Page 1 of Wristlocked
1
Gia
“Didn’t your parents want to come see you settled in? I thought Mondays were dark days at Mirage?” Lyot’s mom drops the last of our boxes on the sidewalk and stretches her arms over her head with a groan, earning appreciative looks from a couple of guys carrying what looks like one of those advertised-on-TV massage chairs up the steps to the dorm.
Jo Chace teaches pole dancing to bored housewives and aspiringAmerica’s Got Talentstars at a studio called Vertical Dreams in Spring Valley. And since she had Lyot when she was twenty-one, she basically looks like another student. A damn fine one, too, with her tawny skin and waist-length braids. I love the woman, and not only because of everything she’s done for Lyot.
Even in the beginning, she never made a fuss about who I was related to. Instead, she welcomed me into their little apartment and gave me free rein of the fridge. But while she’s sympathetic about my feelings toward my parents, she’s never understood that them being proud to display me to their peers is not the same as being proud of who Iam. Or that, sometimes, what looks like love feels more like polishing a prized possession.
“They’re still not totally sold on the ACCA thing,” I admit, which is actually true but has the added benefit of making them sound petty. They made some noise about driving me over this morning, but I know it was only for the chance to be fawned over by the next generation of circus students while playing the devoted parents, and I wasn’t in the mood to let their hypocrisy ruin my day. They’ve been telling me for two years that the American College of Circus Arts is beneath me and that I’d never be properly challenged staying in Vegas for school. They had their hearts set on sending their prodigal daughter to a top European circus school. Or to ENC in Quebec, with its ties to Cirque du Soleil and its French curriculum.
But aside from the fact that I’d rather die than do what my parents want when it comes to my circus career, those schools are expensive. It’s also impossible to get financial aid to study circus abroad, and I would never abandon Lyot to enable Guy and Chloe Laurent’s snobbery.
Jo doesn’t push it, wrapping her arms around me with a sigh. Seconds later, the tailgate bangs as Lyot slams it shut and bounds up to join the hug, enveloping us both and squeezing until Jo is breathless and laughing and I’m smiling again. The August sun winks off his coffee curls as he plants a kiss on his mom’s head before releasing her.
“We love you, Ma,” he says. “And we’re only twenty minutes from Vertical here. It’s closer than the gym, and you never missed us when we were there.”
“Ha,” she laughs. “Most kids don’t spend five hours a day training after school, even if they’re athletes. Why do you think I used to come watch you every night after my last class?”
“To bring us dinner and ogle the hot circus guys?” Lyot grins. “Like all the other moms?”
“You might not be able to come watch us practice anymore,” I tell her, “but I promise we won’t fall off the map.”
“You better not. You’re my favorite people. And I’ll be in the front row at the Holiday Showcase in December, cheering you on.”
“Ma, you know the seniors direct the showcase and create the acts. They don’t put newbie freshmen in it. Even when they’re as hot shit as us.” He winks at me over her head. We both have a burning passion to break that tradition this year and get ourselves cast in one of the spots.
“Well fine, then. We’ll all watch it together and talk shit about how much better it would’ve been with you in it.”
“Deal. Now get out of here. I’ll be home this weekend with a pile of laundry to make you feel loved.”
She smacks him upside the head and then climbs into her pickup truck laughing. Grinning like a mischievous toddler, Lyot hoists our two huge gym bags off the sidewalk, crossing the straps over his head in a way that tugs his T-shirt tighter across his chest and flashes his abs. He looks up, catching the sudden heat in my eyes, and gives me a smirk.
Jo clears her throat. “All right, loves,” she says, blowing a final kiss with a roll of her eyes. “Try to stay out of trouble.” She doesn’t sound too optimistic. “Andstick together.”
“C’mon, Shadow, let’s get the rest of this shit upstairs,” Lyot says, leaning in and running his stubble up the line of my jaw.He nips my earlobe hard enough to elicit a gasp and send a jolt of heat to my core. “I need a fucking shower.”
“‘Shadow,’ hmm?” I tease. He only calls me that when he’s in acertainmood, so I turn away, letting him catch an eyeful when I bend down to pick up the box from the sidewalk. “Feeling a little dirty?”
“Always.”
“Your shower or mine?”
“Aren’t dorm showers supposed to be communal?” A wicked glint lights his storm-gray eyes. “What kind of sadistic college gives horny teenagers their own showers?”
“The elite performing arts kind?” I push ahead of him and climb the stairs to the massive front doors, stepping through as they slide open into the air-conditioned lounge.
The building looks more like a fancy hotel than a dorm. The lounge takes up most of the center space on the ground floor, with a café and a coffee bar on one side, and a mailroom and security office on the other. The ceiling is open all the way to the ninth story, exposing a series of balconies that run all the way around each floor. The elevators opposite the entrance have mirrored doors, and everything is shiny and modern, with lots of glass and greenery. Actual luggage trolleys are available for move in. Lyot and I have filled two and stashed them behind one of the leather couches scattered around the lounge. I add the last box to the pile on mine and follow Lyot toward the elevators.
We’re halfway across the lobby when someone calls Lyot’s name, and a familiar figure with amber skin and short, spiky dreadlocks darts from a cluster of couches to throw her arms around his neck. I hang back, hoping she’ll ignore me. Naomi and I were friends once, back when we were the new darlings of cirque, chasing our parents’ approval. But when I rebelled against the pressure, she embraced it. She’s also had a crush onLyot ever since he sauntered into her parents’ gym looking like Jackson Avery’s hotter younger brother.
Sometimes it’s really hard not to remind her he came there looking for me.
Now she’s giggling and touching his arm like a total cliché, and I smother a groan and scan the other students scattered around the space.
Then my eyes land onhim,and my heart surges wild in my chest.
Sprawled on a couch in the far corner, talking to some tiny blond chick with a ponytail, is Gale Shepard. Celeste Sullivan’s boy toy prodigy.
