by JB Salsbury
“Okay, now I’m nervous.” I study the mask in my hands.
“It’ll be fun.” He slips the mask on over his head and then helps me with mine. “Let’s go.”
The masked guard holds a finger up, indicating we should be quiet, and then opens the door to an interior room.
Kingston grabs my hand and leads me into a massive space.
There is no sound inside except for the random hissing of what I come to learn is spray paint. All along the walls are blown-up versions of famous paintings—The Kiss, Starry Night, Girl with the Pearl Earring—all recognizable pieces. But the classic paintings displayed are not the purpose of the show. Rather than guests standing in front of the works in quiet appreciation, onlookers are invited to pick up a paint can and leave their reactions behind.
We step up to the first painting, Mondrian’s Composition with Red Blue and Yellow. Kingston hands me a can of spray paint and nods for me to spray my response. In between the words boring and simplicity in still-wet paint, I write balance. I hand the spray can to Kingston who waves me off and nods that we move to the next. With every new painting, I spray a response, and he stands back watching. He refuses the can every time I offer, so I stop offering. Our masks keep us from communicating with speech, but the way he watches me makes me feel like we’re speaking a language that transcends the spoken word. Silence creates an intense intimacy, and the masks a sense of anonymity, and he watches my reactions to every painting like it’s a peek into my soul.
The last painting is an Edward Degas classic called The Rehearsal of the Ballet Onstage that depicts many young ballerinas being viewed by men in suits who are slumped in their chairs.
Kingston sets a can in my hand and nods to the twenty-by-forty-foot image on the wall. The words innocence, desperation, and pervert are spray-painted on the wall and drip like blood.
He nods for me to go. I stare at the image, the beautiful young girls on pointe and on display. Knowing the history behind this painting, that the young girls were impoverished children used as prostitutes for wealthy older men, I shake my can and spray the word survivor.
Kingston surprises me when he grabs my can. He steps close to the paining, his arm moves in quick, determined strokes. When he backs away, he reveals an addition to the painting. A ballerina in a split leap, gliding through the air, above it all, as if the world below can’t touch her. The image is rough, paint drips down the wall, but the message of her freedom is hard to ignore. I reach for his hand and hold on tightly. We stay in front of that painting longer than any of the others. We watch strangers paint the words graceful, timeless, and innocence.
He squeezes my hand and, without words, asks if I’m finished here.
I nod, and we exit into a room where we dump our masks and join a couple dozen other people with paint-stained fingers drinking beer, wine, and soft drinks from cans.
“That was so much fun.” I grab a can of champagne from a vat of ice. “Why didn’t you participate until the end?”
“I had more fun watching you.” He takes a long pull from his beer. “But I owe you a replacement for that shirt.”
I look down at the few paint dots left behind on my shirt. “Are you kidding? It’s like a free souvenir.”
“Kingston!” A tall man with a short mohawk and tattoos on his throat pushes through a group of people and throws his arm around Kingston’s neck. “You bloody bastard, I didn’t think you’d show.” The man’s eyes slide to mine, and a gold tooth flashes in the light when he grins. “Do I owe you a thank you for getting him to come?”
I watch his gaze settle on my scarred cheek and angle my face away.
“Nikolai, this is Gabriella.” Kingston doesn’t take his eyes off mine. “This is Nico’s exhibit.”
The man reaches out his hand, which is covered in paint, including under his fingernails. “It’s nice to meet you, Gabriella. Did you enjoy the experience?” He leans in. “If the answer is no, lie to me.”
“I did, thank you. It was so liberating. I can’t tell you how badly I’ve wanted to take a Sharpie marker to The Met.”
“Exactly.” His smile widens. “You get it.” He leans into Kingston. “She’s a keeper.”
My face heats.
Nikolai’s eyes light up. “You guys should come to the afterparty.”
“It’s up to Gabriella,” Kingston says.
“Yeah, sounds like fun.”
“Nico, hurry up!” someone calls from behind him.
