Page 68 of Wicked Duty
Viktor swore I’d be his and his alone.
I shake the memories away, refusing to let them get to me.
The rooftop around me teems with some of the best photographers and industry professionals in the business, yet the only thing my mind latches on to is Callum discovering that sickening photo.
My focus is shot. My nervous system cranks into overdrive, and by the time I’m finally up, my veins vibrate like a hummingbird’s wings.
My mood is toxic.
One of the assistants holds up her thumb. “Ready, Lucy?”
I give a single nod, and she signals the suspension helpers who work the cables off to my left. The whir of a generator nearby warps my hearing. An industrial-sized fan kicks on, ruffling my hair and rippling the silken fabric that caresses my skin.
Sneaking an angry glance at Callum, I nearly stumble in my stilettos. Of course he’s already watching me. Our eyes lock, and for one fraction of a second, his carefully controlled persona cracks. A sliver of emotion swims through those intense green eyes. Remorse? Revulsion?
I miss the chance to decide when the harness tugs at my middle and lifts my feet from the ground.
The apparatus hoists me up a story above where I stood moments ago. Manhattan sprawls out in every direction. The air catches in my lungs. I expected to be scared, but dangling above the rooftop of a New York City skyscraper is exhilarating.
The view from up here is nothing less than magnificent.
I savor the stunning skyline, and for a flash, I feel completely free, until the photographer positions himself and my work begins.
I quickly realize the challenge of working with props from a distance.
I arch my body against the harness, extending my arms and legs toward the hanging geometric shapes. Everything shifts with the wind, which is stronger up here than it was just a few feet below. With each gust, my stomach swoops.
Do your best, be your best, bethebest. You’ve only got one shot,my inner taskmaster coaches from the recesses of my mind. I try to heed the instructions, but every few seconds, Callum’s revolted face flashes to the forefront.
Tension tightens my muscles.
My limbs stretch, fueled by powerlessness.
Anger.
Humiliation.
Aggression.
Without any conscious decision, I lash out. My poses become tortured and angular. Powerful in their pain. I throw all my frustration and hurt and rage into the movements. Desperation leaks into the arch of my leg, the twist of my spine.
Clawing at the air, I snatch a fistful of flowing fabric from one of the installations and yank it toward me, wrapping the cloth around my torso like armor.
From below, gasps and scattered applause echo beneath the hum of the generator. Swathed in billowing cloth, I work to adjust the intention behind my poses, aiming for something a little softer.
An odd noise interrupts my concentration. My ears prick.
Clunking. Creaking. Almost like metal.
The scaffolding.
The audience cries out.
I toss my head to locate the problem and spot the culprit. I tugged too hard on the fabric installment, and the entire backdrop system is starting to collapse.
But I should be fine. The harness ropes attach to sturdier parts than the props, so?—
“She’s going to fall!” someone shouts.
