by Sunniva Dee
It’s his martial arts, my brain analyzes unnecessarily. He exhales, a puff of air meeting my skin.
“I didn’t mean—no, never,” I stumble, trying to focus on his question. Only I’m out of breath, and the rest of the words don’t come. A mild waft of cologne pulses from his neck, drawing my attention.
“No?” he prompts. “So what’s your plan?” Sapphire-bright, his eyes narrow as he dissects me, and I squirm under his scrutiny. He’s holding me, though, so I unintentionally apply friction between us. Leon sucks air through his teeth in a hiss that shoots fire to my stomach.
At work, he moves among us like some pagan god, always present and with an all-knowing, cool air of mastery. Taking charge, responsibility. Reducing the stress of frantic work nights with short, precise orders. Now, he’s regaining his control, only of a more intimate type. He exudes a seductive sort of power I’ve so often watched him wield over his girls.
“I turn you on, don’t I?” Mild surprise tinges his voice, like he wasn’t expecting this. There’s no point in voicing the deception my brain concocts because my body won’t lie. I don’t reply.
“Are you okay, Arriane?” Christian interrupts from outside. “Shit, whose idea was this anyway?” he mumbles to Jason, our main bouncer. “Sure, it’s Arriane, but still—we locked him away with another girl.”
Leon’s pupils dilate and suck me in. “She’s fine, Christian,” he answers for me. “We both are. I won’t hurt her.”
A short silence follows. “Arriane?”
My breath is a whisper I don’t control. The perfect arc of my boss’ brow lifts.
“Um, yeah,” I manage. Christian’s respect for our boss equals mine; I’m not the only one who’s new to this side of him. “Leon’s back. He’s himself again,” I say even though I don’t know what comes next.
Leon’s hand reaches out. Locks the door from inside and slinks up to my neck. I let him when he guides me away, into his apartment with a palm curving below my ponytail. Neither of us reacts when Christian’s voice repeats my name from the hallway. When they remove the barricade in loud shuffles against the floor.
“You want to stay?” Leon whispers. “Keep me company?”
His eyes have that special gleam, a look that’s not of love or adoration.
I know better than to accept his offer.
It would be madness.
And yet—
I nod.
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Have you met—really met—Pandora?
On his bench, I melt.
My shield shatters, and I am open to him.
He always gives me more than the hour I come for, and warm, strong hands slide over my bare skin in exactly the way he’s paid to do.
Still, there’s an electricity in the room when he’s near. My heart accelerates instead of slowing down. And sometimes, when I can’t help the way my insides clench for him, my breath stutters.
My response never goes unnoticed; for an instant, his hands freeze. Then, they resume their beautiful dance over me.
When I am starved for him, I flip on the bench. I shut my eyes because sometimes, sometimes, I am shy. He doesn’t speak, then. Through thin slits under my lashes, I watch him watch me.
Some days, his breath coasts light over my face before he kisses me. “Pandora,” he whispers, “I can’t do this here.”
I don’t answer. He stops massaging me, and his hands caress me instead. Glide over the ridges of my ribs until they brush the sides of my breasts.
I’ve got to get my shit together. My life’s a mess, and I love it, fear it, hate it. I’m driving him crazy. Driving myself crazy. But it is what I allow myself. For these few hours a week are my respite, when his hands quiet my mind.
Wow. I am free.
I sweep the small, threadbare room and white concrete walls until I lock eyes with Destiny. She instantly recognizes my state of mind, her brows arching from the doorway.
“Celebratory pizza’s here. You coming, Pandora?”
Fucking free!
“One sec,” I say, crooking a finger at her. She steps inside, but she does it cautiously. Destiny is my conscience, the one who stops me from making disastrous mistakes. The girl saved my ass all through high school, and now she’s careful—she knows better than to trust me.
“What’re you up to?” she asks, eyeing me. But I just chuckle and grab her arm to pull her with me to the bed.
“Com’ere.” As much as I tug, she’s not yielding. She yanks free and shakes her head, so I give up and climb on top of the mattress alone. Where’s Mica when I need her? Anyways—
“Freedom!” I screech. I sound childish as hell, and yet I haven’t reached maximum silliness. “I get to do whatever I want.” The bed frame squeaks when I jump up and down.
