Page 42 of Tension
When we arrive at Fusion Core, I push out of the SUV hastily, leaving Roger’s silence behind. The studio’s familiarity, its bright mirrors and polished floors, feels stark and invasivetoday. Instead of offering comfort, it exposes me, mirrors amplifying every painful emotion etched on my face.
Yvonne moves toward me immediately, her eyes wide with concern, her voice soft with cautious inquiry. “Mateo, what’s wrong?” Her sweet tone grates against my raw nerves, irritating rather than soothing.
“Nothing,” I growl, my voice harsh, hoping she’ll leave it at that.
She steps closer, her gaze earnest, trying to read the storm that undoubtedly darkens my features. “Please, Mateo, let me help. Just talk to me—”
“Damn it, Yvonne!” My voice erupts, loud and jagged, slicing through the air. Her face pales, the hurt blossoming instantly in her eyes. “Not everything is your business! Just back off!”
Silence descends upon the studio like a blanket, thick and suffocating, and I sense the shock reverberating through the others, the weight of their judgment pressing in from all sides.
Acidic shame trickles through the cracks of my bitter anger as I spin on my heel, pushing through the heavy doors into the twilight, the cool evening air biting at my flushed skin. Each step away from the studio is an attempt to outrun the chaos inside me, a futile escape from a relentless internal tempest.
“Mateo!”
Vaeda’s voice reaches me, pulling me to a halt. My body tenses, poised between flight and longing, torn between isolation and the ache for her comforting presence. She approaches cautiously, like one might approach a frightened, wounded animal.
“Wait,” she whispers, her voice a soothing balm over the ripped edges of my soul. “Please talk to me.”
My throat tightens painfully, emotion swelling behind my ribs until breathing becomes nearly impossible. I turn slowly, facing her, my defenses crumbling under the weight of hergaze. The streetlights halo her figure, enveloping her in a soft glow, making her appear ethereal and untouchable. A vision just beyond my grasp. She’s wearing a soft-looking cardigan, the top buttons undone to show just enough cleavage to be tantalizing, and her legs are covered by a long flowing skirt.
“Vaeda,” I manage hoarsely, my voice fractured by vulnerability. “My father found out about this, about Fusion Core. I ruined our family once, and he refuses to let me do it again. I could be dragged back to California.”
“You’re attending your meetings and going to school though, right? You haven’t slipped, have you?” Her voice trembles as I let out a harsh laugh. It’s hard to remember that Vaeda doesn’t really know me, not the true me.
She sees my technique inside her studio walls, the way my feet kiss the hardwood floors with precision and passion, but beyond that, Vaeda doesn’t know anything about me except for rumors.
“Have I slipped?” I repeat as my eyes crash with hers, fear dancing along her irises. “For drugs? No. For alcohol? Not even tempted.” I step closer to her, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she struggles with my proximity. “But… for you? I’m fucking drowning.”
She sucks in a breath and steps back, shaking her head as she lets loose a loud scoff. “Greyson knows.” Her words make the breath inside my chest stutter as I let them absorb. “At least he has his suspicions… because of last night.”
“Who cares?” As soon as I say the words, I realize I mean them. “Who cares if people know we’re together?”
“My husband might?” she fires back as she throws up her hands. “Not to mention, I am way too old for you.” She’s dismissing our feelings because of the years separating us?
“That’s absurd,” I retort, making her drop her arms and deflate. “Ten years is nothing.”
“Ten years is the difference between a college student and a woman with a renowned career. Ten years is the difference between living off your parents and being married and paying your own bills.” Her eyes harden as my jaw tightens, forcing me not to explode with anger. “Ten years is the reason I’m saying this is over, but I’m still your friend if you need me.”
“Still my friend?” I ground out, my words sounding harsh. I step closer to her and huff through a sarcastic laugh. “You don’t even know me.” Then I turn on my heel and walk away, leaving behind the woman with a husband and bills of her own while I decide to become thestudentshe sees me as.
SEVENTEEN
Mateo
The pounding bass reverberates through my chest as I step onto the sidewalk outside the club, neon lights illuminating the night in brilliant flashes of color. The line wraps around the building despite it being Christmas Eve, bodies shivering against the chill, but I’m too wired and lost in my own turmoil to feel the cold. Without hesitation, I slip the bouncer a crisp hundred-dollar bill, earning myself a nod of acknowledgement as he unhooks the velvet rope and gestures me inside.
The dim lighting engulfs me as I step into the club, the pulse of music vibrating through every cell in my body. The atmosphere is intoxicatingly seductive. Every corner is an invitation to lose myself, to forget the harshness of reality. Drinks flow freely, glistening in glasses under the sporadic beams of colored light. Beautiful faces laugh, flirt, and lose themselves to the hypnotic rhythm. The air is thick with temptation, a heady mixture of perfume, alcohol, and glistening skin on display.
I navigate through the crowded dance floor, bodies brushing against me, every touch an electric jolt, reminding meof everything I came here to forget. My father’s harsh disappointment, Grace’s silence, and most of all, Vaeda. Her words echo in my mind, taunting me with a truth that cuts deeper each time it replays: her marriage and the ten years between us.
Reaching the bar, I lean heavily against the polished surface, catching my reflection in the mirrored backdrop. My eyes look dark and troubled, searching for answers at the bottom of a glass.Just one drink,I reason silently, fingers tapping anxiously against the bar. It won’t hurt. Alcohol was never the vice that nearly killed me. It was the pills, the powder, and the desperation for escape.
The bartender approaches, an eyebrow raised in silent inquiry. My throat feels tight, but I push through the hesitation, my voice sounding foreign to my ears. “Whiskey sour,” I manage, my voice raspy, barely audible above the music.
The bartender nods, moving away swiftly, leaving me alone once again with my spiraling thoughts. I grip the cool edge of the bar, my knuckles whitening as I battle with myself. One drink won’t hurt, but deep down, I know the truth. It’s not about the drink. It’s about surrendering control, slipping back into the oblivion where nothing matters and the pain finally numbs.
As the bartender returns, sliding the amber liquid toward me, my phone buzzes insistently in my pocket. I fumble for it, irritation sparking momentarily until I see Yvonne’s name flashing across the screen. A slow smile spreads across my lips, dangerous yet enticing.