“I gotta go.” He turns to leave. “The party is at Tempt. VIP. I’ll put you on the list,” he says over his shoulder as he walks away.
“You sure you want to go?” Kingston says with a challenge in his eyes.
“Hell yes.”
He leads me through a crowd of people toward the exit.
And it hits me. The truth is, I think I’d follow Kingston anywhere.
Fifteen
Kingston
The club isn’t a far drive from the warehouse. When we pull up to the VIP valet, I wonder if bringing Gabriella here might be a mistake.
Her wide eyes fixate on the line of people waiting to get in, most of them wearing some combination of latex and plastic. I hold her hand to the VIP entrance, grateful for the many excuses I’ve had to touch her tonight.
We’re let inside and told the afterparty is upstairs. Gabriella’s feet freeze on the top step, and I follow her line of sight to a row of poles, each with its own nearly naked dancer.
I step in front of her to block her view of the topless women and G-string-wearing men. “We don’t have to stay. If you want to leave—”
“No way.” She leans around me to get a better visual. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.” Her smile is curious but mostly intrigued. “Let’s go sit at the bar.”
We claim barstools in front of the dancers. She seems captivated as they appear weightless, spinning and sliding along the bars. I order her a dirty martini and myself soda water.
“Oh, wow.” She blinks hard and turns away from the poles. “I’m pretty sure I just saw that man’s butthole.” She slowly peeks back over her shoulder and cringes. “Yep, that’s a butthole.”
I laugh into my glass and keep my back to the dancers. The room erupts in cheers when Nikolai walks in with his entourage.
“He seems like a nice guy,” she says as we both watch him receive hugs and handshakes. “How did you two meet?”
The truth is I dated his ex-girlfriend. She brought me to one of his shows—I assume to make him jealous—but I found him far more interesting than I found her. We stopped seeing each other, and Nico and I have been friends ever since. “At one of his shows.”
“Is he gay?”
I bite down on my molars, hating that I have to keep up this stupid game. “No.”
“Shame.” She sips her martini with paint-stained hands and a swipe of red paint on her chin. “You guys would make a handsome couple.”
Fucking. Sigh.
“Oh, what about him—”
“Do you want to dance?”
Her eyes grow wide. “I’m not nearly drunk enough to dance with you yet.”
I flag down the bartender and order her another martini.
Halfway through Gabriella’s second martini, she agreed to dance with me. It isn’t long into the first song before I realize I can’t handle dancing with Gabriella. Her long hair tossed around her face, her hands on my waist, and her hips grinding against mine—yeah, no. I make a break for the restroom to splash cold water on my face and calm the hell down.
I’ve never been this out of control of my body before. At least, not since becoming an adult, for fucks sake.
On my walk back to the bar, I’m grateful to see Gabriella sipping on a glass of water rather than more booze. I am not, however, grateful to see a man pushed up against her chair and leaning into her space.
He’s a decent-looking guy, a little older than me, and I appreciate the way he’s combined a sweater with a sport coat despite the warm temper
ature inside the club. Brave.
“Why don’t you want to dance with me?” I overhear him say. I’m behind Gabriella, so she can’t see me, and he seems to only have eyes for her. When she doesn’t answer, he gets closer to her. She turns to face him, and he narrows his gaze on her scars. He’s drunk, slow, and when he opens his mouth to speak, I swoop in.
“Shark attack.” I put my arm around her and insert myself between her and the man.
“What?” he says, his eyes flitting from her scar to my face and back.
“She was rescuing baby seals off the coast of Santa Cruz.”
His drunken gaze widens in awe, and his lips part on a breathed, “No way.”
“Yes way. Great white. She’s lucky to be alive. She earned the Oceanic Medal of Honor.”
“That’s a thing?”
“Sir, forgive me for saying, but your ignorance is insanely disrespectful. This woman has stood with kings and diplomats.”
His spine stiffens.
Gabriella chokes on her laughter, trying to cover it up.