“Oh, Lordy,” Destiny sighs. “Not that your parents ever managed to stop you anyway.”
“But this is different! Finally, they’re not around to—”
“—punish you in eerie ways when you sneak out,” Destiny finishes for me.
No, we’re not going there.
“You mind? I’m trying to forget, here.”
“Sorry,” she says, eyes soft and apologetic. “Please continue the bounce fest.”
And I do. This won’t ruin my mood. Nothing can ruin my mood today.
“Free!” What a gorgeous word. It launches me straight into bubbling joy again.
“Someone need a chill pill?” My other friend, Shannon, leans a pale, skinny cheek into the doorjamb as her gaze flicks between Destiny and me. Nothing ruffles Shannon. Seriously, she’s too calm for a redhead. I feel my cheeks contract in the grin I lost a second ago.
“Screw chill pills,” I say, because contrary to Shannon’s belief, I’ve outgrown my ADHD. She insists it’s why I couldn’t follow the rules at home. Aka the fortress. Aka the prison camp.
I know I’m wild. I’ve always been wild. Which beats tail-spinning into darkness every time. When I do stuff, my thoughts are on the act. I have a blast, I entertain, and my head takes a break. It’s win-win across the board.
So maybe I’m not my friend. Maybe there’s a sliver of truth to me being my own enemy, as Destiny likes to point out. My girls have kept me from losing my shit for a decade now. Unlike Father.
Dad…
Cue self-induced brain freeze. But enough spin-cycling destructive BS, because now? Now, we’re in the college town of Deepsilver, and this calls for extremes. Perhaps higher education in general does.
If that’s the case, I’m about to find out for myself, and, and—
Bring it on!
I attempt a headstand against the wall on my brand new bed in the apartment I’ll share from here on and into eternity with my three BFFs. Even my cackles sound warbled from my upside-down position. “Where’s my homie?” I puff out.
“Wifey!” Mica screams as she bounces into my room. “You went all euphoric without me? What?”
For an instant, her golden curls fly into a mushroom cloud around her head before she crashes into me, squashing my perfect gymnast pose and making me oomph.
“Pizza’s getting cold,” Destiny states, unimpressed.
“Nu-huh,” Micaela sings. “Plus, here’s the plan: we’re having food, and then—then—we’re going out.”
Her answer coincides with Destiny’s expected responses, “we just got here,” and “let’s unpack and watch a movie.”
Mica is a genius, though, and she will prevail.
“Heck yeah,” I squeal.
I adore Destiny. Really, I do, and it’s not that I don’t hear her. Just, I might not necessarily pay attention.
“I love you to death, Destiny,” I manage from underneath the skin and bones and hair that is Mica.
“Hey, I was doing fist pumps with your limbs, here,” Mica objects when I twist free.
Destiny’s black mane shines under my ceiling light—kudos to her somewhat Chinese heritage. She rolls her eyes at me. “Which is why you listen to me always.”
<
br /> Shannon does one of the slow, deliberate headshakes most people don’t notice. It means she’s given up on you.
“Pandora and Mica,” she begins. I’m not up for whatever she’s got in store. It’s a bad sign when she skips her nickname for me, “Pan,” so I jet past her into the bathroom. Soon, she’ll take Destiny’s side and become all motherly and dry and boring.
“Anyways,” I chirp as I slam the door behind my sister-in-arms, Mica, who narrowly slides in with me. She whirls to the mirror and swipes my cosmetic bag from the sink.
“Makeup?” Mica thrusts a powder brush in my face, and I nod. We giggle and ignore the grumbled exchange sieving in from the den.
“Hey, Pandora?” Shannon calls.
“What?”
“I’ve got your container of light bulbs here. You want it?”
Mica snorts, powder drizzling over the faucet in slow motion. “Very clever,” she says out loud. “Isn’t she, Pandora? Like you can’t lock yourself into a bathroom without spares.”
I scan the bathroom, a fine row of goose bumps spreading on my neck. Mica meets my stare. “Hey, just kidding, kiddo.”
