Page 32 of King of Justice

“I’ll be there.”

The rush in my veins was like nothing I had ever experienced. I grabbed my purse and practically ran outside, pondering the possibilities of what I could do with the ground floor studio when I got there.

And frankly, I didn’t know how I got there.

Standing in the middle of the spacious room, I started eyeing the props while I turned on some strategically situated lights. Blue. White. There was even a nineties-inspired black light in the corner, and it begged me to turn it on.

I smoked another joint in there, pushing my luck, hoping not to fall asleep before Nathan got here.

Then true inspiration hit.

On my phone, I blasted a classic playlist with Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Tom Jones. I pulled out a fresh pack of cigarettes that I’d been carrying all day and pulled out one, lighting it up. Closing my eyes, I started to dance until I hit a wooden chair, so I dragged it into the center under the white spotlight.

When Nathan finally stepped in through the door, I was halfway through with my cigarette.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” he remarked, slowly strutting in as his eyes drank in the place.

“Everyone’s gotta try everything at least once.”

He turned to look at me, smirking—or so I thought through the optical illusions of the light. “You think I should kiss a man?”

“Why not?” I sat in the chair, aware that the angle of the light wasn’t at all flattering. “I’ve kissed a girl before.”

“Shocking.” He turned, as if starting to tread in a circle around me. “So, here I am. In this, uh—” he clicked his tongue as he returned to my field of vision, “place?”

“Studio?”

“Ah—Is this where the magic happens?”

“Most of these kids can’t act to save their own lives.” I followed him with my eyes and then turned my head until I spun my ass on the chair to keep up with him. “You’re making me dizzy.”

“You brought me here, and now you’re talking to me about kids I’ve never met.”

“I’m trying something.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence, Jones.” He abruptly stopped, leaning over so that his face was at level with mine. “You wanna fuck, but no strings attached?”

“What if I do?”

His eyes now on my neck slowly crawled down my shirt dress, stopping at every significant spot as if to torture me. He knew that I wanted him. He was certain that if he launched at me right now, I wouldn’t resist for a second. But instead, he kept his hands in his pockets and a cold, distant smile on his lips.

He finally said, “Why here? Got a show prepared?”

My finger lingered on the top button of my dress. “Maybe?”

“And what’s with the music? Isn’t that the stuff they use to brainwash women into making rich men richer?”

“I told you, I’m trying something.”

“I refuse to be a lab rat for you.”

Slowly standing up, I undid the first button. “Lab rats are taken. You came here on your own.”

I looked down; his hands were still in his pockets. I admired his self-control. To him, we were engaging in a duel where there was a winner and a loser.

Me, I wanted to let myself feel—fully and completely, without the restraint of his home or mine. To lose myself to the feeling without deliberating how it would grow, or if the walls around us would contain it.

And so…

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