“If I were you? I’d salute her and be on your way.” I try to look paranoid as if a team of black ops could descend on us any second. “Make it quick.”
He jumps to his feet and stumbles when he does so. He slams his hand to his forehead then scurries off.
Gabriella laughs at his retreating form. “The Oceanic Medal of Honor, huh?”
“Could be a thing.”
“I have to say, shark attack is a new one. I might have to steal it.” She takes a large gulp of water, looking a little tired or maybe just worn out from the topic of her scar.
“Go ahead.” I take her hand and tug her to her feet. “And in return, I’ll steal you.”
“Oh, no more dancing for me.” Her gaze drops to the floor, and her cheeks turn pink.
She’s embarrassed about the way she acted while we were dancing, how freely she let her hands roam my body. If she only knew how much I enjoyed it.
“No, we’re leaving. If that’s all right with you.”
She exhales hard and nods. “Yes, please.”
“I should get an Uber,” she says through a yawn from her position on my couch. We got back to my place almost an hour ago, ate leftover spaghetti and lasagna, and it’s after one o’clock in the morning, but I’m not ready to see her go.
“I’m not sending you back to Brooklyn in an Uber after midnight. Just sleep here.”
“I can’t. I don’t have my things.”
“You can borrow pajamas, and I have a new toothbrush you can use.”
“I am really tired,” she yawns again. “Are you sure?”
I hold out my hand to pull her up from the couch, and she follows me back to my bedroom.
“Do you have extra blankets for the couch?”
“You’re sleeping in my bed.” My stomach jumps with anticipation at the thought of having Gabriella in my bed, even if only platonically.
In the bathroom, I pull out a new toothbrush, then grab her a pair of joggers and a T-shirt and set them on the counter. “Feel free to use the shower. Everything you need should be in here somewhere.”
“A shower would be nice. I need to get this paint off, and I’m sticky from the club.”
I leave her to the bathroom and use the guest bathroom to take a shower and brush my teeth. When I go back into my bedroom, the bathroom door is closed, but the shower is off. I pull down the bedding and close the curtains so that we don’t wake up to the sun.
When the door opens, I turn around and watch Gabriella walk out wearing my clothes, which are damp on her shoulders from her wet hair, and a fierce, possessive need washes over me. The urge is so strong I have to look away to avoid grabbing her and pinning her to the closest surface to kiss her senseless.
“Get in bed,” I say with a roughness in my voice that even I don’t recognize.
I hear the rustling of sheets followed by a soft sigh. Before I turn around, I hit the lights because I know I won’t be able to handle seeing her clean and wet in my clothes in my bed.
“What are you doing,” she says when I crawl into bed beside her.
“Going to sleep.” I lie on my back, knowing I shouldn’t turn to face her but unable to give her my back. “Don’t worry. Your virtue is safe with me.” For now.
Another yawn and a little hum. “I know.”
Oh, little Bee. You have no fucking clue.
“Kingston?”
“Hm.”
“Thank you for the whole shark attack thing at the club. I get really sick of answering the same question all the time.”
“Go to sleep.”
“You’re bossy when you’re tired.”
I’m not bossy. I have a limited amount of self-control when it comes to Gabriella, and the more she talks with that sweet, sleepy tone in her voice, the closer I am to saying fuck it and going after what I want.
Gabriella
Water. All around me. It’s too dark to see. I kick, swim—left, right, up, down. My lungs burn. Too much water. My arms search, my legs push. I can’t hold my breath—
My eyes dart open. I suck in a raspy gulp of air. Only a dream. I’m safe in Kingston’s bed, not in a watery grave. I try to regulate my breathing and press against my chest to will my pulse to slow down. I haven’t had the dream where I’m drowning in years.
I give the universe an internal double-bird that my horrible nightmare would come back the night I get to share a bed with a beautiful man.
With thick blackout curtains, I’m completely unaware of the time. Have I been asleep for hours or only minutes?