What are the odds that all the lights would go out at once? Zero to none, right? Ceiling light: two rows of fluorescent tubes. Check. Mirror lights—freaking theater dressing-room-style with eight bulbs above the top frame. Then, there’s the chandelier hanging over the bathtub.
“Here,” Mica continues, poking my nose with an eyelash curler, diverting me. She’s good at that. “We’re fine, thanks,” she yells to Shannon. “Pandora says to put her precious light bulbs on her bed. This room has twenty-one that work. We ain’t openin’,” she drawls.
I huff out a breath, shoulders relaxing.
When we leave the bathroom, we find Destiny and Shannon all prettied up too. They often take the path of least resistance with us, because in Destiny’s words: “There’s no escaping the Pan-and-Mica tornado.”
In the cab to what Shannon calls “the party street,” I allow two slices of cold pizza to lump their way down my throat. Destiny whips out paper towels; she’s always prepared, I swear.
“Thanks,” I manage while swallowing the last too-big, half-chewed chunk of dough. “So any specific place we’re going to on this party street?”
“Uh-huh! We’re going to our new haunt!” Mica claps her hands and wraps herself around my arm, squirming with excitement.
“Interesting. We have a ‘haunt’ already?”
“Sure do!” She nods her chin hard into my muscle while I try to shrug her off me.
“Which is?”
“Smother, according to Siri.” She flashes me her iPhone.
I catch the driver’s blank expression in the mirror.
Shannon tips her head up, happy. What’s interesting about Shannon is that she’s a Libra—her excuse for changing her mind nonstop. With coffee-colored irises sparkling with enthusiasm, I can tell she’s a hundred percent in now. “I read about the place before you made us cross the country to live here,” she explains. “It’s supposed to be a total hotbed for hunky seniors.”
I high-five her, and Destiny groans, “Why am I doing this?”
“’Cause you’re whipped?” I suggest. Mica snakes a narrow arm around Destiny as well and tightens her grip on the two of us. For a fairy-sized girl, she’s damn strong.
“What Pan said,” she purrs in a low, seductive voice. The taxi driver’s stare snaps to Mica, studying her.
Eyes on the road, dude.
We come to a halt at the entry of a gloomy alleyway, and… I’m not sure I’d deem this a “party street.” I can’t help tittering at the eeriness surrounding us. A recent rainfall has littered the frayed asphalt with moisture, lending an oily feel to the darkness.
“Mm, this it?” Mica asks.
“Yes, ma’am.” The driver indicates a retro neon sign spelling out “SMOTHER” halfway down the road.
I take in the pink light bulb reflecting off the head of a bald bouncer. With thick arms crossed over his chest, he examines us as we spill out of the cab. I realize that no one else clamors to get into his little establishment.
God, my parents would have flipped out over this place. My old, strict, and really fucking prim parents.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
“Goddammit,” I mutter, knowing.
“Mom checking on the heiress? Or Dad this time?” Shannon smirks at me. I fumble to get the piece of junk out of my skinny jeans.
Stupid freaking…
“Listen to me,” Destiny says, insistent. “If you just pick up once and tell them you’re fine, they’ll back off. You should have called them as soon as we arrived tonight.”
“Right, because checking in every four hours is normal when your daughter’s in college and about to turn twenty. Every. Four. Hours.”
“At least they let you come with us instead of driving you themselves. And your father could’ve insisted you stay in town for college. Remember they threatened that?”
“Whatever,” I puff out.
“You’re here on their dime too.”
What a low blow—Jesus! Aren’t we supposed to enjoy ourselves? Forget that I’ve spent years in nothing short of a jail?
The heiress. Yeah, right.
“Shut up, Destiny.”
My iPhone takes forever to blink off. God knows why I brought the thing in the first place. I should have left it at the apartment. The only ones with an urge to call tonight would be the parentals anyway.
I breathe out as my gaze meets Micaela’s. For a moment, her eyes glitter with understanding.
“Yeah! Time to party,” she growls, and I adore her for changing the subject. Narrowly avoiding a puddle, she latches onto me so as not to fall. My formerly delirious mood floods back in.
“Absobelutely! Fake IDs?” I stage-whisper to Shannon, our tour hostess.
“Ah, Pan—shush,” Destiny hisses, which Mica finds abnormally funny. She doubles over, howling with laughter.
