove, getting more adventurous. I crumple to the bottom and push up with my hands, executing a slow flip. Carmen gives me the thumbs-up, so I go back around the other way. Halfway around, I bang my elbow on the glass—right on the funnybone. I catch myself before I can full-on gasp, but water goes up my nose, sending me surging for the surface.
“You all right?”
I shake my head and sneeze. “Fine—water up my nose.”
“Let’s take ten.” Carmen nods at the lighting guy, and he shuts down the floods. “You need anything, Lily? Water? A towel?”
“That’s okay.” I hoist myself onto the platform, letting my feet dangle in the water. It reminds me of summer afternoons at the pool, over in Eastland—me and Mark and Jed and Adina dreaming away the hours, playing air guitar and swapping dirty lyrics.
The scuba guy swings himself down. “Hey, you’re not going to fall in if I grab myself a sandwich, are you?”
“Don’t think so.” I wink, and he wanders off. Wayne’s disappeared somewhere, too. I relax and close my eyes, pretending the floodlights are the blinding Texas sun. Those were good days, the four of us piled into Mark’s dad’s pickup—one in the cab; three in the cargo bed. We’d be dressed for the pool already, me and Adina with our towels draped around our hips; the boys in their shorts. So hot—those summers were scorching, and we’d—
A rough hand slams into my back. I draw breath to scream—too late. I’m underwater already. My efforts to swim away are hampered by fingers in my hair. A hand on my head, pushing me down. Wayne—what the fuck?
I toss my head and kick my legs, but I’m already aching for air. Struggling isn’t helping. My body’s screaming for oxygen. I go still, but he only plunges me deeper. A worm of panic crawls into my heart. He wouldn’t kill me on purpose...I don’t think... But if he’s angry enough—accidents happen.
I tilt my head back to look at him. His distorted face snarls down at me. Pearls fall in my eyes, and I shake them away. Water’s getting up my nose again, and if I don’t breathe soon, if I don’t—
Calm. Fight back.
I reach for his wrist, digging my nails in. He shoves me hard and I lose my grip. Surely someone’ll come, someone’ll see him—he can’t hold me under forever. How long can a person survive without breathing?—two minutes? Three? Five?
Wayne yanks me to the surface, hard enough to tear my hair. Something snaps, and a few pearls break loose. I come up spluttering and swearing—“Wayne, what the—?”
He dunks me under again. I fight like hell this time, digging deep gashes into the back of his hand, clawing at his wrist. He slaps my hand, shakes me fit to snap my neck, but I dig in harder, determined to make it hurt. Blood hits the water, fat drops drifting in the current, leaving trails like falling stars. I squinch my eyes shut as the first one lands on my face. Disgusting. This water better be chlorinated.
This time, he doesn’t pull me up till I’m choking. I cough up water even as I pry at his fingers, trying to dislodge them from my hair. “Quit fucking—”