I roll to my side and find myself inches from Kingston’s face. Sometime in the night, he must’ve scooted closer and turned toward me. With his head at the very edge of his pillow and my head at the edge of mine, I can feel the warmth of his breath. His bent knee rests against my leg, and the contact is as soothing as it is scandalous.
I should have expected that Kingston would be even prettier asleep than he is awake. Just like in death, in sleep, all the worries of life dissolve and leave behind their purest expression in peaceful rest. And after the dream I had, I feel that peacefulness seep into me as I watch him. I wonder if his lips are as soft as they look. Or if the skin on his cheek that stretches over high cheekbones and a strong jaw is as velvety as I’ve imagined.
Lifting my hand from the bed, I allow my fingertips to hover in front of his lips and wonder if I’m brave enough to touch. Would he wake up? How do I explain this unforgivable desire to touch him?
I can’t. I shouldn’t.
And yet, my fingers drift closer. With featherlight pressure, I brush my fingers against his lips—his eyes open, and the molten heat in his gaze cuts through the dark.
I ball my hand into a fist at my chest. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t have—” I gasp when he pulls my wrist to bring my hand back to his lips.
He presses a kiss to my fingers and allows his lips to linger while he runs my hand back and forth against his mouth.
Everything under my skin tightens and tingles from his touch.
“Kingston…” The only word that makes any sense is his name spoken on a sigh.
He hums softly, then slips his leg between mine, and his powerful thigh presses tightly between mine. Still holding my wrist, he rolls over me, pinning my arm above my head. “Is this what you want?”
The hunger in his voice, the burning desire in his eyes, his quick breaths and racing pulse that match my own… He wants me. But how?
“I shouldn’t.” There is no power in my voice. No conviction. “I’m sorry.” And even as the apology falls from my lips, my body betrays me as my legs open further.
A low growl rumbles in his chest at the feeling of our bodies falling closer together, his heat against mine.
I flex my hand as he continues to restrict the blood flow with his firm hold. His grip tightens until pins and needles begin in my fingers. Is it because he doesn’t want me to touch him? Because the look in hi
s expression sends a much different message.
I’m about to tell him as much when his hips surge forward, the steel between his legs pressing deliciously between mine. I bite my lip to keep the groan of pleasure in my lungs, but the action is pointless as he does it again, and my breath hitches.
His long, broad-shouldered, muscled body was made for giving pleasure as every inch of him is the definition of masculine beauty. Am I so horrible to want to experience him in any way he’ll let me?
Kingston is a living feast for any human, man or woman. Visually, he’s artistic perfection. Physically, he’s strength and stamina. And the way his gaze never leaves mine, how he dives into my soul while he rocks his hips forward, emotionally he’s tender, intentional, and present. He throws crumbs without even trying, and I happily beg for the scraps.
I slide my free hand over his hip to his bare rib cage, and he hisses in response.
“Is it okay if I touch you?”
He drops his forehead to mine and nods.
I hear his molars grind together. “We don’t have to do this.” But I want to. I really want to.
Another surge of his hips.
“Say something, please.”
He runs his lips along my scarred cheek to my ear. “I’m going to kiss you now.” He tilts his head and softly presses his parted lips to mine.
Tears of relief spring to my eyes. The tip of his tongue brushes against mine, and we moan in unison as he angles his head and falls deeper into our connection.
My God, the man can kiss.
I slide my hand up to cup his jaw, loving the feel of his face as he moves his mouth on mine. His lips are soft, but the kiss is demanding as if he’d been depriving himself of a craving he’s finally given in to.
He hitches my knee with this own until both his legs are between mine, his hips cradled perfectly between my thighs as if we were made to fit together. My hand pressed against the bed has long gone numb, but I can’t find it in me to care. Remove the entire limb. I don’t think I’d notice, not with every part of him calling me to attention. My insides throb and thirst for more. My skin flames with the need to be touched. And everything between my hips aches with an unrelenting emptiness.