The bouncer must be deaf; we’re so close, a normal person would hear every word. Or maybe he needs customers? Wait, maybe he doesn’t give a shit. He barely glances at the IDs Shannon hands him before shooing us inside.
Lazy spotlights morph from dirty green into reds along the ceiling. The bar occupies the entire right wall of the room, its bottles and glasses alive with the shifting illumination. They speak my language, beckoning me closer.
Behind the counter, a blonde girl shakes a drink mixer, the sound nonexistent inside the blanketing music. Slow dubstep throbs around me, vibrating with me. Making my heart speed up and follow the rhythm. I instantly want more. And faster.
A small D.J. booth hovers a few feet above the floor against another wall. Its matte black color is meant to make it disappear, but I have no problem distinguishing the guy bobbing his head up there, headphones half on while he calmly scours his underlings.
To our surprise, Smother is crowded. I grab Shannon’s arm and haul her across the tiny dance floor with Mica and Destiny trailing close. The guy bartender is the best bet for us, I decide, in case they card at the bar too; in my experience, men spend less time on that stuff.
“Four tequila shots!” I squeal out while Destiny objects.
“Make them double!” Mica backs me up, and I high-five her in agreement. Thankfully, Shannon is still with us—as in, for now she hasn’t Libra’d out of consent. To be on the safe side, though, I add, “And peanuts—and four diet Cokes.”
We appropriate a tall, round bar table by the dance floor, and my world just became perfect. I sway to the music, rocking the barstool with me as we comment on the clientele. Yes. Shannon was right. Lots of hot seniors.
Christian, the bartender, drops by to exchange our shots for new doubles. “From that table,” he says, snapping his fingers toward a couple of hipsters covered in beards over by the exit. Mica waves at them, and one of them winks in acknowledgment.
This, right here, is the first day of the rest of my life. Hell y
es.
Fuck, I’m so tired. I’ve worked nonstop since school let out in June, and I won’t be working any less once my last year in college starts up either. Two more days until that happens.
As a future physiotherapist, I’m lucky to get any job in this shithole, but sometimes the odd hours at the spa drive me nuts. I need the money, though. The owner and my benefactor, Miss Geraldine from Hyde Park, London, has incredible business talent. Three months ago, she decided to branch out and specialize in cheap, after-hours massage for worn-out workaholics. Since then, we’ve been swamped every damn day between five and eleven p.m.
The missus likes me. And whenever she wants me to, I like her right back. Usually against the fridge or the table in the kitchenette of the Elysium Spa. She prefers young, handsome guys, she says, and she likes it raw. I tell her that’s fine, because I like women.
Tonight we were too busy to play. A new hire left us hanging, so the three of us who showed up had to service all. When this happens, we compensate by working our clients harder and cutting down each session by a few minutes. If you leave them dazed enough, they don’t keep track of time.
It’s one a.m., and I’m done loosening my own tense muscles at Nonstop Fitness. Thank God it’s Saturday tomorrow; I’ve got the day off, and now I’m ready for a beer. No, I’m craving a beer. I’m about to pass the entrance to Jones Street on my way home, but an entwined couple stumbles out of Smother, leaving the music to burst out freely. Haven’t seen Christian in a while. I think I’ll grab that drink inside.
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Novel number five! What?
First of all, thank you to my patient family: Michael, Nicolas, and Alexandra. I love you so much, and you never complain when I’m deep inside my stories at the most inopportune of moments.
My author besties are my besties for a reason. I’m so thankful to have met all of you already during my first book, Shattering Halos, and I’m blessed to continue our friendship and the slaughtering of each other’s manuscripts in the name of quality. The mere thought of not having you in my life makes me anxious.
D Nichole King. Fearless as always, you plunged into yet another of my crazy manuscripts. You helped me polish it, laughed at my silly characters. For this book too, I can never thank you enough. I wish critique partners like you upon every author! Our online work dates and daily exchanges of inappropriate jokes (not just me anymore) as well as joys and grievances mean the world to me. I’m so grateful for your swift replies, recommendations, and logical solutions when I struggle. Our friendship, it only grows for each hurdle we jump with our books.
