Page 6 of Wristlocked
As the large analog clock above the doors clicks over to eight o’clock, Celeste Sullivan enters, dark-haired and elegant in a muted champagne pantsuit. She walks confidently in the matching heels, even on the spring floor’s slight give, and carries a slim folder in one hand. The remaining staff follows her in, lining up behind her along the dividing wall, and silence falls over the space as even those training out in the gym take notice.
“Welcome to the American College of Circus Arts,” Celeste begins, her voice warm beneath the professionalism. “Every one of you is here because you have a gift. My job, and the job of my staff, is to turn that gift into a profession. Your job is to train harder than you’ve ever trained in your lives, to push yourselves to the limits of your abilities, and to inspire each other to further the evolution of your art. Most of our graduates go on to have a successful career in the circus arts. The difference between those who succeed andthose—”
The front door swings open, cutting her off, and every head turns to see who could be stupid enough to come late to a Celeste Sullivan speech.
Or arrogant enough.
The guy from the lounge yesterday saunters in like he owns the place, black straps slung over one shoulder and a smirk on his perfect, asshole face. If he starts eye-fucking Gia again, I think I might stand up and punch him in front of everyone. But this time, the challenge in his eyes is all for Celeste. Her own dark gaze promises retribution, but the barest hint of a smile tugs at her lips before she stifles it, and the pieces click together in my mind.
“Mr. Shepard,” she says, confirming my suspicions. “We are so pleased you’ve decided to grace us with your presence today. Perhaps you’d care to assist me by distributing these to our new students?” She sets the folder down on the low wall behind her, dismissing both it and him, and continues as if the interruption never happened.
Something vicious flashes in Shepard’s eyes, but he drops his straps in front of the lockers and threads his way through the seated students without comment. Gia stiffens beside me, and his head turns our way as if he heard her sharp intake of breath even over the melodic tones of Celeste introducing the next staff member. I sneak a peek at her, bracing for the hurt.
Yesterday wasn’t a fluke. It’s there on her face again, that look—the high flush on her cheekbones and the drowned stars in her eyes. It’s a Shadow look, and it’s supposed to bemine. Who is Gale Shepard to her to summon that look?
“Who isthat?” Vaya whispers, echoing my jealous thoughts. Her eyes, like Gia’s, follow Shepard as he begins to move through the seated students, handing out sheets of paper from Celeste’s folder.
“The guy who fucked his way into ACCA,” I say, filling my voice with all the contempt I can summon. Gia’s gaze slides to mine.
“His name’s Gale Shepard,” she adds, her tone neutral and oh so devastatingly careful.
I hate him.
“No shit? He must have madskills.” Vaya waggles her eyebrows and smothers a giggle. Obviously better at reading the room, Jules shushes her. Gia shoots me a cautious look, still flushed, and I shrug. Pretending not to give a shit about GalefuckingShepard, I try to force my focus back to the orientation.
It doesn’t work. I can’t keep my eyes from wandering to him, now moving lazily around the space, dropping papers into waiting hands or laps with a bored smirk. And even though I definitely despise him, I can’t totally deny the appeal. The fuck-you sea-green eyes, the tousled waves a little too long, like he knows he’s hot without having to try, the full bottom lip with the ring that makes me wonder what it would feel like on the underside of my cock. The body’s a given, lean and cut and taller than average for an aerialist, same as me.
I don’t even know why it bothers me so much that Gia is obviously intrigued. She’s slept with other guys before, and my guess is Shepard is a one-night-stand kind of asshole who’ll never be a real threat. But this is supposed to be our new home, a place for a new us, and it feels like an invasion. Or maybe it’s because she’s been slipping through my grasp for weeks, ever since we got our acceptance letters, and I can’t help wondering if he’s what she’s been hiding.
Then he’s in front of me, holding out a piece of paper and arching a winged brow like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. I let myself stare back and hope he fucking can.
Fuck off, asshole. I know who you are and how you got here. Don’t fuck with me or mine.Mind-reader or not, he seems to get the message, as his eyes narrow and his lip curls in response.
Breaking the standoff, Vaya plucks the paper from his hand with a bright, if quiet, “Cheers,” and an elbow to my ribs. “Pissing contest much?” she mutters, handing me the sheet and reaching for another. Shepard drags his eyes from mine and gives her a sardonic wink with the second paper. Jules takes hers with a shy smile and a whispered thanks. When he reaches Gia and she goes to grab her copy, he doesn’t let it go.
“The Laurent princess.” His voice is a low rasp, faintly mocking.
I almost laugh, relief flooding through me. Gia hates her name. The fastest way to piss her off is to imply her parents have anything to do with who she is.
“The Sullivan prince,” she hisses back. “Or is it the Sullivan whore?”
I can’t keep the grin from breaking across my face.
The darkness in his eyes rushes back, a wash of tidal fury and dangerous intent. Tension snaps between them, sharp and electric, and my smile fades as I’m shoved to theoutsideof it. Celeste’s voice is a high drone in my ears, and I reach for Gia without thinking, almost surprised when the touch doesn’t throw off sparks.
“Leave it,” I whisper urgently in her ear, then slide from the mats, ready to strike.
He holds her glare, ignoring me, then lets the paper go with a lazy perusal of her body that snaps the last tether of my self-control.
Pushing between them, I hiss, “You’re done here. Back the fuck off.”
He does so. Slowly. Giving me the same once-over he gave Gia, and I tell myself I can’t punch him in the middle of my first official assembly at the school I’ve been coveting for years. The nearest students are already throwing us curious looks. Miraculously, Celeste doesn’t seem to have noticed.
She finishes introducing the staff, the last one being Drew Costa, the head rigger. His job is to take a bunch of young athletes who think they’re invincible and make them competent enough at handling their own gear that they don’t die the first time they take a job with a sketchy company. Or maybe smart enough to spot the red flags and not take the job in the first place. I force myself to pay attention, ignoring Gia vibrating at my side.
The papers Shepard passed around turn out to be class schedules, with a map of the campus on the back. There are two main buildings, one for aerials and one for floor, each equipped with a main gym and a few small studios Celeste tells us are available to students by reservation. A third building houses the dance studios and the administrative offices, and the back of the complex includes a pool, hot tub, and weight room.
“Regular classes begin tomorrow,” She informs us. “Today is for you to get to know the facilities and your fellow students. Take the rest of this morning to explore. This afternoon, you will meet the other students who share your specialty and undergo additional evaluation by your head coach so you can begin to develop a personalized plan of study.
