Page 75 of Unlocked Dive
“Stop,” he says, shaking his head. The towel turban tumbles loose, and he tosses it on the bed beside me, raking his other hand through his dripping hair. “Stop looking at me like I’m something fragile. I’m not fucking broken anymore.”
“You were never broken.”You were always perfect. “But I’d understand if you want to stay in tonight. We don’t have to go to the show if you’re not up for it.”I’m not sureI’mup for it.
“I saidstop.” He stalks toward me. “I’m not missing out on a chance to see you in your Cirque-boss element. Competence porn is a thing, you know, and I’m pretty sure it looks like you in a tux.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what? Tell you how I’m fantasizing about peeling you out of those clothes one slow piece at a time after I’ve edged myself all night ogling you?” He cocks his head, but I’m not buying the act.
“Bury your shit under the flirting. We’re past that phase of this relationship.”I’m such a fucking hypocrite.
Heflinches but doesn’t retreat, running a hand down his inked abdomen to fiddle with the knot in the towel at his waist.
“I thought you loved my cocky mouth.”
“I do.”It’s the ruin of me. I grab his wrist before he can loose the towel. “But you don’t need to pretend you’re not hurt. Not ever with me.”
He wrenches his hand from my grip, eyes flashing fury even as his mouth trembles with heartbreaking vulnerability.
“I’m nothurt. I’m pissed.I fucking hate him.”
“I know.” My own rage swims to the surface. The Gabriel in my head is forever nineteen, but I can see him all too clearly—wicked and vengeful above the broken body of the brother who taught me what it is to love without condition or restraint.If I could go back in time, I’d destroy him before he ever had the chance to fuck with Echo.
“I get it. He’ssupposedto be your brother. You have every right to feel betrayed.” I reach for him, wanting to soothe away the pain—wanting to nurture his righteous anger until it’s an impenetrable shield around the scarred and sacred spirit I can never be the one to fully shelter.
For one breathtaking moment, he leans into my touch, damp and ephemeral beneath my fingertips, and I think he’s going to fall into my arms and let me try.
Then he lets out a ragged laugh and runs a thumb over my mouth.
“I don’t want to talk about Gabe anymore. I’m pretty sure I could die happy if I never heard his name again.” Defiance screams from every syllable. “And you owe me a blowjob.”
I can’t deny him anything, and hell can have my soul.
I curl my fingers in the thick terry cloth and unwrap him, tugging him into the space between my thighs.
“He can’t hurt you anymore,” I murmur into the hollow of his hip, and then take him in my mouth to smother the lie.
32
Echo
The blowjob helps. So does the look on Byrd’s face when I emerge from the bathroom in my own tight, tailored slacks and a black Versace shirt that shows flashes of ink and skin through the devore pattern.
He kisses me stupid in the elevator on the ride down to the parking garage, then drives us to the sprawling big-top lot under the Bay Bridge with a hand on my thigh. He’s also one hundred percent as hot as I imagined leading me past the lines to the backstage area and chatting up the chick who lets us in through the staff entrance.
I’ve been to a dozen Cirque du Soleil shows before, both with my parents when I was younger and later with Asha—including a whirlwind tour of every Vegas casino show my bestie and I could fit into a three-day graduation trip the summer after we finished high school.
Being backstage is different. Byrd knows at least a third of the performers by name, and their respect for him is obvious in the way they break from their warm-ups to say hi and ask him questions as we move through the impressive space. Even here behind the scenes, everything glitters in royal blue and gold,with costume racks and spotting blocks and insane professional rigging everywhere.
There’s no rope act in the show we’re seeing, but the guy who does the solo Chinese Pole grins when Byrd introduces me and launches into an excited explanation of his rope background and how he adapted a few of “our” classic moves for the pole.
No one notices my scars—in fact, half of the people I meet seem to assume I’m one of Byrd’s new recruits, which is flattering as hell. And still, Byrd doesn’t bat an eye when I slip my hand into his warm, calloused one and lean into him like the cheeky twink arm candy I’m perfectly happy to be tonight. He leads me through the dark wings and presses me up against the taut canvas wall to claim my mouth and palm my dick before dragging me half-hard and breathless to our front-row balcony seats.
The spectacle never gets old. Nor does the thrill of recognizing moves I’ve executed on the silks or the tumbling floor performed by real professionals under dazzling lights. It’s a wild combination of elation—I can do that—and awe for the jugglers, contortionists, and fliers doing the kind of skills I’ve never attempted.
Byrd holds my hand through the whole first act, running his thumb along the ridge of my scars with casual ownership. Like they’re a piece of me worth cherishing.
At intermission, we weave our way through the hyped-up crowd to the VIP lounge, where he leaves me with a glass of champagne and a wink before heading off to find a restroom.
